Echoes of Presque Isle County

February 5, 2026 Editor

by Charlie Bunton

Just over a year ago, my world had become very small. I was at home, cut off from the life I once knew, struggling to manage a severe form of obsessive-compulsive disorder that had brought my long corporate career to a halt. At the same time, my father—the man who taught me to love history, photography, and the beauty of paying attention—was dying. I felt myself slipping, searching desperately for something that could steady me, distract me, and help me say goodbye.

I returned to the hobby my father had shared with me years earlier: restoring and colorizing old photographs. At first, it was simply something to keep my hands busy. But as I worked, I found myself reconnecting with him, with my hometown, and with a part of myself I thought I had lost. I had already written two books on the history of Rogers City, but this time I wanted to share history in a way that felt alive. I created a Facebook blog called Huron History, a space to share forgotten stories, long-lost images, and a special series called “Dear Dad,” a chronological journey through the years of my father’s life, beginning in February 1943. Each post was a letter to him, a way of walking back through time and honoring the world he grew up in. It became my way of saying goodbye, one month at a time.

For the first time, I wrote not like a historian, but like someone trying to feel the world as it once was. My senses have always been heightened—touch, smell, sound, every tiny detail—and while that can be overwhelming in daily life, it became a gift on the page. Readers began telling me that the details I once feared were “too much” were actually bringing them closer to the stories. They weren’t just reading history; they were stepping into it.

My writing process is, admittedly, a bit obsessive. Each morning, I choose a single month from Rogers City’s past and immerse myself in it completely. I build a playlist of the top songs from that month and listen as I work. I put on a movie or television episode from the same period so the sights and sounds feel alive around me. Then I read every issue of the Presque Isle County Advance and the Calcite Screenings from that month, searching for the stories waiting to be retold.

After picking the narratives, I sift through my archive of over 50,000 photographs, choosing the ones that best bring each moment to life. Many are worn, faded, or cut from old newspapers, so I restore and colorize them. And on the corner of my desk, there’s always a photo of my father from the year I’m writing about—a quiet reminder of why I began this journey and who my words are still meant for.

What I didn’t expect was how many people would join me along the way. As I began writing openly about my mental health struggles, letters started arriving—dozens each week—from readers who were also fighting their own battles or who simply needed a place where kindness outweighed negativity. Some told me my posts encouraged them to seek therapy for the first time. Others said they finally felt able to talk to their loved ones about what they were going through.

One message in particular stays with me. A woman wrote to tell me that her father had been living with dementia for years and no longer recognized himself or his family. She began reading my blog to him every morning. By the time she finished each post, he remembered who he was, who she was, and vivid details about the stories I shared. “For a few minutes every day,” she wrote, “I get my dad back.”

Over the past year, I’ve written more than 200 posts, restored over 5,000 photographs, reached over 2 million readers, and watched Huron History connect with people in all 50 states and 17 countries. But the biggest surprise has been how healing this work has felt. Every story I uncover and every photo I bring back to life has helped me reclaim a part of myself. It’s given me the courage to step back out into the world, to reconnect, and to believe my voice still matters.

Through all of this, Rich Lamb has been one of my strongest supporters. I am deeply grateful for his encouragement and honored to join the staff of the Presque Isle County Advance. I’m excited to share my work with an even wider audience and to continue exploring the stories that shaped the county we call home.

And to anyone reading this who is struggling: keep going. Keep nudging the edges of your comfort zone. Keep challenging yourself in small, gentle ways. Your story isn’t finished. In many ways, I feel mine is just beginning.