Yes I, Markie, nephew of Emil Schonnemann, am a wimp. No, I couldn't do it on my own. Yes, I had to call in my Uncle Emil, a real man, a Western Minnesota man, to read it for me. Is that good enough Emil?
Eulogy ( got to be read in full West Minnesota or Dakota accent. Yah sure.)
Figured I best write this thing out or I'd forget way too much. It's mostly about Greg and me. And mostly the truth. Understand, that when it comes to occasions like this one here, I've got my problems. That's why my Uncle Emil from up to Parkers Prairie is doin' the talking. As to how she goes, you gotta cut him a little slack. I had to do him in back in 19 and 75 so's he could be planted atop Jimmie Hoffa. I bring him back now and then to write a piece for me. So he gets a little confused as to whether he's comin' or going. Talks in a Western Minnesota meets Eastern Tennessee meets Arlo Guthrie mono-tone.
First off I wrote this recollection like a "Winnie the Pooh" story. Emil said it stunk to high heaven. Wouldn't read it unless he could put his own spin on it. Kinda like interpret it as he went along. Might get a little herky-jerky on the way. He did like the title. Actually, he said he'd smelled worse. So here she goes:
The House at Soderville Corner
Chapter 9
IN WHICH Mister Wonderful and Mister Fun go Fishin' in the Million Acre Woods and maybe meet a Heffalump.
So it's sometime in the last century. Greg Nason and century. I like the sound of that. Years and decades don't really cut it. Not a big enough frame to fit him in, be stickin' out all over. Heard him called a 'bigger than life' and a 'been there and done everything' kinda guy. Wore more different coats and got more W-2s than any man I ever met. Maybe not the last of the Twentieth Century dirt-turners and wood-benders but sure in the running.
Back at Robbinsdale High he was just Nason. Say Nason and most everyone knew who you meant. Me and Greg crossed paths once in a while back then. Shared friends. Not much more than that. Figure he'd pretty much say the same. Best friends? Sure didn't see that coming. Ask either of us how that came about, we'd both say Bonnie and Lois. No doubt about it. The two of them's the best things that ever happened to a couple of square pegs like Greg and me.
Can't say exactly what year it was. Call it '87. I was in the throws of my big-bad, mid-life crisis. Greg was in the throws of me whining about it. The four of us were up on the North Shore at the Chateau Leveaux for a long weekend in early May. Us boys were lookin' to scare some trout. The ladies to have a good time. Lois and Bonnie always seemed to have hold on what's important than us two bozos.
Saturday morning after a meat and potatoes breakfast plus a couple of cups of stand-your-hair-on-end coffee, me and Greg jumped in his truck, a little Mazda or some other kinda rice burner, headed inland and uphill foe gravel and two-track. The ladies shot straight for Grand Marais. Greg drove. I rode shotgun with the maps.
You gotta understand, the two of us most always had a hoot together. Just a hoot. No more. We weren't the hollerin' kind. Our kinda fun usually filled our noses with oak dust, wet us to the bone and found us in the wrong place at the right time. Sometimes vice versa. Don't even get me started on the Nason ram which put me airborne. Just call it a case of lost love and a city boy's butt in the line of fire.
Might have meant something to Greg but I sure couldn't have told you one way or the other if the leafless trees we were passin' on the side of the road meant anything. Seemed like every time we ended up on the North Shore, our Cities shorts and t-shirts turned into long johns. No Leaves? No big deal. Besides, we were way to much into hoping the stream we were standing in had the same name as the one on the map. And figured if we drowned enough worms and pitched enough itty-bitty spinners, we'd eventually snag something. "Blessed be the boneheads." Mostly we were happy to be on the backroads together and thankful it weren't raining any harder.
In those days, or pretty much any other days since, neither of us knew diddly-squat about catchin' trout. Coulda held our own on bullheads and sunnies. But trout? Might have been in the creek but sure weren't in the cards. If you'd have asked Greg, he'd have owned up to it. Probably would have, even if you didn't ask. On the other hand, I lean on talkin' a good story. BS is what I do best. What he has to say usually gives me a better grip on things. How to actually get stuff done. I'd pass on such as how long Jack Nicklaus trims his fingernails so as to get a better grip on his shaft. I 'spose Greg had me pegged but kept his tongue so's he wouldn't spoil the free show.
So the morning passed. Most important part was not forgetting to meet Lois and Bonnie for lunch. Great white trout hunters down from the mountains. Didn't much expect to be missed by the ladies and sure weren't disappointed.
Doesn't really fit here but I just gotta pass on this 'Nasonism.' "If a tree falls in the forest and I'm the only one around, am I still wrong?" Something only a husband and a true Catholic could say.
As best I can recollect, seems it was around 2:30 by the time we headed up the Pike Lake Road. That's the one which goes to Pike Lake, don't you know? Scouted out and threw spinners in a few creeks within spittin' distance of the road. On the map they looked like little bits of Heaven. Truth was, the ones at our feet did too. Probably even fish in 'em. Guess the missing link was still us.
A long mile up from the lake the map showed a two-track headin' west toward Highway 4. Midways she passed a creek widenin' called Mark Lake. No doubt a sign from the gods. Was a two-track in name only. But hard bottomed. Slow and steady as she went.
Mark Lake made us wish we'd have brought the canoe. Had a homemade pole dock even. Greg figured the dock was there because of what was in the lake. Most likely fish. Shoulda been a logician instead of fishin'. ('Spect that was meant to be a pun. And not much of one if you ask me.) Wrote the lake down as one we'd have to come back to some day.
Back on the two-track we headed up a long hill in open country. 'Member what I said about no leaves in the trees? That's 'cause Spring hadn't sprung in the Arrowhead as yet. 'Til Friday the ground was still froze solid. When the truck buried to the floorboards over the crown of the hill, Greg figured that was a definite sign the frost was on it's way out. Didn't know whether to sing "Hooray for Spring" or cuss out Mother Nature.
Now Mr. Nason, he comes prepared for bein' outdoors. Been temporarily inconvenienced on many a questionable back road. Usually has enough stuff in the truck box to build a small house. Not this time. He was up here to have a good time. Just didn't know what kind of good time. We got out. Took a look. And commenced to stuffing logs, branches, rocks and antlers under the drive wheel. Had no more effect than spraying a rainbow of mud on Greg when I gunned the motor. Don't know if that was what upset his usual balanced apple cart. But he commenced to uprootin' small aspen while I trotted off west for help like Rin Tin Tin.
Half a muddy mile later, I'm standing on Highway 4. And thinkin' we ain't seen nobody or anything with a motor since we left Lois and Bonnie. Look up. Look down the road. Waitin' for nothing. Then I realized, like a kinda vision, zen-like and all, that sometimes you got to do something really stupid to realize how stupid you really are.
When I got back to Greg, the truck was still in the mud which was now lookin' a whole lot more like a pond. I scope the scene and ask him,
"What happened to the stand of popples that was over there?"
And he gets that Nason grin on his face that I ain't seen since High School.
"Most of 'em are buried somewhere under the truck. Last couple disappeared over the hill when I goosed the engine and dropped her into gear. Like firin' bolts out of a crossbow. If there were any left, I'd let you give it a go."
And he gives out a laugh that tells me the truck ain't going nowhere today.
Nothin' left to do hoof'er out three mile to the Pike Lake Road and see what we would see. So now it's sneaking up on seven. Clouds on the tree tops. Startin' to sprinkle a bit. Heck, we both seen worse. Couple a best friends goin' for a stroll in the woods, in the rain, in the growin' dark. Don't think for a moment we were bummed.
Seein' as how we had at least an hour to burn, we commence to firin' off some plans about what to do with the truck. Greg listens. Then patiently suggests in his quiet, Camel smokin' way, that my idea of buying a helicopter and learning to fly it, might be a way to get the truck unstuck. But probably won't get her out by Monday. Says instead, he'd seen a log truck up a driveway off the Pike Road. Come morning, we'd drive back and check it out. He knew what it was like to own an old boom truck. Lord knows he knew that. Figured most likely what the owner'd be like and how twenty bucks would go a long way with him.
By the time we come up on the Road, it's black as the ace of spades. Good soakin' rain. And we been hearing what sounds like something following us for the last quarter hour. We stop two. Three times. Listen. Nothin'. Soon's we get movin', there she goes again.
Now, the Pike Lake Road be gravel up here. Seein' as how we want to be goin' down the road, not up, Greg starts firing up a match every so often so's we don't miss our turn. Last one gets us there. And in the flare up, a face. There and gone in a snap. Ugly, bald, red eyes, fangs hangin' out all over. Reminds us both of Mr. Grygelko, our gym teacher. 'Course it coulda been a Heffalump. But we didn't think of that 'til years later. For the moment, seems one of us has wet his drawers. 'Cause Greg ain't here to defend hisself, I'll just say it was me. That's what friends are for.
Probably the biggest scare was being out of matches. And Greg's Zippo sittin' back on the truck seat. That was the first time I ever saw him cry.
Took us a moment to collect ourselves. All we had to do now was stumble on down the road and hope for a light back in the woods. Or do the six miles to Highway 61. Maybe another fifteen to the Chateau.
Luck would have it that no more than a mile later we spy a lit up cabin off the road. Figurin' it might be a witch's house, we set to arguing over who gets to be Hansel. A minute later, scissors finally cuts paper and we settle on Big Hansel and Little Hansel.
Finding the driveway in the dark was no cinch. Greg knows back country driveways and keeps to high ground. I learn that water flows downhill and that my boots ain't waterproof.
So there we are. Standin' on a stranger's doorstep, in the rain, in the dark. And outside of my grumblin' about wet feet, we ain't made no sound to let whoever's inside know we be there. Greg says,
"Since I'm Big Hansel, I say you knock on the door. I'll just stand behind in case the shotgun blast throws you my way."
Rapped loud enough to let them know I'm there. But not so loud as to say I need blowing away.
Man comes to the door. Nice man. Kept the safety on the whole time. Lets us use the phone. A half dozen busy signals later we get through.
Seems Lois and Bonnie were so shook up about it bein' after ten o'clock and no sign of us, it was all they could do to put down the better part of two bottles of German wine while sittin' in the hot tub. So grief stricken about us maybe bein' eaten by wolves, they couldn't make hide nor hair of the directions we were giving them. So they got the manager. He can barely hear us over the ladies' laughter. Finally gets the gist of our whereabouts. Comes to the rescue in his noble Pontiac Bonneville.
Next day. After another meat and potatoes and table pounding coffee breakfast, Greg and me head back to the woods. Turns out he was right. As usual. Twenty bucks and a log truck did the job just fine.
So that's my Greg Nason story. I know you got your own. He was a best friend to a lot of us.
Comments by Markie
Yup, my Uncle Emil read it. His heavy accent and bumbling through the story was my crutch. That and the many times Lois made me do the eulogy aloud in front of others. Wouldn't have made it without her. When I was in the Third Grade I read part of the Heffalump tale, the one by A.A. Milne, aloud to the class. Good story. Good humor. My spelling list is penciled inside the cover.
This tale, like most everything I write these days, violates most every law of writing I learned at the University of Minnesota back in the '60s and '70s. Not easy for me to do. But a helluva a lot of fun. I don't write all that well. But I'm getting better. Don't know if I'm learning or unlearning. Or if the tricks are new or old.
As for Greg. He's a hole in my life that will eventually scar over. But never go away.
