I pick up my mail down at the post office in Hovland. Rarely there's anything so I only grab it on my way to and from somewhere else. Wasn't for taxes, car insurance, the monthly electric bill - got power in the fall of '66 - and the occasional letter there'd be no reason for a box. Have to admit I do like it when people write. Learned years ago the best way to get a letter is to write one. Prime the pump.
The first year Archie wrote me every month or so. We did our last trip in the spring of '66 then he was back to the Cities for a summer job. Didn't say much about the U, just that he was still going. After that the letters slowed. Come the winter of '67 they stopped. His mother wrote me he'd bought a car and she also saw him less and less. Guess I'll stop there and let Archie's letter from the fall of '68 fill in the blanks:
Dear Uncle Emil,
It's been a while hasn't it? Guess you can tell from the return address things have changed in my life. Big time. At the moment I'm sitting on my bunk surrounded by the quiet of a sunday morning barracks. It's an easy day. The men in the Smokie Bear hats are sleeping in. Went to Mass the first two weeks in Basic but it was too much like drill. When the priest said we should yell our responses like we were in formation I figured God must be pretty far away or He could hear us just fine. Made me long for the days of digging pier holes. Never figured work would put me closer to God than church. Live and learn.
So that's why I'm sitting here writing. Outside of the fact that I miss you and the good times we had. You probably know exactly what I mean. Quiet is good. Especially when you're going through training and there's a war going on.
I'll cut my story short for now. Bought a car a little over a year ago. Fell in love eight months ago. Dropped out of school, ran out of money and ended up nose to the wall at the wrong end of a dead end road. No way was my life going anywhere. Felt liked been living a lie. Still in love and knew that relationship was going nowhere until I became an honest man and found an honorable direction to my life. Didn't know where to turn till the Draft popped into my head one particularly bad morning. All of a sudden it didn't seem all that big a deal to walk in and tell the truth.
Didn't know who to see or where to start so I headed for a recruiting office. Must have brightened their day seeing as how the two sergeants were sitting around twiddling their thumbs. Could be there's not a whole lot of young men fired up enough about volunteering for an unpopular war to keep things hopping in an enlistment station. Then there was me. Mr. Sunshine. I fired off the whole spiel about not having registered and that I was their man should they want me. Turned out there was nothing they could do. Said I needed to go find my local Draft Board and deal with them first. Lucky for me they knew just where it was or I'd have no doubt chickened out if I'd had to find it on my own.
I found the old guys upstairs above a Merwin drugstore in a strip mall. Been by the door many times over the years but never consciously saw the name. Yeah, they were old guys. Probably left over WWI vets or maybe a bunch of old farts who had nothing better to do with their time. Looked like I should dust them off before I began.
Started out by saying I wanted to volunteer for the Draft. Let them know my intentions were good. Maybe cut down on the chewing out I was going to get. When I followed up with my real problem, outside of being stupid enough to volunteer for the Draft, they took it well. Couple of "tut-tuts " and "tsk-tsks" and they were done. Signed me up on the spot and told me my greetings from the President would arrive in the mail shortly.
Six weeks later I headed to the Federal Building downtown to be inspected, inducted and shipped off to Fort Campbell. I was sure one unhappy soul. A couple of days later during processing a man with two bars on his shoulder (four if you count both sides) suggested I learn Vietnamese to aid me in my tour of Southeast Asia. Also suggested I might consider signing up for a third year. Said that way I'd spend my time in supply instead of inside a body bag. Probably a good deal but couldn't see any possible glory in handing out underwear.
On the upside, haircuts here are cheap (and thorough) but we have to get one each week. The clothes are free and we get all the guidance a man could want. I've come to fear having someone jump on my Johnson even though I don't know what my Johnson is. I'd ask but figure they'd show me by jumping dead on or maybe in it. Other bad places to have someone jump are on your dick or in your shit. Leads me to think the Johnson lies elsewhere. Don't know if the food is good or bad but my stomach fears there won't be enough.
So here I sit. Can't say I'm happy but can say I created my own problem and am now paying the price. Oh well, guess there's always a price to pay no matter what you do. Maybe it'll turn out for the best.
Archie
P.S. What you said a couple of years ago, about me and the Draft, was pretty much on the money. Got any wisdom for a fool who's on the short track to Vietnam?
Still have the letter and all the rest he sent. I wasn't thrilled he ended up in the Army. Vietnam's a war of stupidity. Not one a sane man would want to take part in. As to Archie's problem with the Draft Board, I was only guessing. Saying words that came out of nowhere. Probably the same place ideas come from. Out there, or in there somewhere on the other side of the invisible wall. You know, like the one you cross when you fall asleep. Guess I'll leave it there for now.
Saturday, August 29, 2015
Sunday, August 23, 2015
Walnut Apocalypse
Tales like this pop up outta nowhere. Probably would have been a good idea if it'd stayed in hiding but my grandson Jakob was nearby. Being nine years old he's about the right age and mindset for this style of story so I laid it on him. Yeah, he did me proud by laughing. Probably had the same image in his head. 'Course it wasn't exactly like what follows but the gist was there. Anyhow, it goes like this:
Once in a while Emil'd catch me off guard. Say something so far out in left field I figured he must have slipped through a hole in time to a world most of us have no clue is there. Yeah, there's other people in the world who do the same thing. Could be you know a few. Odds are you weren't in the same canoe or alone in the boonies with the crazy man like I was.
We were up on the border lakes, believe it was Watap and were sittin' around camp on a late and cloudy afternoon. Watap's a long, skinny lake, not much more than river-wide, with some serious, south shore cliffs touring above piles of rubble that made a campsite near impossible. Instead, we were illegally lounging on the Canadian side gettin' up the energy to start dinner. The plan was eggs and sausages along with a bannock. Nothing fancy but when you're outdoors and hungry, most anything goes down well. First things first, we started with the bread. Emil began by pounding up a ball of dough, worked in a generous dollop of a cinnamon-sugar mixture and raisins, spread it inch thick in the larded pan, browned the bottom of the loaf, then tipped 'er face to the fire we'd built and burnt to coals. While the bread baked I grabbed my rod and wandered down to the water. Not so much with the idea I'd catch anything but heck, we were on the Canadian border. Yeah, I had my hopes.
Those hopes were for smallmouth bass. Back then I had a thing for smallies. Still do. Not sure if it's their red eyes or never-ending fight. Turned out it didn't matter since I didn't hook a one. But I wasn't skunked. No sir, my slip-bobbered jig and pork rind turned up a half dozen walleyes, kept half. In twenty minutes our menu changed. Fresh food trumped store-bought and three fifteen inchers would go down fine with the eggs and bread.
But that's not what this memory's about. I recall it being between walleye's two and three that Emil wandered down from the fire ring. Couple of minutes earlier I'd heard him chuckling to himself. Not a good sign. Emil's solitary chuckle most always meant he was working up something to share. Since mine was the only set of ears within ten miles that meant me. For a moment I considered grabbing the Grumman and paddling to mid-lake 'til he calmed down. Instead I stood my ground, continued to fish and took my medicine like the man I hoped to become.
He didn't jump right in. Waded in like the water was cold. Seemed Emil was never in a hurry when he was bustin' a gut to let something out. Watched me fling a few casts. Even let me hook up and land a walleye before he started,
"Last August I woke up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. Been havin' a nightmare. Don't know how or why, dreams make me figure that out on my own, but the two of us were arm wrestling in Furlong's House of Ill Brew down in Parkers. Me and a dinosaur that is. Big fella. One of them tyrannosaurus rex's with the little arms. No more than forty inch biceps. Long story short, I beat it (not sure if it was a boy or girl. Didn't figure it was my place or anywhere near wise to peek down there.). Actually tore its arm off. Chartreuse blood shootin' out everywhere. Talk about pissed. Last thing I recall was the big, yellow teeth just before they woulda snapped my head off."
"Woke up in the morning thinkin' there was a message in that dream. Maybe something to do with beer, bars, arms or extinction. Figured the latter more likely and trotted off to the cities 'cause of their big libraries. Did some research on why and how the dinosaurs disappeared. Checked both the science and science fiction sections. Even checked the Children's Room and read a few stories about a monkey who kept getting in trouble. Found nothing more than wild guesses and conjecture. Turned out it was up to me to solve the mystery."
'Put on my thinking cap - mine says 'Olberding's Equipment and Burial Service' on the front - and headed outdoors to walk my way to a solution. Learned year's ago I figured things out best when afoot. Wasn't more than a couple of blocks when the idea hit me. Squirrels. Down on Hennepin Avenue I came on the biggest squirrel I'd ever seen, staring down from a sign atop the entrance of a strip joint by the name of 'The Copper Squirrel.' You don't believe me, have a look for yourself. Struck me the combination of big squirrel on the outside and naked truth inside was just too much of a coincidence to ignore. Figured it the voice of God. And kinda like Jesus hanging out with the lower classes. Christ were to come back you wouldn't find him sailing on Lake Minnetonka. No sir, he'd be down here with the hooligans and hookers. And just maybe a sod buster from up in Parkers Prairie seeking an answer of great historic import."
"Gave it a few turns around the block and came up with an answer. All the books said not everything died when the dinosaurs took a hike. Nope, it seems the scroungers did just fine. Small rodents and whatnot. Got me wondering why. Then I recalled a picture of some fossils from about the same time, near a hundred million years ago. Wasn't much more than some softball-sized, oval-shaped tracks in the rock. The scientists gave those tracks some convoluted latin names that made no sense to me. What did make sense was their size, shape and that they were mixed in with some bone prints."
"Puttin' two and two together, a little interpretation, and a dash of interpolation I figured those ovals to be nuts. Most likely acorns and walnuts. Could be those dinosaurs were allergic to nuts. That took care of the herbivores but what about the carnivores? Aha! They were eatin' the small mammals. 'Course we wouldn't have seen them as bein' small. Figure them as dog-sized squirrels."
"All well and good but my idea still seemed too complex to be right. After all, the simplest solution is usually the right one. Gave some thought to modern day squirrels, mice and chipmunks. Also to Disney cartoons. Also to the trees drawn in the books at the library. Saw the big picture and the solution was obvious."
"Back when the dinosaurs disappeared there were palm trees that grew giant acorns and walnuts. Near the size of coconuts. Now palm trees don't have branches. No place for a rodent to store nuts. So they used the only cavities of size they could find and stuffed their stash up the backsides of the dinosaurs. 'Course that plugged the beasts up something awful. Fatally even. Over a few decades they all died off. The more the big guys ate, the quicker they died. The quicker they died, the more rodents that survived to stuff nuts up the backsides of dinosaurs and so on. Makes sense to me. Could even be that's where our saying 'cram it with walnuts' comes from."
'Bout then I had my third keeper. Time for dinner. "You know Uncle Emil, I kind of have to agree with you. As to your solution of the extinction mystery, there's no doubt in my mind that it's nuts."
Once in a while Emil'd catch me off guard. Say something so far out in left field I figured he must have slipped through a hole in time to a world most of us have no clue is there. Yeah, there's other people in the world who do the same thing. Could be you know a few. Odds are you weren't in the same canoe or alone in the boonies with the crazy man like I was.
We were up on the border lakes, believe it was Watap and were sittin' around camp on a late and cloudy afternoon. Watap's a long, skinny lake, not much more than river-wide, with some serious, south shore cliffs touring above piles of rubble that made a campsite near impossible. Instead, we were illegally lounging on the Canadian side gettin' up the energy to start dinner. The plan was eggs and sausages along with a bannock. Nothing fancy but when you're outdoors and hungry, most anything goes down well. First things first, we started with the bread. Emil began by pounding up a ball of dough, worked in a generous dollop of a cinnamon-sugar mixture and raisins, spread it inch thick in the larded pan, browned the bottom of the loaf, then tipped 'er face to the fire we'd built and burnt to coals. While the bread baked I grabbed my rod and wandered down to the water. Not so much with the idea I'd catch anything but heck, we were on the Canadian border. Yeah, I had my hopes.
Those hopes were for smallmouth bass. Back then I had a thing for smallies. Still do. Not sure if it's their red eyes or never-ending fight. Turned out it didn't matter since I didn't hook a one. But I wasn't skunked. No sir, my slip-bobbered jig and pork rind turned up a half dozen walleyes, kept half. In twenty minutes our menu changed. Fresh food trumped store-bought and three fifteen inchers would go down fine with the eggs and bread.
But that's not what this memory's about. I recall it being between walleye's two and three that Emil wandered down from the fire ring. Couple of minutes earlier I'd heard him chuckling to himself. Not a good sign. Emil's solitary chuckle most always meant he was working up something to share. Since mine was the only set of ears within ten miles that meant me. For a moment I considered grabbing the Grumman and paddling to mid-lake 'til he calmed down. Instead I stood my ground, continued to fish and took my medicine like the man I hoped to become.
He didn't jump right in. Waded in like the water was cold. Seemed Emil was never in a hurry when he was bustin' a gut to let something out. Watched me fling a few casts. Even let me hook up and land a walleye before he started,
"Last August I woke up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. Been havin' a nightmare. Don't know how or why, dreams make me figure that out on my own, but the two of us were arm wrestling in Furlong's House of Ill Brew down in Parkers. Me and a dinosaur that is. Big fella. One of them tyrannosaurus rex's with the little arms. No more than forty inch biceps. Long story short, I beat it (not sure if it was a boy or girl. Didn't figure it was my place or anywhere near wise to peek down there.). Actually tore its arm off. Chartreuse blood shootin' out everywhere. Talk about pissed. Last thing I recall was the big, yellow teeth just before they woulda snapped my head off."
"Woke up in the morning thinkin' there was a message in that dream. Maybe something to do with beer, bars, arms or extinction. Figured the latter more likely and trotted off to the cities 'cause of their big libraries. Did some research on why and how the dinosaurs disappeared. Checked both the science and science fiction sections. Even checked the Children's Room and read a few stories about a monkey who kept getting in trouble. Found nothing more than wild guesses and conjecture. Turned out it was up to me to solve the mystery."
'Put on my thinking cap - mine says 'Olberding's Equipment and Burial Service' on the front - and headed outdoors to walk my way to a solution. Learned year's ago I figured things out best when afoot. Wasn't more than a couple of blocks when the idea hit me. Squirrels. Down on Hennepin Avenue I came on the biggest squirrel I'd ever seen, staring down from a sign atop the entrance of a strip joint by the name of 'The Copper Squirrel.' You don't believe me, have a look for yourself. Struck me the combination of big squirrel on the outside and naked truth inside was just too much of a coincidence to ignore. Figured it the voice of God. And kinda like Jesus hanging out with the lower classes. Christ were to come back you wouldn't find him sailing on Lake Minnetonka. No sir, he'd be down here with the hooligans and hookers. And just maybe a sod buster from up in Parkers Prairie seeking an answer of great historic import."
"Gave it a few turns around the block and came up with an answer. All the books said not everything died when the dinosaurs took a hike. Nope, it seems the scroungers did just fine. Small rodents and whatnot. Got me wondering why. Then I recalled a picture of some fossils from about the same time, near a hundred million years ago. Wasn't much more than some softball-sized, oval-shaped tracks in the rock. The scientists gave those tracks some convoluted latin names that made no sense to me. What did make sense was their size, shape and that they were mixed in with some bone prints."
"Puttin' two and two together, a little interpretation, and a dash of interpolation I figured those ovals to be nuts. Most likely acorns and walnuts. Could be those dinosaurs were allergic to nuts. That took care of the herbivores but what about the carnivores? Aha! They were eatin' the small mammals. 'Course we wouldn't have seen them as bein' small. Figure them as dog-sized squirrels."
"All well and good but my idea still seemed too complex to be right. After all, the simplest solution is usually the right one. Gave some thought to modern day squirrels, mice and chipmunks. Also to Disney cartoons. Also to the trees drawn in the books at the library. Saw the big picture and the solution was obvious."
"Back when the dinosaurs disappeared there were palm trees that grew giant acorns and walnuts. Near the size of coconuts. Now palm trees don't have branches. No place for a rodent to store nuts. So they used the only cavities of size they could find and stuffed their stash up the backsides of the dinosaurs. 'Course that plugged the beasts up something awful. Fatally even. Over a few decades they all died off. The more the big guys ate, the quicker they died. The quicker they died, the more rodents that survived to stuff nuts up the backsides of dinosaurs and so on. Makes sense to me. Could even be that's where our saying 'cram it with walnuts' comes from."
'Bout then I had my third keeper. Time for dinner. "You know Uncle Emil, I kind of have to agree with you. As to your solution of the extinction mystery, there's no doubt in my mind that it's nuts."
Friday, August 21, 2015
Life at the Cabin - Emil's Epilogue III
One thing's for sure, life in this world has grown louder with the passing years. Worst was during the war. Odd thing was, once we'd landed ashore, quiet could be even worse. Nothin' like the dead silence of being set up in the black of a tropical night to give a man the heebie-jeebies. Death'd come creeping on cat's paws. Sometimes just the slightest noise and the night would light up. Turn into a wall of explosion. Out there in the Pacific quiet would often mean death and noise usually meant it was too late.
Anyhow, all those explosions made me a little deaf. Not all the way deaf but should there be background noise, I lose words. Not so up at the cabin off the McFarland Road. Here, words don't get lost in the jumble 'cause there is no jumble. Most of the time there aren't a lot of words either. That's fine. What I feel like saying, I write down. Not sure why but I do.
Mostly I work. You see, I've got a house to finish. The intention's to get it done, down to the last stick of furniture before I call it complete. Varnishing the floor turned out to be a good reason to go camping. First I figured to pitch the tent in the yard. Instead, I headed all the way over to Esther Lake about four miles away. The DNR'd started stocking Esther with trout back in the '50s so old boogers like me could catch a few and still think they had it. Not near as much fun as bushwhackin' through a half mile of brush to chuckle over a handful of little brookies but the campsite let me fish in the morning, head back to the cabin and varnish my way through the midday hours. Then, head back to Esther for the evening hatch.
Also afforded a chance for intelligent conversation. Well, conversation anyway. Can't say most of it was worth remembering but it did make me thankful for living on my own. Maybe I shouldn't be critical. Could be one of the good old boys was brain damaged from all the bug juice he slathered on his head. 'Bout every half hour or so he'd pull his ball cap and foam a thick line of spray along his hat crease. Hard not to stare when the juice started seeping toward his eyes. Scary and fascinating at the same time. Made me want to grab a rag to stop the flow before he was blinded. But each time the stuff reached his eyebrows, he'd reach up with both hands and work the repellant in like he was washing his head and hair. Got so I'd hang around before turning in to see if he glowed in the dark.
Four coats plus two days to let the smell go down. Varnish is powerful stuff. Could be that's why it lasts as long as it does. Also smelled a lot like a heavy dose of bug juice. That's why I stayed away the two extra days.
Spend a lot of time in the Lookout. Sleep there, read, write, think about the world but mostly do a lot of looking. Never get tired of the view. Once in a while I get lost in thoughts of Lena. Not like I conjure her up. More like she comes riding in when the light is just so. Or on a smell when I'd be cooking dinner. Usually onions frying in butter. Yeah, when we were together that's how meals would start. Guess our love was grounded on onions and butter.
And I missed Archie. Didn't see him much over the next couple of years. Then nothing. Didn't know where 'til the first letter arrived from Fort Campbell, Kentucky.
Anyhow, all those explosions made me a little deaf. Not all the way deaf but should there be background noise, I lose words. Not so up at the cabin off the McFarland Road. Here, words don't get lost in the jumble 'cause there is no jumble. Most of the time there aren't a lot of words either. That's fine. What I feel like saying, I write down. Not sure why but I do.
Mostly I work. You see, I've got a house to finish. The intention's to get it done, down to the last stick of furniture before I call it complete. Varnishing the floor turned out to be a good reason to go camping. First I figured to pitch the tent in the yard. Instead, I headed all the way over to Esther Lake about four miles away. The DNR'd started stocking Esther with trout back in the '50s so old boogers like me could catch a few and still think they had it. Not near as much fun as bushwhackin' through a half mile of brush to chuckle over a handful of little brookies but the campsite let me fish in the morning, head back to the cabin and varnish my way through the midday hours. Then, head back to Esther for the evening hatch.
Also afforded a chance for intelligent conversation. Well, conversation anyway. Can't say most of it was worth remembering but it did make me thankful for living on my own. Maybe I shouldn't be critical. Could be one of the good old boys was brain damaged from all the bug juice he slathered on his head. 'Bout every half hour or so he'd pull his ball cap and foam a thick line of spray along his hat crease. Hard not to stare when the juice started seeping toward his eyes. Scary and fascinating at the same time. Made me want to grab a rag to stop the flow before he was blinded. But each time the stuff reached his eyebrows, he'd reach up with both hands and work the repellant in like he was washing his head and hair. Got so I'd hang around before turning in to see if he glowed in the dark.
Four coats plus two days to let the smell go down. Varnish is powerful stuff. Could be that's why it lasts as long as it does. Also smelled a lot like a heavy dose of bug juice. That's why I stayed away the two extra days.
Spend a lot of time in the Lookout. Sleep there, read, write, think about the world but mostly do a lot of looking. Never get tired of the view. Once in a while I get lost in thoughts of Lena. Not like I conjure her up. More like she comes riding in when the light is just so. Or on a smell when I'd be cooking dinner. Usually onions frying in butter. Yeah, when we were together that's how meals would start. Guess our love was grounded on onions and butter.
And I missed Archie. Didn't see him much over the next couple of years. Then nothing. Didn't know where 'til the first letter arrived from Fort Campbell, Kentucky.
Tuesday, August 18, 2015
Untitled
Don't know what to call this entry. It'd be easier if it was about or by Emil but it's not. At the same time it is. Probably mentioned it earlier that me and Emil are the same person. And at the same time we're not. The way I see it, from the moment I was born a part of me, that being Emil, was already at the other end of my life making sure I ended up where I was supposed to end up. Just like the cabin, the blueprint of my life was in Emil's mind, up there in the treetops, down to the last stud and nail, before the first shovelful was scraped out of the first pier.
Can't say that was on my mind when Lois and I wandered the streets of Pequot Lakes around the turn of the century. Don't recall what came first, the story or the name. Not that it matters. But I do believe Emil was there long before he introduced himself at the liar's contest on that Fourth of July. Wrote it many times that my life is filled with irony. Figure that as Emil's idea of a good joke. His idea of guidance was to send me off in the opposite direction of where he wanted me to end up. 'Course I may have lent a hand now and then.
My Uncle says there's more than one way to get from A to Z. Also knows if I had my choice I'd shoot arrow straight through my three score and ten. Or find myself dead-ended around J. Even worse, somewhere south of Q. His idea is to go through life as a wave. Sometimes above the line, sometimes below. Only matters that I'm on the line at the important points. And that's what he was driving at about me and the Draft. Or me and smoking.
Doubt I've mentioned this but the stories 'Canada' and 'Emil's Cabin' are being written for my grandchildren with the idea they come to know my life, even the warts. Nothing in these stories actually happened. And yet, nothing was made up. I'm not that clever. Been wilderness canoeing in northwest Manitoba a number of times, built a cabin from the piers up, didn't register for the Draft when I turned eighteen and did tear out a glove webbing in the bullpen at old Metropolitan Stadium. The story that comes next'll follow the same blueprint. It's already up there in the treetops. All I have to do is listen to my Uncle Emil and peck it out.
Can't say that was on my mind when Lois and I wandered the streets of Pequot Lakes around the turn of the century. Don't recall what came first, the story or the name. Not that it matters. But I do believe Emil was there long before he introduced himself at the liar's contest on that Fourth of July. Wrote it many times that my life is filled with irony. Figure that as Emil's idea of a good joke. His idea of guidance was to send me off in the opposite direction of where he wanted me to end up. 'Course I may have lent a hand now and then.
My Uncle says there's more than one way to get from A to Z. Also knows if I had my choice I'd shoot arrow straight through my three score and ten. Or find myself dead-ended around J. Even worse, somewhere south of Q. His idea is to go through life as a wave. Sometimes above the line, sometimes below. Only matters that I'm on the line at the important points. And that's what he was driving at about me and the Draft. Or me and smoking.
Doubt I've mentioned this but the stories 'Canada' and 'Emil's Cabin' are being written for my grandchildren with the idea they come to know my life, even the warts. Nothing in these stories actually happened. And yet, nothing was made up. I'm not that clever. Been wilderness canoeing in northwest Manitoba a number of times, built a cabin from the piers up, didn't register for the Draft when I turned eighteen and did tear out a glove webbing in the bullpen at old Metropolitan Stadium. The story that comes next'll follow the same blueprint. It's already up there in the treetops. All I have to do is listen to my Uncle Emil and peck it out.
Sunday, April 26, 2015
Father Dominic
Turning into spring outside. Lots to be done in the garden and all of it sucks up time. For the last few days I've been coming up empty as to writing material. Had you read the last few entries in my fishing blog you'd no doubt agree.
Truth is, story lines are always passing through my head but I don't take the time to make a note. Yeah, I'm a confident sucker who believes those thoughts won't fail me. They'll be there whenever I sit down to enter a few sentences. Ever heard a keyboard laugh?
We had some friends over the other night. Old friends in both senses. They bring stuff out in me. Random, odd, sometimes weird thoughts rise to the surface like the shrimp we were boiling when they're ready to eat. Strangely enough one of the ideas from Friday night stuck. Out on my bike ride this morning I chipped a few of the rough corners away to make it more palatable. I liked the concept exactly as it arose but one of my best friends found it darn close to offensive. A little thought this morning also told me the concept wasn't remotely believable as it stood. That's when the chipping began. Beyond Emil, the local priest, Father Francis Dominic, their relationship, and where their tale might head, there's not, as yet, much meat on the bone.
Seeing as how it's been a while since me and my Uncle sat down together in his fifteen foot Lund so he could spin me one of his tales, we decided it might be worthwhile to head out on Big Birch Lake in search of some early season crappies. Of course he brought along a pack of Luckies and topped off his Zippo. Sometimes it was necessary that Emil fire up, take a few drags and figure out where his ramble was heading before he painted himself into a corner.
I was born a Lutheran, raised a Lutheran, went to church most every Sunday while Lena was alive. Knew all the hymns but sang 'em only loud enough to know I was near the tune but not so loud as to throw the others off when I hit a clinker. Also seemed like all the hymns were written in a key that never worked for me. Always too high or too low. Me and the hymns weren't the only things that didn't mesh in the house of God but Lena liked attending services so we dressed up and went. Not sure why we dressed up 'cause God knew what we looked like naked and no amount of primping was going to change his view of us. 'Spose we dolled up for each other.
Could be not fitting in was one of the reasons me and Father Dominic became friends. Not what you'd call bosom buddies but more than just saying hi when he was out pruning his roses. I kind of figured he was a lot like me in that he also seemed a little out of place. Like he'd misheard his calling or felt black to be more fitting than pastels. Whatever it was, one Sunday evening in the summer, our occasional hello and short conversation about the weather turned into an invitation inside the rectory for a short snort of brandy. That's the kind of thing a priest has to do the asking about seeing as how he's a man of God and has appearances to keep. Now, I'm not much of a fan of hard liquor but how many chances would I get to down a shot with a priest? Mom and Dad would have thought I was going to hell for sure and that was one more reason to say yes.
Seemed Father Dominic wasn't much of a drinker either but Sunday evening was his moment of celebration for having made it through the weekend. Two low masses, a high mass, bumbling altar boys, a wedding, a funeral and worst of all, Saturday confession when he spent three hours trapped in a box listening to the woes of people incapable of doing anything worth confessing. Nothing juicy at all. Oh, he knew there were sinners out there. Pretty big sinners at that. But it's the real sins that are never confessed and after being of the cloth for better than thirty years, Father Dominic wasn't so sure he wanted to deal with such in the first place. But I figured it might be nice as a change of pace. Maybe challenge his ability to hand out penance. Ten Hail Mary's, five Our fathers and ten minutes of quiet reflection just doesn't cut it for high crimes and misdemeanors.
During that first Sunday evening we discussed the war for a minute. Frank, seeing as how I wasn't a parishioner and didn't look like I had loose lips, he said I should call him Frank, had been a chaplain in Europe. Even got wounded in the Battle of the Bulge. Me, I'd been a medic in the Pacific. We'd both been there at the death of many men. I tried to keep them on the light side of the door, Frank helped them along once they'd passed through. In that sense we were a lot alike. Both of us hoped the hell those men were leaving was the last they'd ever see.
Got so my Sunday strolls preferred the the evening hours and my feet started wearing a groove in the sidewalk outside the rectory. Should Father Dominick be in the yard he'd always invite me in. After a while he grew to shadow my hours. By the third visit I offered to front him a bottle but was turned down. Frank said it was the Christian thing to do that he provide the Christian Brothers.
The months passed. We grew to know each other well. Kind of became each other's confessor so to speak. A few times our single snifter grew to two. At first I thought it was the funerals that got him down. I was wrong. Not one to complain, Frank never let on what the cause was. Being concerned, I began to pay attention to the happenings at St. Wilhelm's. Took a few months but eventually I saw the pattern. You see, the Ladies Guild met every other Saturday morning to get away from their hubbies for a few hours. Meetings were in the church basement. Late morning coffee usually turned into a pot luck lunch, confession in the afternoon and a second snifter for Father Dominic come Sunday evening.
Like I said, if anything, I was a Lutheran. Never been to Confession. Didn't think I ever would. And if I did go, there wasn't much point as my life was pretty humdrum. Didn't do much of anything that required absolution. Shot a squirrel out of season 'cause it'd made a home in our attic. Doubt the Lord was concerned enough with pest control, what with having a universe to run and all, to care about one piddling rodent. Me and Lena had our spats and I was more concerned about her forgiveness than God's.
Over the weeks the thought arose that it might not be a bad idea to pay Father Dominic a Saturday visit, perhaps a couple. Just maybe the same Saturday as the Guild ladies. 'Course I didn't want to be a nuisance and take up the ladies' valuable 'fessing time, so I figured to sneak in near the end of the afternoon, wait till the coast was clear, well after the last lady had exited the box.
This was a delicate situation and I had to watch my step. Razor's edge kind of thing. Frank took his sacraments seriously even if the one I intended to trespass on usually involved matters that weren't all that serious. Figured I'd give it a try one time to see how matters floated. Might perk up his day. Might end a friendship. Yeah, even though I went with the questionable best of intentions, I was sweatin' bullets.
First off, I had to have me a sin to confess. Maybe more than one. Second, it had to be serious and at the same time obviously pure fiction. Third, it had to be entertaining. And last, it shouldn't be my ticket to Hades should it turn out the Catholics were the one, true religion liked they claimed. So, on the last Saturday in September, through ankle deep scarlet beneath the red maples outside the door, I entered the deafening quiet and decades old reek of frankincense that was St. Wilhelm's.
Wasn't walking through those doors empty minded. No siree, I'd been working up a sin of significance. Multiple sins even. Entertaining, juicy, just what Frank needed. Maybe even put a smile on his face that depravity still walked the face of this earth and made life a misery for humanity. Hardly worth being a man of God if there's no one to save. And it was up to me to give the man meaning. Put some starch in his collar. Drew a few stares from the couple of bitties still in line as I searched out a quiet corner to reflect and hone my sins.
Didn't turn out like I thought it would. Not that that's unusual. The unexpected's to be expected. Adds spice to the pie. And sometimes throws the monkey wrench. Didn't stop me from becoming the sole soul in line when the last of the Guild ladies had passed through the curtain.
Hadn't expected my reaction to the moment. Thought I'd be a little on edge, fearing I'd blow my lines, but I'd done hair brained things in the past and they'd worked out just fine. Catch people off guard and they don't notice the bumps in the road, just smooth 'em out on their own as the two of you ride along.
Verna gave me quite a look when she came out. Not sure if she was shocked, mad, or was just overcome by having the weight of her sins lifted by Father Dominic. Mostly the look said the phone lines in Parkers Prairie were gonna get one serious workout over the next few hours. Maybe even give the ladies something to confess next month.
Never been in a confessional before. Felt like a cross between a Peter Lorre movie and the fog I passed through when I was shot in the Philippines. Can't say I recommend it. But I was there and had something to get off my chest. Went something like this:
Afternoon Frank.
That you Emil?
Yah. It's me.
Would have expected Judas looking for change for a shekel before you. So what brings you here on this fine afternoon?
Well, when I walked through the front door of St. Willie's a half hour ago, it was with the intention that I save your soul from the misery you were going through today. Seems to me you do more penance than you dispense.
Let's just say I see but don't see. Be careful where you go with this. You're treading on holy ground that's now and then hard to tell from quicksand.
Yah, I kinda figured that. You see, I had this little voice in the back of my head tellin' me I might be goin' too far.
So what exactly was this you've come here to confess?
In twenty five words or less it woulda been me who started the Chicago fire. Maybe having an affair with both Mrs. O'Leary and her cow (stifled laughter on the other side of the screen). Spent more than a few minutes on it. Yah, she was a real humdinger but that all went out the stained glass window, the one with St. Wilhelm wagging his finger at some guy with a crown, when I sat down in one of the pews.
Go on.
Well, while sitting there running through my lines, I got the feeling someone was peeking over my shoulder. Wasn't sure who it was at first. Couldn't really see him but at the same time could out of the middle eye in the back of my head. Dream-like you know. Whoever he was, he was gettin' on in years, thin gray hair, a little rounding to his shoulders, glasses, wrinkled like a prune. Anyhow, after a few seconds, I came to feel he was Archie, my sister Mary's boy. Odd, 'cause he's only eleven. He was trying to tell me something but it wasn't him who was really behind the prodding.
There, behind Archie, whispering in his ear, was me, only I was really old. Like one of those guys with the unpronounceable names from the Old Testament. And both of them whispering, one to the other, I should curb my thoughts. Play it straight with you. So that's what I'm doing. Be honest with you, it's not much fun. So, what I 'spose I'm here to say is that I probably shouldn't be here.
I appreciate that Emil. And would like to hear the story you made up but there's a price, call it a penance. Come Sunday evening, if you just happen to be strolling by the rectory, I wouldn't complain if you'd discretely smuggle in a bottle of cognac. Haven't had any since my days in the war. While we sip, you can tell me about your indiscretions in Chicago. Or elsewhere for that matter.
So that's it Archie. Kind of a non-story if you ask me. Kind of like St. Wilhelm who didn't do much more than say no to a king. Must have had an in with the Pope. But that's way the world goes round. Earth shaking happens once in a blue moon, if then. Take it from me, that's a good thing.
Truth is, story lines are always passing through my head but I don't take the time to make a note. Yeah, I'm a confident sucker who believes those thoughts won't fail me. They'll be there whenever I sit down to enter a few sentences. Ever heard a keyboard laugh?
We had some friends over the other night. Old friends in both senses. They bring stuff out in me. Random, odd, sometimes weird thoughts rise to the surface like the shrimp we were boiling when they're ready to eat. Strangely enough one of the ideas from Friday night stuck. Out on my bike ride this morning I chipped a few of the rough corners away to make it more palatable. I liked the concept exactly as it arose but one of my best friends found it darn close to offensive. A little thought this morning also told me the concept wasn't remotely believable as it stood. That's when the chipping began. Beyond Emil, the local priest, Father Francis Dominic, their relationship, and where their tale might head, there's not, as yet, much meat on the bone.
Seeing as how it's been a while since me and my Uncle sat down together in his fifteen foot Lund so he could spin me one of his tales, we decided it might be worthwhile to head out on Big Birch Lake in search of some early season crappies. Of course he brought along a pack of Luckies and topped off his Zippo. Sometimes it was necessary that Emil fire up, take a few drags and figure out where his ramble was heading before he painted himself into a corner.
I was born a Lutheran, raised a Lutheran, went to church most every Sunday while Lena was alive. Knew all the hymns but sang 'em only loud enough to know I was near the tune but not so loud as to throw the others off when I hit a clinker. Also seemed like all the hymns were written in a key that never worked for me. Always too high or too low. Me and the hymns weren't the only things that didn't mesh in the house of God but Lena liked attending services so we dressed up and went. Not sure why we dressed up 'cause God knew what we looked like naked and no amount of primping was going to change his view of us. 'Spose we dolled up for each other.
Could be not fitting in was one of the reasons me and Father Dominic became friends. Not what you'd call bosom buddies but more than just saying hi when he was out pruning his roses. I kind of figured he was a lot like me in that he also seemed a little out of place. Like he'd misheard his calling or felt black to be more fitting than pastels. Whatever it was, one Sunday evening in the summer, our occasional hello and short conversation about the weather turned into an invitation inside the rectory for a short snort of brandy. That's the kind of thing a priest has to do the asking about seeing as how he's a man of God and has appearances to keep. Now, I'm not much of a fan of hard liquor but how many chances would I get to down a shot with a priest? Mom and Dad would have thought I was going to hell for sure and that was one more reason to say yes.
Seemed Father Dominic wasn't much of a drinker either but Sunday evening was his moment of celebration for having made it through the weekend. Two low masses, a high mass, bumbling altar boys, a wedding, a funeral and worst of all, Saturday confession when he spent three hours trapped in a box listening to the woes of people incapable of doing anything worth confessing. Nothing juicy at all. Oh, he knew there were sinners out there. Pretty big sinners at that. But it's the real sins that are never confessed and after being of the cloth for better than thirty years, Father Dominic wasn't so sure he wanted to deal with such in the first place. But I figured it might be nice as a change of pace. Maybe challenge his ability to hand out penance. Ten Hail Mary's, five Our fathers and ten minutes of quiet reflection just doesn't cut it for high crimes and misdemeanors.
During that first Sunday evening we discussed the war for a minute. Frank, seeing as how I wasn't a parishioner and didn't look like I had loose lips, he said I should call him Frank, had been a chaplain in Europe. Even got wounded in the Battle of the Bulge. Me, I'd been a medic in the Pacific. We'd both been there at the death of many men. I tried to keep them on the light side of the door, Frank helped them along once they'd passed through. In that sense we were a lot alike. Both of us hoped the hell those men were leaving was the last they'd ever see.
Got so my Sunday strolls preferred the the evening hours and my feet started wearing a groove in the sidewalk outside the rectory. Should Father Dominick be in the yard he'd always invite me in. After a while he grew to shadow my hours. By the third visit I offered to front him a bottle but was turned down. Frank said it was the Christian thing to do that he provide the Christian Brothers.
The months passed. We grew to know each other well. Kind of became each other's confessor so to speak. A few times our single snifter grew to two. At first I thought it was the funerals that got him down. I was wrong. Not one to complain, Frank never let on what the cause was. Being concerned, I began to pay attention to the happenings at St. Wilhelm's. Took a few months but eventually I saw the pattern. You see, the Ladies Guild met every other Saturday morning to get away from their hubbies for a few hours. Meetings were in the church basement. Late morning coffee usually turned into a pot luck lunch, confession in the afternoon and a second snifter for Father Dominic come Sunday evening.
Like I said, if anything, I was a Lutheran. Never been to Confession. Didn't think I ever would. And if I did go, there wasn't much point as my life was pretty humdrum. Didn't do much of anything that required absolution. Shot a squirrel out of season 'cause it'd made a home in our attic. Doubt the Lord was concerned enough with pest control, what with having a universe to run and all, to care about one piddling rodent. Me and Lena had our spats and I was more concerned about her forgiveness than God's.
Over the weeks the thought arose that it might not be a bad idea to pay Father Dominic a Saturday visit, perhaps a couple. Just maybe the same Saturday as the Guild ladies. 'Course I didn't want to be a nuisance and take up the ladies' valuable 'fessing time, so I figured to sneak in near the end of the afternoon, wait till the coast was clear, well after the last lady had exited the box.
This was a delicate situation and I had to watch my step. Razor's edge kind of thing. Frank took his sacraments seriously even if the one I intended to trespass on usually involved matters that weren't all that serious. Figured I'd give it a try one time to see how matters floated. Might perk up his day. Might end a friendship. Yeah, even though I went with the questionable best of intentions, I was sweatin' bullets.
First off, I had to have me a sin to confess. Maybe more than one. Second, it had to be serious and at the same time obviously pure fiction. Third, it had to be entertaining. And last, it shouldn't be my ticket to Hades should it turn out the Catholics were the one, true religion liked they claimed. So, on the last Saturday in September, through ankle deep scarlet beneath the red maples outside the door, I entered the deafening quiet and decades old reek of frankincense that was St. Wilhelm's.
Wasn't walking through those doors empty minded. No siree, I'd been working up a sin of significance. Multiple sins even. Entertaining, juicy, just what Frank needed. Maybe even put a smile on his face that depravity still walked the face of this earth and made life a misery for humanity. Hardly worth being a man of God if there's no one to save. And it was up to me to give the man meaning. Put some starch in his collar. Drew a few stares from the couple of bitties still in line as I searched out a quiet corner to reflect and hone my sins.
Didn't turn out like I thought it would. Not that that's unusual. The unexpected's to be expected. Adds spice to the pie. And sometimes throws the monkey wrench. Didn't stop me from becoming the sole soul in line when the last of the Guild ladies had passed through the curtain.
Hadn't expected my reaction to the moment. Thought I'd be a little on edge, fearing I'd blow my lines, but I'd done hair brained things in the past and they'd worked out just fine. Catch people off guard and they don't notice the bumps in the road, just smooth 'em out on their own as the two of you ride along.
Verna gave me quite a look when she came out. Not sure if she was shocked, mad, or was just overcome by having the weight of her sins lifted by Father Dominic. Mostly the look said the phone lines in Parkers Prairie were gonna get one serious workout over the next few hours. Maybe even give the ladies something to confess next month.
Never been in a confessional before. Felt like a cross between a Peter Lorre movie and the fog I passed through when I was shot in the Philippines. Can't say I recommend it. But I was there and had something to get off my chest. Went something like this:
Afternoon Frank.
That you Emil?
Yah. It's me.
Would have expected Judas looking for change for a shekel before you. So what brings you here on this fine afternoon?
Well, when I walked through the front door of St. Willie's a half hour ago, it was with the intention that I save your soul from the misery you were going through today. Seems to me you do more penance than you dispense.
Let's just say I see but don't see. Be careful where you go with this. You're treading on holy ground that's now and then hard to tell from quicksand.
Yah, I kinda figured that. You see, I had this little voice in the back of my head tellin' me I might be goin' too far.
So what exactly was this you've come here to confess?
In twenty five words or less it woulda been me who started the Chicago fire. Maybe having an affair with both Mrs. O'Leary and her cow (stifled laughter on the other side of the screen). Spent more than a few minutes on it. Yah, she was a real humdinger but that all went out the stained glass window, the one with St. Wilhelm wagging his finger at some guy with a crown, when I sat down in one of the pews.
Go on.
Well, while sitting there running through my lines, I got the feeling someone was peeking over my shoulder. Wasn't sure who it was at first. Couldn't really see him but at the same time could out of the middle eye in the back of my head. Dream-like you know. Whoever he was, he was gettin' on in years, thin gray hair, a little rounding to his shoulders, glasses, wrinkled like a prune. Anyhow, after a few seconds, I came to feel he was Archie, my sister Mary's boy. Odd, 'cause he's only eleven. He was trying to tell me something but it wasn't him who was really behind the prodding.
There, behind Archie, whispering in his ear, was me, only I was really old. Like one of those guys with the unpronounceable names from the Old Testament. And both of them whispering, one to the other, I should curb my thoughts. Play it straight with you. So that's what I'm doing. Be honest with you, it's not much fun. So, what I 'spose I'm here to say is that I probably shouldn't be here.
I appreciate that Emil. And would like to hear the story you made up but there's a price, call it a penance. Come Sunday evening, if you just happen to be strolling by the rectory, I wouldn't complain if you'd discretely smuggle in a bottle of cognac. Haven't had any since my days in the war. While we sip, you can tell me about your indiscretions in Chicago. Or elsewhere for that matter.
So that's it Archie. Kind of a non-story if you ask me. Kind of like St. Wilhelm who didn't do much more than say no to a king. Must have had an in with the Pope. But that's way the world goes round. Earth shaking happens once in a blue moon, if then. Take it from me, that's a good thing.
Wednesday, April 22, 2015
Emil's Epilogue II
Didn't see Archie a lot over the next three years. He finally got his driver's license and drove up a couple of times to do some fishing but it wasn't the same. 'Spose it was part of him growing up. Learning to be a man. If it was, he was sure taking his time. Maybe that's the way it is these days. Time was you learned to be a man a lot earlier in life. Worked the farm with your old man. Maybe even brought in money to pay the bills. Did some of the things an adult had to do to survive. As a result, a kid opened up quicker to what it was like to make his way in the world. Maybe even understood his parents a little better. Of course me and Lena never had any kids of our own so maybe I'm not one to talk.
The way I saw it, Archie was floundering but not letting on. Said it didn't bother him that his friends were off to one branch of the military or another. But that's the way it was. Every man-jack of them, one at a time. There was a war going on and a draft. Sooner or later you had to make up your mind as to what to do.
Had to bother Archie not being registered for the draft. Knew him well enough to know he couldn't take a stand on the war one way or the other 'til he 'fessed up. And as he saw it, there was no compelling reason for him to do so. Total idiot. Passing through years of misery 'cause he didn't take ten minutes to sign up. Maybe part of the problem, a small part, was he didn't have anyone there to kick him in the ass when he needed it. Oh well, when push comes to shove, it'll be time for him to grow up, suck it up and go see the boys at the Draft Board. Then it won't mater much how he feels about the war.
The way I saw it, Archie was floundering but not letting on. Said it didn't bother him that his friends were off to one branch of the military or another. But that's the way it was. Every man-jack of them, one at a time. There was a war going on and a draft. Sooner or later you had to make up your mind as to what to do.
Had to bother Archie not being registered for the draft. Knew him well enough to know he couldn't take a stand on the war one way or the other 'til he 'fessed up. And as he saw it, there was no compelling reason for him to do so. Total idiot. Passing through years of misery 'cause he didn't take ten minutes to sign up. Maybe part of the problem, a small part, was he didn't have anyone there to kick him in the ass when he needed it. Oh well, when push comes to shove, it'll be time for him to grow up, suck it up and go see the boys at the Draft Board. Then it won't mater much how he feels about the war.
Monday, April 6, 2015
Emil's Cabin XXXVI - Emil's Epilogue
Yeah, I didn't get around to laying the floor 'til spring. Too much else to do and I was bone tired. Finished the walls and did the moldings with pine poles I'd cut and peeled. Threw 'em in the pickup and had Roy quarter and dry them down at the mill. Said he'd never seen the likes of using skinny logs as moldings but said they'd work just fine. I figured since there was already a tree standing in the middle of the cabin, why not make a forest? They weren't perfect as far as moldings go but the way they looked more than made up for a little gap here and there.
Ted and I did get in a canoe trip. Sure wasn't what I'd expected but I did get a couple of bags of wild rice out of the deal. Seems the ricing was late last fall and Ted was able to catch the tail end if it. Helped that he was Ojibwe. Had relatives over in Bena on the Leech Lake Reservation who knew where we could still find some to harvest. Most years Ted helps with ricing but things had been hectic up at the mill. Left him standing in the rear of a canoe with a long pole in his hand and the short end of the stick as to the rice. Up ahead he had a rookie kneeling in the middle of the canoe batting rice off the golden stalks. Ted said on a good day we could've had three, maybe four hundred pounds of the stuff by day's end. This year our day and a half yielded less than half that. But it was enough. Parched and winnowed, Ted got plenty to last him and his family the winter. Now all I had to do was figure out how to cook it. A moment's thought told me my old buddy butter might come in handy. Butter's good.
Our fishing trip wasn't long as far as miles go. The hard part came on the first day. Crossing big Lake Saganaga at the end of the Gunflint Trail was a bear. The wind was near roaring. Spent most of the first day sitting on our backsides waiting for a let-up. Mid-afternoon we got our break but lacked enough daylight to complete the crossing. Didn't even set up the tent that night. Ted said I was a candy-ass for blowing up my air mattress but it sure beat sleeping on rocks. Slept under the stars in our bags with a tarp thrown over to keep the dew off. For the rest of the trip we used the tarp as a lean-to in place of a tent. Chilly at night but chilly kept the bugs away. I figured they'd flown south to Okeechobee in Florida to await my arrival.
The portage from Cache Bay on Saganaga's Canadian shore took us around Silver Falls. Wasn't a long carry but made up for it with a treacherous, rock strewn path. Falls was beautiful as was the walleye fishing below. Saganagons is also a big lake. Not huge like its sister to the south, but big enough to have big fish. Ted and I boated our share and then some.
Was nice to sit in the bow seat for a change. Got to see fresh water first and caught so many walleyes over five pounds my arms got tired. Ted, being a man with an eye to the future, never let us keep more than we could eat. Fine with me. Most we ate were landed from our campsite. We'd catch 'em, Ted'd filet 'em and I'd fry 'em up. Good food and lots of it. All fresh except for my bannock. Ted said he'd had better, or at least figured he had as he couldn't remember when that was. Maybe when he was a kid and it was his grandma's. Took that as a compliment. As I did his moaning when he set to a buttered slab.
We spent a week on the lake. Ted said he wouldn't leave 'til we spent at least half a day trolling for lake trout along a reef he knew of. Took it slow and long-lined big red and white spoons. Would have used silver but didn't have any. As it was we did fine. Tired of being out fished on walleyes, Ted hooked up with a laker close to forty inches. Thought it'd pull the canoe under should his drag stick. Ten minutes of bent rod cranking would get 'er to the surface. Then she'd turn tail and dive straight down. Did that five or six times like a twenty-five pound yoyo before it was fagged out enough to paddle measure it.
Early in October the boys from the mill paid me a visit to see how the cabin was coming. They brought along a couple of sacks of donuts, I fired up some fresh coffee and we sat on the floor. Outside of two camp chairs, planks and saw horses, I was without furniture. Guess I needed to go shopping. And I eventually did. Bought a couple of modern style, Swedish armchairs, four table chairs to go with the table I built and, dear Lord, a real mattress. Made a bed frame out of lumber scraps. Ain't pretty but'll do 'til I make something nice.
Continued to cook on the Coleman, read by kerosene lamps and eventually learned to bake with the Franklin stove. When cold weather moved in, water became a problem. Figuring the pump would eventually freeze up I kept five milk cans filled. When the real cold set in I made runs to town to fill them. Life in the northland.
Come spring I need to build a shed, maybe a carport for the truck. Inside there's shelves to build, a few kitchen cabinets and some kind of closet. Maybe a bumpout for a bathroom and kitchen sink when the electric comes in. Also considering building a window seat I can use as a bed up in the Lookout. Though I like the whole building, life's best up above. Even saw a moose the other day. You'd think up here off any kind of civilized road to speak of there'd be animals everywhere. And there are. Just that it's rare to see them. I've found tracks and scat, all over. Coons, fox, porcupines, bear, bobcat, deer, possibly a wolf. But see any? Maybe they're invisible? Maybe I'm not paying attention or am too easily seen myself. That's what the Lookout's for. Up there in the cat bird seat I can see without being seen.
When I started, the idea was to get everything perfect. Square, plumb, level and every joint tight. Came close on all counts though none was dead on. But she doesn't ship a drop, all the doors and windows work and a marble laid on the floor will stay put. What more could I want? Oh yeah, the stove keeps the place toasty cold on evenings so long as I keep it stoked up.
As you can see there's lots to do. By next fall I should have most of it tied up. Or I won't. Should I have electricity next year, I'll try wintering over. Or go to Hawaii and learn to eat poi. Can't be any worse than ludefisk.
Ted and I did get in a canoe trip. Sure wasn't what I'd expected but I did get a couple of bags of wild rice out of the deal. Seems the ricing was late last fall and Ted was able to catch the tail end if it. Helped that he was Ojibwe. Had relatives over in Bena on the Leech Lake Reservation who knew where we could still find some to harvest. Most years Ted helps with ricing but things had been hectic up at the mill. Left him standing in the rear of a canoe with a long pole in his hand and the short end of the stick as to the rice. Up ahead he had a rookie kneeling in the middle of the canoe batting rice off the golden stalks. Ted said on a good day we could've had three, maybe four hundred pounds of the stuff by day's end. This year our day and a half yielded less than half that. But it was enough. Parched and winnowed, Ted got plenty to last him and his family the winter. Now all I had to do was figure out how to cook it. A moment's thought told me my old buddy butter might come in handy. Butter's good.
Our fishing trip wasn't long as far as miles go. The hard part came on the first day. Crossing big Lake Saganaga at the end of the Gunflint Trail was a bear. The wind was near roaring. Spent most of the first day sitting on our backsides waiting for a let-up. Mid-afternoon we got our break but lacked enough daylight to complete the crossing. Didn't even set up the tent that night. Ted said I was a candy-ass for blowing up my air mattress but it sure beat sleeping on rocks. Slept under the stars in our bags with a tarp thrown over to keep the dew off. For the rest of the trip we used the tarp as a lean-to in place of a tent. Chilly at night but chilly kept the bugs away. I figured they'd flown south to Okeechobee in Florida to await my arrival.
The portage from Cache Bay on Saganaga's Canadian shore took us around Silver Falls. Wasn't a long carry but made up for it with a treacherous, rock strewn path. Falls was beautiful as was the walleye fishing below. Saganagons is also a big lake. Not huge like its sister to the south, but big enough to have big fish. Ted and I boated our share and then some.
Was nice to sit in the bow seat for a change. Got to see fresh water first and caught so many walleyes over five pounds my arms got tired. Ted, being a man with an eye to the future, never let us keep more than we could eat. Fine with me. Most we ate were landed from our campsite. We'd catch 'em, Ted'd filet 'em and I'd fry 'em up. Good food and lots of it. All fresh except for my bannock. Ted said he'd had better, or at least figured he had as he couldn't remember when that was. Maybe when he was a kid and it was his grandma's. Took that as a compliment. As I did his moaning when he set to a buttered slab.
We spent a week on the lake. Ted said he wouldn't leave 'til we spent at least half a day trolling for lake trout along a reef he knew of. Took it slow and long-lined big red and white spoons. Would have used silver but didn't have any. As it was we did fine. Tired of being out fished on walleyes, Ted hooked up with a laker close to forty inches. Thought it'd pull the canoe under should his drag stick. Ten minutes of bent rod cranking would get 'er to the surface. Then she'd turn tail and dive straight down. Did that five or six times like a twenty-five pound yoyo before it was fagged out enough to paddle measure it.
Early in October the boys from the mill paid me a visit to see how the cabin was coming. They brought along a couple of sacks of donuts, I fired up some fresh coffee and we sat on the floor. Outside of two camp chairs, planks and saw horses, I was without furniture. Guess I needed to go shopping. And I eventually did. Bought a couple of modern style, Swedish armchairs, four table chairs to go with the table I built and, dear Lord, a real mattress. Made a bed frame out of lumber scraps. Ain't pretty but'll do 'til I make something nice.
Continued to cook on the Coleman, read by kerosene lamps and eventually learned to bake with the Franklin stove. When cold weather moved in, water became a problem. Figuring the pump would eventually freeze up I kept five milk cans filled. When the real cold set in I made runs to town to fill them. Life in the northland.
Come spring I need to build a shed, maybe a carport for the truck. Inside there's shelves to build, a few kitchen cabinets and some kind of closet. Maybe a bumpout for a bathroom and kitchen sink when the electric comes in. Also considering building a window seat I can use as a bed up in the Lookout. Though I like the whole building, life's best up above. Even saw a moose the other day. You'd think up here off any kind of civilized road to speak of there'd be animals everywhere. And there are. Just that it's rare to see them. I've found tracks and scat, all over. Coons, fox, porcupines, bear, bobcat, deer, possibly a wolf. But see any? Maybe they're invisible? Maybe I'm not paying attention or am too easily seen myself. That's what the Lookout's for. Up there in the cat bird seat I can see without being seen.
When I started, the idea was to get everything perfect. Square, plumb, level and every joint tight. Came close on all counts though none was dead on. But she doesn't ship a drop, all the doors and windows work and a marble laid on the floor will stay put. What more could I want? Oh yeah, the stove keeps the place toasty cold on evenings so long as I keep it stoked up.
As you can see there's lots to do. By next fall I should have most of it tied up. Or I won't. Should I have electricity next year, I'll try wintering over. Or go to Hawaii and learn to eat poi. Can't be any worse than ludefisk.
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