Gold fever struck the County again back in the '80s just as it had generations before. The price was rising rapidly in far-flung places like New York City and many sought the amber riches. Now about this time, the Minnesota Mineral & Gold Exploration Co. contacted Tower's City Hall. The mining concern wanted to lease the rights to explore for gold on the City's Mud Creek properties.
Mayor Biggie Bunn's was excited. He was dreaming of riches. "This is the opportunity of a lifetime," he told the townfolk gathered at the daily meetings of the Liar's Club at the Tower Hotel. "When I'm done negotiating this deal the sidewalks of our small town will be paved with gold!" Mayor Bunns exclaimed to anyone who would listen to his grandiose dreams.
Time passed and correspondence between the City and Minnesota Minerals & Gold Exploration continued. A public meeting was scheduled. Almost everyone in town was excited. It was all anyone could talk about. Representatives from the urban exploration concern were going to make the trip north to Tower and Mayor Bunn's and his Council of sychophants were quite sure they could best the company and provide quick riches for themselves and their cronies.
No one in town was concerned that reality might be quite different from their expectations. It had been 120 years since anyone last believed they could find gold in the northern Minnesota hills and all those adventures ended in failure.
Dreams of riches went through everyone in the City and even to many of those living out in the woods in the townships. Everyone, that is, except for Cloudy.
Cloudy had a hard-earned reputation as being something of a curmudgeon. He was comfortably well off and had never found any get-rich-quick scheme to profit anyone.
The night of the Great Meeting finally arrived. The City Council Chanbers was filled to capacity and the over-flow crowd gathered in the White House Bar downstairs to nurse their brandies and keep close to the excitement. The Mayor even bought a new shirt for the occasion.
"Gentlemen, gentlemen, let us get started. This is a rare and important moment for our small City," Mayor Bunns stated, banging his Mayor's gavel on the table. The Minnesota Mineral men approached the podium and made their presentation. They were sure that the Tower hills were filled with gold! Charts and graphs were provided to prove their point. They then proposed that the City lease them the right to explore in exchange for a healthy peice of the action. 'Dreams do come true,' thought Mayor Bunns. The City banker was already counting the new deposits which would grace his vaults. Regular citizens dreamed of the new job opportunities which they could now avail themselves.
Cloudy, however, was skeptical. From way back in the room, behind the crowd of excited townsfolk, Cloudy's gravely voice stilled the room. "I don't know about all this," Cloudy stated, "I sure don't know if thar is any gold in dem hills, but sure-enough, I guar-an-tee you'll find plenty of boulders, har, har, har!"
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Slim's Dream
Slim was an old 'shacker.' By this I mean that he lived in a shack. This is the name we give to men who live alone, in the woods, in insubstatial housing.
Slim wanted to be important-he wanted to be a hero.
Slim liked to start forest fires and then exhibit his bravery and hard work putting out the very same fires he started.
One autumn morning, when the wind came from the south, he started a fire which roared north towards Tower, passing through Kuglar on its way. Slim quickly went to work, excitedly attempting to prove his heroic nature. He took axe and saw and tried to clear a fire break in the woods. He could not stop the fire. The Department of Natural Resources responded. They called out local fire fighters. Together they were able to stop the blaze and save the Kuglar Town Hall. Fighting fires like this one can be expensive. The DNR spent over $180,000 fighting this one.
The local game warden, ususualy a lazy state employee, recently graduated from Arson School. He wanted to try out his new skills. He studied the fire. He looked at where the fire started. He could tell that an excellerent (fuel oil) was used to make the fire burn faster. He found a book of matches at the scene. He remembered how hard Slim worked. He knew Slim was trying to put out the fire just a short distance from where it started.
The game warden used psychology. There was a special chapter in his arson book about the motivations which cause men to start fires. He arrested Slim.
Slim was found guilty and fined $189.000 to cover the costs of putting out the fire and sentanced to two years labor on the County Work Farm. Slim lived just long enough to be released from the County Farm and to pay $169.48 of his fines. Slim was buried, without honors, on the hill in Potter's Field. He has never been remembered as a hero. Those of us who remember him at all remember him as a 'fire-bug.'
Slim wanted to be important-he wanted to be a hero.
Slim liked to start forest fires and then exhibit his bravery and hard work putting out the very same fires he started.
One autumn morning, when the wind came from the south, he started a fire which roared north towards Tower, passing through Kuglar on its way. Slim quickly went to work, excitedly attempting to prove his heroic nature. He took axe and saw and tried to clear a fire break in the woods. He could not stop the fire. The Department of Natural Resources responded. They called out local fire fighters. Together they were able to stop the blaze and save the Kuglar Town Hall. Fighting fires like this one can be expensive. The DNR spent over $180,000 fighting this one.
The local game warden, ususualy a lazy state employee, recently graduated from Arson School. He wanted to try out his new skills. He studied the fire. He looked at where the fire started. He could tell that an excellerent (fuel oil) was used to make the fire burn faster. He found a book of matches at the scene. He remembered how hard Slim worked. He knew Slim was trying to put out the fire just a short distance from where it started.
The game warden used psychology. There was a special chapter in his arson book about the motivations which cause men to start fires. He arrested Slim.
Slim was found guilty and fined $189.000 to cover the costs of putting out the fire and sentanced to two years labor on the County Work Farm. Slim lived just long enough to be released from the County Farm and to pay $169.48 of his fines. Slim was buried, without honors, on the hill in Potter's Field. He has never been remembered as a hero. Those of us who remember him at all remember him as a 'fire-bug.'
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Monday, October 29, 2007
The Last Sauna
Arvid Arvxllx lived a long and healthy life. At 89 he still cut his own firewood and built a fire in his sauna stove for his daily bath. Then at age 90, tripping as he climbed up the sauna benches, he fell upon that stove and lie there until he was cooked clean through while Norman his son sat upstairs finishing his dinner.
Friday, October 26, 2007
The Governor's Rise to Office
[A work in progress...going to try and flesh out some basic points of this story...believe this is the best way to introduce the Gov., but am only cursorily familiar with this story...]
The Flame was a gentleman's club of some renowned during the 1970s and early 1980s. Located in In't. Falls, on the Rainey River just south of the working class city of Thunder Bay, Canada, I am of the belief that the Flame ultimately burned to the ground on a particularly cold winter night.
On occasion gentlemen, from Tower-Soudan, would frequent the Flame in pursuit of good drink and scenery. It was a place where men could, simply, be and behave like men. A 'sausage party,' if you will.
Once, the Governor, (who was not yet known as the Governor-after all-that is the point of this missive), was holding court in the Flame with friends from across the Range. Ron, Sr., (the Governor's true identity), is and always was a flamboyant character. He was always quick to steady himself with a belt of fine liquor, smoke fine cigars, gamble and toss money in the direction of the fairer gender. He was also well known amongst the citizenry as being a bit of a wheeler-dealer, and ne'er-do-well. *
On this particular night the party was going strong, vast amounts of liquor was consumed and the cigar smoke hung in the air over the tables. All libations were quickly paid for by Ron, Sr. out of his cache of Benjamin Franklin's.
The gregarious festivities soon caught the attentions of the other patrons at the Flame. A gentleman, a few tables away from Ron, asked a cocktail waitress, "who is that man over there? Is he somebody famous?" Answering, the waitress replied, "He is the Governor of Minnesota."
Those of us who practiced, and perhaps will practice again, the art of the deal appreciated, and still appreciate, the flair with which Ron has always operated, and thus, everafter always refered to him as The Governor.
* [NOTE: ne'er-do-well
Not exactly the right word...difference between lightning and the lightning bug. Must seek another, better description, after all the Gov. is anything but ineffectual, unsuccessful, or lacking in merit. All suggestions welcome. ]
The Flame was a gentleman's club of some renowned during the 1970s and early 1980s. Located in In't. Falls, on the Rainey River just south of the working class city of Thunder Bay, Canada, I am of the belief that the Flame ultimately burned to the ground on a particularly cold winter night.
On occasion gentlemen, from Tower-Soudan, would frequent the Flame in pursuit of good drink and scenery. It was a place where men could, simply, be and behave like men. A 'sausage party,' if you will.
Once, the Governor, (who was not yet known as the Governor-after all-that is the point of this missive), was holding court in the Flame with friends from across the Range. Ron, Sr., (the Governor's true identity), is and always was a flamboyant character. He was always quick to steady himself with a belt of fine liquor, smoke fine cigars, gamble and toss money in the direction of the fairer gender. He was also well known amongst the citizenry as being a bit of a wheeler-dealer, and ne'er-do-well. *
On this particular night the party was going strong, vast amounts of liquor was consumed and the cigar smoke hung in the air over the tables. All libations were quickly paid for by Ron, Sr. out of his cache of Benjamin Franklin's.
The gregarious festivities soon caught the attentions of the other patrons at the Flame. A gentleman, a few tables away from Ron, asked a cocktail waitress, "who is that man over there? Is he somebody famous?" Answering, the waitress replied, "He is the Governor of Minnesota."
Those of us who practiced, and perhaps will practice again, the art of the deal appreciated, and still appreciate, the flair with which Ron has always operated, and thus, everafter always refered to him as The Governor.
* [NOTE: ne'er-do-well
–noun
–adjective
| 1. | an idle, worthless person; a person who is ineffectual, unsuccessful, or completely lacking in merit; good-for-nothing. |
| 2. | worthless; ineffectual; good-for-nothing. |
[Origin: 1730–40
]
] —Synonyms 1. idler, loafer, wastrel.
Not exactly the right word...difference between lightning and the lightning bug. Must seek another, better description, after all the Gov. is anything but ineffectual, unsuccessful, or lacking in merit. All suggestions welcome. ]
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Old Doris' Dentures
It seems like only yesterday, although I'm sure nearly 20 years has past.
We were sitting, as we often found occasion to do, at the rail of the White House bar on an early Friday winter evening. Down the bar, a few stools away, sat Old Doris. It was more than obvious that she'd graced the White House with her company for several hours and she was tight, angry and quick to jump into argument. Now this was not a situation in which Doris, or any other of the regular patrons was unaccustomed. About this time who happens along but Tommy, Doris' son-in-law.
"G'd Evening, Doris." Tommy said.
"You Lazy Sunabitch." Doris quickly replied.
Well by now, as I'm sure you'd guess, the gloves were off. Tommy fired back a curt reply and, not to be out done, Doris kept it up–expletives and spittle flying out of Doris' mouth.
The argument grew, the tensions rose and the language from both parties became all the more colorful.
Then in the midst of it all, during a particularly strong vociferation, Doris' full set of store bought dentures flew out of her mouth and along the bar top landing somewhere between her glass of Petri Brandy and Sour and the ashtray filled with her cast off cigarette butts.
Not one to let this unfortunate occurrence interupt a perfectly good argument Old Doris reached between drink and ashtray grabbed up the wayward dentures and popped them back info her mouth never breaking stride in her tirade.
We were sitting, as we often found occasion to do, at the rail of the White House bar on an early Friday winter evening. Down the bar, a few stools away, sat Old Doris. It was more than obvious that she'd graced the White House with her company for several hours and she was tight, angry and quick to jump into argument. Now this was not a situation in which Doris, or any other of the regular patrons was unaccustomed. About this time who happens along but Tommy, Doris' son-in-law.
"G'd Evening, Doris." Tommy said.
"You Lazy Sunabitch." Doris quickly replied.
Well by now, as I'm sure you'd guess, the gloves were off. Tommy fired back a curt reply and, not to be out done, Doris kept it up–expletives and spittle flying out of Doris' mouth.
The argument grew, the tensions rose and the language from both parties became all the more colorful.
Then in the midst of it all, during a particularly strong vociferation, Doris' full set of store bought dentures flew out of her mouth and along the bar top landing somewhere between her glass of Petri Brandy and Sour and the ashtray filled with her cast off cigarette butts.
Not one to let this unfortunate occurrence interupt a perfectly good argument Old Doris reached between drink and ashtray grabbed up the wayward dentures and popped them back info her mouth never breaking stride in her tirade.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
I am beholden to all . . . .
I am beholden to all these characters for their stories. I am likewise beholden to simply tell the truth. I'm telling these stories and I assure you that every word is the truth, except of course when the stories concern matters about me.
• • • • •
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