Skis affixed to the top of a borrowed station wagon, we
rolled into Hurley on a Thursday evening, looking for cheap digs. Pulling into
a gas station, a gent in bib overalls greeted us. Dressed in a parka and
engineer boots, a pouch of Red Man peaked out of the top pocket of his bibs. A
shave and a bath would probably await Saturday night. Casually checking our
plates, “I see youse boys is from Minnesota. Pretty happy with them Twins,
then, eh?” The Minnesota Twins, newly arrived from DC, had torn up the American
League. Yup, we sure are. Any idea where we might find a room for a couple of
days? Turning the handle on the side of the pump, he zeroed out the previous
purchase, regarding us through his badly repaired glasses. “Ya, well, try
Becky’s,” nodding up Silver Street. “On da right, up dere. Past da Post Office
and da IGA.”
Silver Street in Hurley, Wisconsin had a notorious history.
Known as Sin City back in the day, Hurley was headquarters for the “service
industries” supplying the logging camps and copper mines. In the late 1800’s,
Mrs. O’Leary’s cow kicked over the lantern in Chicago with the result that northern
Wisconsin was logged clean. Most of that timber was ‘boomed’ down river (the
Kickapoo, the Bad Axe, the Mississippi), to sawmills, then sent by rail to
Chicago where it was used to rebuild the destroyed city. Fifty years ago my
pal, John Shank, and I went skiing in northern Wisconsin and Michigan’s Upper
Peninsula. We were both on Christmas break from college. It was determined that
Hurley would be home base. And we hoped that, perhaps, there might be a last
gasp of sin left its frozen corpse.
A few blocks up Silver Street’s right side, “past da Post
Office and da IGA” a faded sign read, Becky’s Roost. We parked and walked in. There
was no front desk, and no elevator. On one side of the room stood a long-unused
bar. An old upright piano sat opposite. We stood in the growing darkness
calling Hello. After some minutes, a woman appeared. “Help youse”? We’re
looking for a room for a couple, maybe three nights. “You boys got sleeping
bags?” Yes’m. “Well, we ain’t got sheets
or blankets but if ya want, I got rooms on the third floor. It’s $5.00 a night,
each, bathroom down the hall.” How much if we share? “Each room has one bed. Up
to you. Still $5.00 each.” OK, we’ll take it, thank you. She handed us each a
towel and a washcloth and nodded toward the stairway.
We clambered up three flights of rickety wooden stairs and
down a long hallway. Room, room, room, room. Bathroom. And more rooms. Each had
a bed, a chair, a small table. A bare bulb hung from the ceiling. The rooms
were clean (barely). None of the doors locked. I asked John, ever spend the
night in a whorehouse? Nope – but we will tonight. We guffawed. We were twenty one
years old, bulletproof and didn’t give a shit where we slept. After unrolling
the sleeping bags in our respective rooms, we headed out the door to find what
awaited us on Silver Street.
Not yet a ghost town, Hurley survived on pensioners and the
stray tourist. Most businesses were shuttered. But a block or so from our
‘hotel’ stood a joint full of prospect. Forslund’s
Museum Bar announced itself. We looked at each other, shrugged. Two guys
walk into a bar.
On the floor in front of the bar lay a large heating grate
where an old mixed breed hound snoozed. It raised its head, regarding us with
rummy eyes. Behind the bar, and on every wall, badly carved animals stared at
us as well. Ah, the museum, whispered John. Down at the end of the bar sat a
lone patron. He wore a red plaid wool jacket. On his head, a woolen liner for a
miner’s helmet. Copper mining had replaced logging – now, both were long gone.
Scattered amongst the carved animals behind the bar were the usual small town
tavern accoutrements. The Hamm’s Beer sign with the bear doing the happy dance.
The pulltabs. The sign under the TV, “We don’t take messages – we tell
EVERYBODY you left 2 hours ago.” The bartender looked us over. “Evenin’
fellas…whatcha like?” Beer.
The bartender, we found, was Mr. Forslund himself, and the
guy at the end of the bar, his brother. “I’m Jack Forslund – and dat there’s my
brother Ole. He don’t talk much. An dat’s Sandy,” nodding toward the sleeping
dog. “She’s blind as a goddam mole. And ain’t worth a shit. Kinda like Ole
here.” “Ya,” said Ole, staring at the wall. Jack drew our beers. “So, what
brings you fellas to Hurley then? Sure ain’t da action.” No, we’re skiing. Jack
snorted. So, Jack, how long you been in Hurley? “My whole life, damn near. Born
near Siren in 1879. Be 86 in February.” Siren, Wisconsin. I’d been there, just
down the road from Luck, “The Yo-Yo Capital of the World”. Duncan Yo-Yo
parceled out assembly piecework to women in the area. They could make a few
bucks during those cold winter nights, putting yo-yos together.
“Born near Siren in 1879”. I got the sense that we’d hit a
winner. This was going to be great. Earnest and wide-eyed; tell us about Hurley
in the old days, Jack. Were you a logger?
“Logger? I was a lumberjack. Shit. What’s a logger? A
logger’s da guy who owns it. A lumberjack’s da guy who works. And let me tell
ya, dat was work. Real goddamit work. Yes sir. Twenty five below, eating off
tin plates, drinkin’ outa tin cups. You kids got no idea.”
Boy oh boy, jackpot! So, tell us about the logging camps,
Jack! He looked us over cooly. I could see the words ‘snot nose’ forming in his
mind.
”Youse college boys?” Yes sir. And we don’t know shit. He
snorted. “So what do ya want to know about it? It wasn’t no college, I can tell
ya that.” No, and I bet it was hard
work. Real, real hard. And nothing like we’ve ever done, in our whole lives.
Ever. Jack looked us over again. That
acknowledgement, and a respectful tone, was enough for us to pass muster. Jack
opened up.
“Well sir, dere was lotsa fellas from Wisconsin wantin’ ta
get work then. Had to be strong and tough. We’d weed through the sissies pretty
damn quick. No motels with TVs. We’d sleep in tents, goddam cold, I tell ya.
Potbelly stove in them big tents. Six AM they’d wake us, dark out. Go out and
piss on a tree first thing – and you were damn quick about it, I tell ya. Den
breakfast with those damn tin plates. Eggs, meat, big pieces of meat, potatoes,
bread, hot coffee. Sit at long tables in da mess tent. Den it was on to da
sleigh, out to da woods.”
What did you guys wear in the dead of winter? “Wool. Wool
undershirt, wool shirt, another wool shirt, wool coat. Canvas mittens with wool
inside ‘em. But I gotta tell youse,” Jack’s eyes started gleam, “when it got to
twenty below, dat axe would SING, wood would just shatter. Shatter like glass.
See, before a log can be skidded outta da woods…” Skidded? His look said, ‘I’m a patient man but Jesus,
you youngsters don’t know shit, do ya?’
“Skidding a log is hauling it out of da woods, pulled by a
team, sometimes a single horse. Them white pines was big. Huge. Stood damn near
150 feet. All trunk, branches at da top. And them logs was big around as two, three
axe handles end to end. Dat log had to be clean so’s the horse could slide it
out. Ya begin at the crown, where da branches start and work yer way to da top.
I’d swing dat axe and branches would fall away like ice sickles hit with a
broom stick. Rather swing an axe at 25 below than 25 above. Easier work, I tell
ya. And work, who knows about work? Ever you fellas pulled a stump? Pry it up,
prop it up, pry it up, prop it up. Shit.”
Jack was getting warmed up. “We was out in dem woods usually
two, three weeks, at a time. We’d move sometimes, follow da job. And we cut it
clean. Nothin’ left, right down to da ground. Lookin’ around, you’d think you
was in a desert. And I’ll tell ya, trees we couldn’t cut, we burned. Didn’t
want some other crew to get it. We was merciless. Just merciless.” Pride
flashed on Jack’s face. John and I exchanged a glance. Clear cut.
And Hurley?
“Hurley? We’d go into Hurley when we got paid. Got paid once
a month. Cash money. Shit, every door on Silver St. was either a bar, or a
whorehouse or a gambling joint. Every single door. No cops. Well maybe a
couple. And there’d be fights and you had to know how to handle yourself. You
betcha.” Occasionally Jack would check in with Ole for verification, “Ain’t dat
right den Ole?” Ole would stare straight ahead, “Ya.”
We spent a solid two hours with Jack, listening mostly, and
during that time he had only one other customer. A woman came in, ordered a
shot with a beer back. Jack obliged, no money changed hands. Wearing a parka, she
had a woven plastic lanyard around her neck, the kind kids make at summer camp.
Three or four keys hung from it. She
looked at us. “Jack slingin’ his bullshit again? If you look like you’re awake,
he’ll keep talkin’” Jack regarded his contemporary coolly. “Ain’t you gotta be
someplace, Mable?” Mable looked at Jack. Then stared straight ahead. “Ya sure,
Jack. Soon enough. Soon enough.”
Jack went on about the wonders of Silver Street. “First it
was da lumberjacks. Den da woods played out. Cut every goddamn tree from here
to Superior. Den da mines came in. Copper. Ole here worked for Endicott. Put a
helmet on his head and a pasty in his pail everyday for 30 years.” Jack pronounced
it past-ee. “Damn, dey was good. Call ‘em ‘a hand lunch.’ Meat and potatoes wrapped
up in a kinda pie crust. Looked like a hall moon. Sill sell ‘em in Wakefield
and Ontonoggen, up on da yewpee.” The UP – Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, that
finger of land reaching out into Superior, ending with the giant Soo Locks at
Sioux Ste. Marie, where Superior spills down into Michigan. “And den, da copper
went too.” Jack looked vacantly at the far wall and the carved animals. Mable
stared at her empty beer glass. Ole sat with eyes closed. Silence. It was like they
were praying.
Mable cleared her throat. “OK then.” She got up, headed for
the door. Jack opened his mouth to speak. Before he could get her entire name
out, she cut him off, “Ya. Ya. I ain’t forgot dat number. Jesus Christ.” She
walked out the door and into the cold night. Jack looked at us, “More beer fellas?
Jack’s buyin’”
What about all these carvings? “Dat shit? Dat’s me. I do it.
Some folks like it, said I should put ‘em in a museum. And I sure as shit did!”
He smiled. A big, big smile. If you’ve had any congress with old Swedes, you
know how unusual that is. But the old Swede was grinning. John was grinning. I
was grinning. Three guys, grinning in a bar. Ole stared at the wall. Jack
looked down the bar where Mable had sat. The grin vanished. “Godammit! She went
and left her purse. Again.”
Jack then began a detailed description of each carved
animal, when it was carved, where it was carved, what it was carved from. After
a time, John and I looked at each other. Unspoken, it was time to head back to
the ‘hotel’. We finished our beers. Jack
offered another. Nope, but thanks. We put on our coats, made ready to leave.
And then, for no good reason, I asked Jack what Mable meant when she said “Ya”.
“Oh, dat? Mable calls me when she gets home. Sometimes she
gets lost. If I don’t hear from her, I calls da Sheriff. He rounds her up, gets
her toward home. Been getting’ worse lately though. She’s ok in the day. Nights
is kinda hard. Forgetful, ya know? Keeps her keys around her neck. Leaves dat
damn empty purse all over town. What’s left of town, anyways. Mable’s kinda
like Hurley, hot and sassy back then, now, just kinda wore out. She was
somethin’ though. Worked over to Becky’s; everybody wanted Mable. Everybody. Becky
hated her, afraid she’d go freelance. Shit, she coulda took half ‘a Becky’s
trade. Easy.”
Staring down at the sleeping Sandy, Jack was quiet. He took
a deep breath. Something caught on the inhale. He blinked. He cleared his
throat.
“Well - you nice boys,” he said, blinking again. “Thanks for
comin’ in.” We thanked Jack as well, shook hands. We said good night to Ole.
“Ya…” he said, staring straight ahead.
The bitter cold smacked us as we pushed open the door. The
phone rang behind the bar. Standing in the open door, I heard Jack, “Ya, well,
dat’s good den. And yuh left yer goddam purse.”
