What's up with HIbbing?

Duluth News Tribune Letter to the Editor  

 

Jeff Smith is a retired Registered Nurse. He enjoys music, motorcycles, Minnesota History, and The Big Lebowski. He lives in Duluth.

 

                                                                                   

                                    What's Up With Hibbing?

 

Last summer I rode my Harley to Hibbing for the heck of it. Lunch etc. Hibbing's always been my favorite Range City. Well, it’s actually a tie with Eveleth. (Or maybe little bit behind it on account of Margies Roosevelt.)

At any rate I did not see, and I rode about freely, any mention of Bob Dylan. Anywhere. I know there is a something modest in the library and by snooping once I found his boyhood home.

          Made me think: What’s up with Hibbing?

Remarkable, a Nobel prize laureate. A defining artist of the 20^th Century and hardly a peep there about him.

I asked a coworker about the reasons for this appalling lack of recognition by the hometown of one who is arguably the state’s most celebrated artist.

My coworker grew up around there and was more of a contemporary of Bob Dylan. He theorized that it’s because there is lingering embarrassment. Maybe he was treated poorly by his fellows there, suffered bullying and insults.

I have also been told that there is simmering resentment in the town because he was not, and has not been, effusive enough in his praise for it.

I doubt that community could be so puny.

I suppose the reasons are more complicated. Or maybe more simple: "It's because of the money."

Still, consider Sauk Centre and the pride taken there in Sinclair Lewis.

And Lewis, America’s first Nobel Laureate for literature, did not treat the place all too gently in his masterpiece Main Street. 

Yet I recall seeing a photo of him there late in his life. He was in front of the movie theater. It is still called Main Street Theater. There he was, smiling, standing right there on…Main Street.

Just shy of its intersection with Sinclair Lewis Avenue.

          Now I can just hear someone out there whining: “Yeah he wrote some songs but he was no crooner, no Perry Como.” But Como’s hometown, Canonsburg, PA has his statue. Plays his music 24/7! (Bobby Vinton was born there too and has a statue. It’s in a McDonalds though.)

          Further, tiny Sunrise MN has a historical marker denoting the fact that Richard Widmark was born there.

Albert Lea happily celebrates Eddie Cochran.

          And Grand Rapids?  Judy Garland? They might also someday celebrate Hugh Beaumont’s retirement. (And Bob Dylan even, like her, has won an Oscar.)

          I know Bemidji doesn’t crow about Jane Russel’s birth. But they boast Paul and Babe.

          Austin is mute on John Madden’s birthplace too, but they have The Spam Museum.

          I know that Hibbing does have the Greyhound Bus Museum so it is right up there with Austin. Cool, but in 100 years I fear Greyhound’s significance will wane.

          Not Bob Dylan’s.

          And Madden was out of Austin when he was 6.        

          Even Cook has a mural about Johnny Cash getting busted there for speeding.

          Well, what should be done?

I don’t know.

          I am more of an idea man. I draw the line at actually doing the work.  I wisely leave that to somebody who has talent.

          Not to club Hibbing again with Grand Rapids, but ‘Rapids also has the Reif Center.

And Myles Reif is not exactly a household name,

          So maybe there is a wealthy benefactor, (worldwide), somewhere? Someone delighted to add her or his name to something connected to Dylan in his hometown?

          Imagine the Bruce Wayne Performing Arts Center on the local college campus with its sparkling Bob Dylan Theater. Or, perhaps, the Jed Clampett Center with the Bob Dylan auditorium.

          Something like that.

          I don’t know.

          But do something. Even a simple sculpture in a set-aside little bricked in square. Maybe a young Dylan with guitar and harmonica in holder. Or, better yet, a rendering of him grinning on that Harley when he was a kid.

          (And, perhaps, include a word, nearby, about Gary Puckett and Roger Maris)

          Or a mural perhaps? Downtown. Minneapolis saw fit to have one. And it’s a beauty, (Hennepin and S 5^th St.)

          Just someplace where folks can go, snap a picture, or just reflect on this remarkable artist and the unique place that was once his home.

          Thank you.

 

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 Unearthed story 2021

 

3/14/21

 

Here follows a story I unearthed when I was cleaning our ignored files here about a month or so ago. I have no recollection of writing it. I did later write a story based upon this idea. I am putting it down here because…. I don’t know. Somebody somewhere typed it for me which is unbelievable. Thanks to that party. I’ll get it over with now:

 

                                                                                          April 4, 1984

Dear Sirs,

               Unlike most fish stories this tale is not concerned with the exceptional feats of fishing prowess; even though it is about “The one that got away”. No, this saga takes root in the dismal failure that often attends my fishing expeditions.

               My brother and I Had been trolling unsuccessfully along the Northwest shoreline of Pelican Lake (by Orr) most of a hot August day in 1968.

Being nature lovers, we decided to stop on one of the many islands for a natural break. My brother decided to cool off by stretching out on a slab of granite sloping downward into the clear waters. Meanwhile, I decided to answer a call of a more urgent nature in the woods. My meditation was crudely interrupted buy a terrifyingly urgent shriek from my brother. Fumbling with my fly, I crashed through the brush barley in time to see my brother’s head slip below the surface. I poured into the water and floundered towards the turbulence that had replaced him. Luckily, I found him immediately. I crooked my elbow under his chin and, planting my feet on the rugged bottom, lugged him up onto the island.

               With a slowly dawning sense of horror, I realized that I had pulled more than my brother out of the lake. Coiled tightly around his lower trunk and legs was a hideous creature unlike anything I’d ever seen.

               “Get it off me!” he sputtered and instantly we began pounding and prying and slowly uncoiling that slippery abomination.

               Once freed, we immediately stood up and gaped down at the grotesque things that was pitching and flopping in the dust at our feet. How can I describe what we beheld in those few seconds? What we witnessed that hot afternoon inn’68, my brother would later that day explain to me, was a feral pike-child. Similar to those medieval tales of children raise by wolves or, like the more familiar Tarzan of the Apes; this child, as an infant, had been lost through some unfortunate boating or winter mishap, or as we later agreed, probably abandoned by some unwanting mother. Fortunately he had come under the nurturing care of some maternal pike.

               I’d guess he was 10 or 11 years old and had adapted to his assumed environment remarkably well. His head was sharp, pointed and what little glimpse I had of his eyes revealed them to be spread apart and, nearly on the sides of his head. His unusually circular eyes were flattened in appearance and unblinking. His nose was long and pointed; I presume it enabled him to take in oxygen snorkel-like while remaining submerged. The child’s mouth was a slash across his jaw and snapping inside, sparkling rows of pointed triangular teeth. I also noted with a sense of revulsion a nasty scar under his chin where, obviously, some past angler had evidently attempted to pass a stringer through it to bag this catch. His arms appeared nearly webbed to his body and his legs, toes and fingers seemed to be webbed together as well. Also, I saw an amazing amount of flexibility in his spine (Which jutted out dorsal fin-style from his narrow back.) and his knees which seemed capable of flexing forwards to some degree.

               Well, the entire incident could not have lasted more than a few seconds. He pitched himself wildly on the ground for a short while and then, effortlessly, arched himself through the air and into the lake, knifing the surface with barely a ripple.

               “We’ll be famous I!” I exclaimed. I was pretty excited. “We’ll be on the cover of Field and Stream and on TV. We’ll…” But my brother’s grim expression cut me off. He said, “Only rags like they sell at the check-out counter would publish this story and only the kind of nerds that read them would believe it. Besides, we’ll look like a souple of jerks ourselves. Furthermore, what if someone does believe it? How would you like the idea of some master fisherman coming up here intending to bag the ultimate trophy for his mantle? Or, more cruelly, how about some self-serving sociologist safariing up here to ensnare the supreme specimen – proving for all posterity that a feral pike-child cannot survive the transition from his lake to the sixth grade?”

               I recalled how we watched him disappear that day. He swam with a graceful, fluid, undulating motion – the elegant movements of a creature entirely within in its own medium. He moved with effortless ease, apparently oblivious to what had just transpired. We saw him dart forward and snap a good sized, unsuspecting perch. That day we both swore to secrecy..

               So, why tell the story now? There are a number of reasons. That pike-child is no kid anymore. He’s a swift and powerful feral pike-man --- cunning and formidable, in command of his destiny and no prey for even the greatest of fishermen…or the most zealous of researchers, for that matter.

               Also, this fish story contest gives me the forum to share this incredible experience with a great number of people. Perhaps his story can be an inspiration to those who ae searching for grace and dignity in their own lives; searching for their medium.

               Although the only proof of this encounter is the gnarled and pitted Harley Davidson belt buckle my brother had on that day -- the shining object that lured the pike-child in the first place – I no longer have reservations about being labeled a jerk for telling this tale. Whether it’s believed or doubted will not change the effect those events had upon me. You see, I learned that the best secrets are the ones you just can’t seem to communicate to others anyhow.

                                                                                                         Sincerely,

 

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Here is another one we found that day. I never forgot this one but never sought it either. I though of it when I went across Montana on my motorcycle, on US 2, in 2019.

 

                                                                                    U.S. 2

               That road stretched out long and thin and as straight as guitar string. Sometimes he felt that if it were stretched one mile longer it would snap, and blow them all to kingdom come.

               He mopped his soggy brow with a shaky hand and squinted through the glare at the horizon. There it was all right, the grain elevator heralding the next town. What was it? Malta? Joplin? Havre? Or Glasgow? He couldn’t concentrate right now.

               But those infernal grain elevators. Man, it was crazy how you could see things, like them, for such distances out here. They reminded him of the monolith in that stupid science fiction movie. Standing erect against that endless sky. Those suckers blow up, he thought, they go off like an A-bomb.

               He was feeling explosive himself. He hadn’t been alone with a woman for quite a while. And certainly not for such a long duration.

               Over two and half hours ago he picked her up outside of Circle. She mumbled something about Glacier and tossed her backpack on top of his sample case in the backseat.

               He studied her out of the corner of his eye. Her chin up, studying the horizon herself, she looked so…so cool; in spite of the heat rushing through the open windows like blast furnaces.

               He had to make a move. True, their conversation had trailed off but, maybe she was lost in thought like himself. And hadn’t she smiled sweetly at him back in Wolf Point when he filled up with gas? No, it was more than sweetly, it was…invitingly. He reached out and placed a sweaty palm firmly on her tan knee. It was so…so cool.

               He glanced at the rearview ear through a cloudy eye. His face was stinging, smarting. Man, it was crazy how you could see things, like someone standing along the roadside, for such distances out here. It reminded him of the monolith in that stupid science fiction movie.

 

               Alternate ending I just came up with:

               She looked at her self in the mirror. No harm done, then moved it into the rearview position again. Could she still see him standing way back there? Man, it was like those freaky grain elevators you can see forever. No, it was still him. She could see him still brushing himself off. She reached around and dragged up her backpack. She pulled out a joint. She floored it.

 

Railroad Torpedoes

 

DULUTH, MN

2/17/08

 

                                                            RAILROAD TORPEDOES

                                                            by Jeffrey B. Smith

When I was a kid we lived along the railroad tracks that paralleled highway 23, E of Milaca, MN.  This line was a branch off the big tracks that connected the Twin Cities to Duluth. It is long gone now but remnants of it are still active and can be seen in SW MN near Marshall, Pipestone etc. I was told that a railroad man named Spicer had the dream of connecting the Twin Ports with Sioux Falls…but I could have that all wrong too. Spicer built a nice castle for himself on Green Lake near the town of Spicer – go figure. That RR line went through Spicer (The town) I think too. (There was a line also, probably older, from Minneapolis to Milaca built by The Empire Builder James J. Hill to reap the generous bounty of the white pine in the area. The white pine forests were legendary in the Milaca area. At least until James J. came along.)

So, the nearby railroad offered opportunities for a kid’s foreshortened attention span. I had learned from my brother, a sterling pioneer in the field of discovering opportunities for divergent amusements, of the existence of railroad torpedoes. So, naturally I had my meters set to full detection when it came to those.

Railroad torpedoes are little packages, about 2 inches square, or less, with lead straps on the sides. They are red and have warnings in large black letters printed on them. In other words, perfect for an inquiring kid’s aspirations. They are strapped on the tracks and make a huge BANG! when compressed by the train’s wheels. They are used as signals to the engineer, conductor etc. to warn the train to slow down or stop etc. as it approaches an area of construction, or calamity. An ingenious method in the days before cell phones or radios. I think they could even be used in a pattern, say one blast and then two following in rapid succession, for instance, to warn of specific perils ahead.

The railroad was working on the bridge spanning the Vondell Brook just E of our home. They were leaving one of there little yellow “Putt putt” carriages there, or maybe just a trailer, and I decided one night to explore. I discovered a trove of torpedoes which I then liberated from the bondage they were suffering in an impersonal tool box. In fact so generous was the railroad in bequeathing me these objects that I decided, later, to return some just in case a train was bearing down on the workers and they had none available to warn it of impending danger. Sure, a trainwreck would afford excitement, and other looting opportunities but, someone might get hurt.

So next came the challenge of how to deploy them. My brother, long gone to the West Coast by then, used to shoot them, I think, with a 22 but that seemed redundant. He also claimed, that during school lunch hour, he had placed them on the intersection of highway 23 and 169 where passings semis would detonate them. He could then have the singular satisfaction of sitting, say in Chemistry Class, and hearing the mighty bang. And also enjoy the rest of the class, and the teacher, looking towards the high windows with that “What the?” look on their faces.

I never had any success with that method however and all I would find, after school, is ripped and scuffed up remnants of the torpedo along the curb.

So then came this Walleye Opener Weekend campout at a buddy’s place on Cove Bay of Lake Mille Lacs.

We had along a number of torpedoes and found a tree jutting out over the lake perpendicular to the shoreline. Below it was, conveniently, the shoreline boulders where we placed the test torpedo. We rolled a huge rock up the tree and then cast about for who would be the first guy to drop the rock. To have the honor, so to speak. Since we didn’t know if the trigger rock would be shattered by the explosion or be fired up into the heavens, the rest of us laid far back on the bank and covered our heads. Thankfully, our volunteer, lets call him Marvin, - who would never, ever, let us down in this type of situation - laid supine on the tree and let the rock fall.

KABLAM!! It was beautiful. In an instant we were elbowing our way for our turn at the rock, dimly aware that the fishing fleet was pulling anchor and leaving for more tranquil waters.

 

We found other more convenient ways to make them work to our advantage.  Caution: DO NOT place them on a cement block and, for the approval of your friends, squash down, with vigor, upon it with another cement block to achieve the coveted result. Especially while wearing cutoffs. The explosion ejects a mighty load of grit horizontally onto one’s exposed lower legs, imbedding particulate and causing bruising and burns. It is lucky the victim did not developed cellulitis. The marks were there all summer.

Also, I recall a time when we were in the back yard garage of a guy, let’s call him Calvin, and we hit one with the back of an axe. It yielded a tremendous report. They should not be used indoors because they also issue a great deal of acrid smoke. We came stumbling out of there, ears ringing, rubbing our eyes and coughing just as his mom came out the back door in her apron and inquired excitedly what had happened. I think some kind of a lie was employed and sufficed.

Although rewarding, in the end the torpedoes had a major drawback. A lack of spontaneity which is so cherished in a firework. I supposed we could’ve come up with more creative ways to employ them but the charm waned.

We had discovered how to make blindingly fast rockets out of crimped car antennas stuffed tightly with matchheads…

 Boat Launch Incident

Duluth, MN

11/17/20

 

“You’re just as likely to get in a fistfight at a boat landing as you are at a beer joint.”

I was a little kid when Uncle Maynard made that casual observation. We were in his boat on Mille Lacs, patiently circling the busy landing on Cove Bay. Waiting our turn.

A busy boat landing is a fraught parcel. There in garish display is the entire spectrum of the male ego: from merely incompetent to brazenly despicable. We watched as bargers, on land and sea, sought to cut in, fussbudgets dithered, slobs littered and trailers jackknifed on backing. In short, the usual. It is a stage that richly rewards absurdity. One of those places on earth where a man can look at his fellow man and say to himself without reservation, “You are doing that all wrong. You stupid idiot.”

This past summer we once again found ourselves at a boat ramp. We decided to moor our diminutive runabout, Goldie, at a slip in the Lakehead Basin here in the bay. In fact we could’ve seen her from our house- had it not been for all the charter fishing boats, cabin cruisers, huge sailboats, and occasional yachts. We secured the last slip in the marina in early June.

On finalizing the arrangements in the office, the young lady at the counter idly asked where we were launching our boat. I answered, “Well, here, there’s a ramp here…right?”

She fidgeted and allowed that, indeed, there was, but, some past seismic event occurred which had sheared the lower parts of the ramp clean off. She murmured something about previous calamities, tow trucks summoned, broken axles and the like…in short, I had been warned. Undeterred I sauntered out of there and rolled to the ramp at the far end. On scrutiny I determined the ramp was in fact very steep, covered with some kind of growth that was immune to friction and, maybe a bit narrow. (Most boats there are launched, I think, by means of an overhead crane-like contraption.) I could see no sinister drop off as mentioned because the ice-cold water in the bay, and the river for that matter, is coffee colored. I’ve been told, this is due to upstream “tannins”. Whatever those are. Where is Mr. Sauer when you need him?

So, I concluded, it was perfect. Goldie does not need much water to launch. Should be a snap. I backed her down with aplomb and floated her. Unhooked the winch line as Kristi stood on the dock holding the bowline. I skipped back to the Toyota when I heard her plaintive cry: “SMITTY!!?!?!”

Although a lucky man hears that intonation only rarely in his life, still, he instantly knows that something has gone very awry. I dashed back there. She was standing looking at Goldie. Kristi had the bowline in her hand as planned but…the bowline was untethered! The boat was serenely drifting away. AND, in that instant, I could read her thought. She was going to jump.

Now if any of you are my age or thereabouts, (65 years) I ask you, have you tried to jump recently? I have. Summer before last. At the ocean, visiting my brother, on an early morning walk I came to one of those temporary rivulets where the water was following the tide out. I was going to jump it but…I couldn’t. It was like I didn’t know how to do it. I had forgotten how to jump. I was stunned. I would kind of bound up to it and slide to a halt and stand there fixed. Or, I would swing my arms, windmilling for lift off but could not launch. It was confounding. I wondered then if it would help me to get some Kedds. Or Red Ball Jets?

Later I mentioned this observation to Kristi. It was the summertime and we were walking at Bayfront Park and we decided to have a little contest. Jump over something, the sidewalk, a bush, I don’t remember. I do remember she won, well, actually I made it too but went sprawling on my landing. How long has it been since you’ve had grass stains on your pants? I decided maybe it wasn’t a jump thing but, rather, a landing problem. I thought maybe I needed to practice, get it back, you know? But then our home is too small for meaningful jumping and to do that in the yard, or while walking Rosie, right here in town, well, people look at you funny.

Back at the marina Kristi was about to make the jump for Goldie. True she had won the contest and is considerable younger, (Age 37 years) still I had the horrible realization that I would shortly be faced with a terrible decision. Precisely the kind a man dreads: Go after the boat or the bride? (And what about our phones?)

I envisioned Goldie clattering about in the harbor, caroming off huge boats with names like “Shegavein”, “Mamma’s Mink”, “She’ll Get Over It”, etc. while I would leap, or rather, clamber from one to the next warding off the impacts with outstretched foot.

Just then, honest, at that very instant, a favorable breeze ensued and wafted Goldie elegantly towards the sea wall, an imposing spine of menacing boulders. I undulated and crabbed my way, crawling on my belly like a reptile, over those ragged stones and got to her just before she shoaled. I got a line on her. No damage done! All’s well that ends well, I always say.

                    She fired up and we made our way to the slip. There I had perceived a complex system of lines and fender bumpers that we would rig to keep her clear of damage while moored. Several hours later while still perfecting this novel plan I noticed an old fella, who had passed by several times, each time more slowly, stop. He said, “Mind if I give you some advice?” Naturally I was about to dismissively decline when Kristi immediately shouted “Yes!”  He said, “It’s not going to work.” Ten minutes later I had wisely taken his advice and we were finished. Without having to use a single fender! He asked if he could offer one more bit of advice: “Have fun.” So, there was a nice welcome to the basin subculture. I wonder how it would’ve been if it would’ve started with our unoccupied boat banging into all the others.

It was a fun summer. Lots of boat rides. Cousin Gary and Evie came for a stay at the marina, like they do, in September. This year it was in their new 5^th wheel. It is a generous and luxurious affair. So big you could put our boat and trailer inside it and still have room for their fireplace. Really plush.

We went for a boat ride one day. We were rumbling along heading up the St. Louis and I had just finished a compelling and engaging dissertation on marine navigation, for instance, Red/Right/Returning: Keeping the red buoys to the right when returning to port or going upstream. Shortly after - suddenly, and without warning - we ran aground on a sand bar! I looked around, incredulous, and there was the red buoy about 50 yards to our left! I secretly fumed at whoever it was that moved that stupid thing, even though it is about 3 stories tall and probably weighs tons. But then, on second thought, I had to admit it was most likely Gary’s fault for distracting me with our heated discussion of the two bears we saw making out up at Orr a few summers back. *

By redistributing the cargo, i.e. moving the girls to the bow and the judicious Neanderthalian use of the paddle we were on our way again. No harm done. Later, after directing their attention to many wonders, we made our way out onto the big lake via the Superior Ship Canal. It was beautiful out there. Singular. Calm as glass. Serene. Distant sails looked as if they were floating in the sky. As we zipped along I pointed out all the debris revealed in the calm. Lots of tributaries contribute to Superior. Branches, lumber, a rare rusty barrel with TOXIC stenciled on it, the odd, empty, mystery kayak and so forth. We saw the silent ancient logs, big as power poles, barely buoyant, hardly cresting, not quite fully waterlogged. Maybe escapees from some ancient boom, some gigantic raft being tugged from Grand Marias across to the mills of Ashland in the late 50’s? The kind of thing Sylvester Stallone favored in his new house, back in the 80’s, before the salvaging of them from the bottom was prohibited.

Later we returned to port on the troubled waters below The Lift Bridge. Perilous always. I swear those confines hold, and magnify, every wave, riffle and wake of each craft that has ever traversed its manic length since 1871. Compressed, the waves reverberate, they rebound. Waves might have a right angle in their middles and each successive one is of a different frequency and amplitude. There exists cantankerous and combative currents too. And it is one of those places where “No Wake Zone” is taken to mean floor it. Because people are watching.

We got back to the marina and Gary and Evie did this cute little display where they got down on their knees and kissed the piers. They claimed this was a hallowed Lake Koronis boating tradition. Curiously, we can still see the impressions of their fingernails in the lifesaver seat cushions that they were clutching while we had been larking about.

So it was a lot of fun last summer but soon we were back at the landing in late September. And, naturally, some clueless landlubber had left his giant truck and huge trailer right by the ramp! That trailer had 6 wheels on it and it was large enough to carry Gary’s 5^th wheel. No kidding. The guy had just parked it there. Stupid idiot.

I was about to unhook my trailer so I could thread it alongside the other one and then slip the Toyota in and rejoin. I had a sinking vision of our liberated trailer magically rolling down the ramp, over the precipice and, into the abyss, never to be seen again. But just then 2 older fellows emerged from a huge Mercedes RV and helped me physically lift the trailer over into position. I was grateful. Sometimes good things do happen at a ramp.

Got Goldie on the trailer and up and out. No problem. Oh, except for I had forgotten to raise the lower unit. The skeg dragged. A little bit. No one saw it though, so no harm done. All’s well that ends well, I always say.

 

We sincerely hope your 2020 was good, or at least, endurable. We are fine. Kristi retired in early March just as the Covid was about to pounce. Sure, it spoiled some travel plans but we have no reason to complain. Stay at home is better than go to work.

The kids are all still employed. Mesa and Joe remain in downtown Mpls with their two cats, Leo and that other one.

Bill and Kellie work in the same office and divide their time between Kellie’s place here in town and Bill’s up on Pelican Lake. They have a new puppy, name of Fern. Really cute.

In short, for every moment gratitude is in order.

And so, finally, here’s wishing all the best for you and yours in 2021: May your breezes be soft and favorable… and may you never drag your lower unit. At least while someone is watching.

Happy Holidays,

                    Kristi and Jeff Smith

                    *On October 15, while crossing the High Bridge to Superior, I happened to look down and saw a Corps of Engineers dredge down below working over “Gary’s Reef.”