roger and the iron range
a serial
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From: evilonepercent@hotmail.com
Dear all,
I like the way G-natural thinks. I think you should all follow his example, don't let THEM fleece the wool they're pulling over your eyes. At least someone is paying attention.
It reminds me of the time I had to save Pete and Erik Severson from Mr. Boaring back in Northome, Minnesota. They had both been working at a camp, and that is alway rough on your spirits because you always have to put in long hours and the pay isn't really worth it and if the weather is bad, all these things just build up and ferment and me and Dave knew what was going on, so we invited them up north for a getaway at October Rigdge on the south side of Island Lake.
They arrived early in the morning, it had been rainy all week, but the precip had cleared out overnight and there wasn't a cloud in the July sky. We decided that the thing to do was to get some breakfast, so we stowed their gear, minus guitars, in The Bear's Den (cabin #4) and piled in to Pete's LeSabre, barreling further north on State Highway 43. Outside of Northome, we merged onto 77, a main trucking route between Bemidji and Internation Falls.
Or stomachs were growling with anticipation of truckstop pancakes, bacon and eggs, and a plate of hashbrowns bigger than you head. I'm sure medical science would disagree with me, but I believe there is a certain medicinal quality in hasbrown grease that feeds the appetite of exploration, and that salt and pepper only act as a catalyst in the reaction. Outside of Mizpah, 3 miles south of Gemmel, we turned left on dirt road. Pete put his pedal down and the engine let loose it's battle cry against graveled thuroughfare. We never saw the rough timber littering our path. The dust cloud prevented any forwarning.
Luckily, we stayed on the road, despite the 400 degree spin. Pete opened his door. We exited the vehicle to survey the damage. A logging rig had lost some of it's cargo and our high speed collision with a knobby length of pine had caused the noise I thought was the devil incarnate taking posession of the engine. Erik had hit his head on the roof of the car and was holding his neck. Dave looked shaken. I was pissed.
"The two front tires are junked," Pete said. Hey, why not. We knew Pete only had one spare. It would be a long hike down to the end of the road and back to Mizpah. I had friends in this area, and if I could get to a phone, we would be ok. I explained to everyone that Lester Fresnel owned a junkyard in Kelliher, and he owed me a favor. I convinced his son to sign up for the Army. It was then that we heard the noise, a deep rumble harmonized by a clanging chime and a stressful grind. We looked down the road.
A tractor approached.
Wesley Boaring had been recently taken over the family farm. He was slightly buildt with a mop of greasy brown hair. Depsite his youth, he was a dead ringer for Shemp of the Three Stooges. He pulled his '65 Hawkline and flatbead along side us.
"I'm goin' to Kelliher if you need a ride," he said.
We grabbed our things from the car a piled on to the trailer. As we crawled along in the growing heat of midday, we removed our shirts. Erik's neck pain had ceased, but he was nervous. Dave had mellowed out and him and Pete were getting out the guitars and tuning up. The miles sang on slowly and as the sun reached it's peak, we entered Kelliher, Wild Rice Capital of Minnesota. Wesley's tractor pulled up alongside Fisher's Cafe and Gas just off of Main Street.
"Reckon we should get a little lunch," Wesely half-mumbled.
From: tuskenrecords@yahoo.com
Roger's story is only about halfway done, and suprisingly, he hasn't strayed from the truth just yet. But it was after Pete, Erik, Roger, Wes, and I had breakfast that things really took a turn for the bizarre.
We were putting our shirts on as we entered Kelliher's busiest eatery. Luckily, the late breakfast rush had ended and there were 5 stools along the counter, red vinyl covers torn and well worn with many an ass groove. The questions in my head wouldn't stop: Who are these people coming in and out of here everyday? What was their connection to Roger? Who was this Wes guy?
Roger was putting a move on the waitress, apparently a friend of his named Anna Mae. We got set up with plates of cakes and hashbrowns, nice and hot. Eggs on the side and bacon for those who so desired. I opted out on the swine. Wes opted out on the whole thing. Even the tall glasses of milk and oj. He had a glass of water and some dry white toast.
"Just like Elwood Blues," Pete said to Wes, sipping a cup of coffee.
"Don't know no Elwood," Wes said somberly, eating his toast.
Erik was sweating.
"How much tobasco sauce you put on them eggs, homes?" Roger asked slapping him on the back.
Erik fell face down into his chow. We all froze. Anna rushed over and looked at him, pale.
"Is he ok?" she asked.
"Fine!" Roger snapped taking a quick survey of the room. "He's just tired. This man has a bad heart."
"We oughtter take him down to Doc Kinnegar's right quick," Wes Eyored.
"No!" Roger yelled. "They don't have the right medicine. He has allergies."
This was new to Pete and I. In the years we had known Erik, we had never heard of his bad heart or any such allergies. Pete helped his fellow councilor off his stool, steadied him as I picked up his other side, and we escorted him out the door and over to Wes' trailer. Roger's protests grew more piggish. It wasn't making any sense.
"Look, the two of you can't take him to Kinnegar's. You don't know the man. I'll have to go with him. You guys go with Wes out to Lester's junkyard. Tell him I sent you and ask him how Ollie is doing," Roger was quickly becoming a wreck.
"Raj, maybe we should all go to the Clinic and get checked out," Pete said.
"Yeah, Raj, he's in shock. We should see the doctor, too. Seriously," I said.
Roger spasmed and contorted, them calmed himself. He straightened up along side of me and said, very quietly, into my ear, "If we go to Kinnegar, he'll report the accident to the cops. The cops will go check out the car. If the cops check out the car, at least one, probably all of us will go to jail. You dig? So go get the tires we need and meet me back at the car in an hour."
"Erik needs medical attention," I said.
"Don't worry. I know a doctor in Canada," Roger whispered, desperately. "Wes," Roger said, "I'll take this boy to Doc Kinnegar's. Can you take these fellas to Lester Fresnel's shop?"
"Think a guy could get an axel there?" Wes asked slowly.
"Yes, Wes. Lester has many axels," Roger responded draping Erik's now semi-conscious arm around his shoulders.
I broke the news regarding the new plan to Pete as we hopped on the trailer.
"How far into Canada are we going?" he asked.
"I don't think we'll even get past the borded patrol, the way Roger's acting," I replied.
"Dave," Pete asked, "What did Roger put in my car?"
"I don't know, Pete," I said. The sun beat down on us as the tractor shuttered along, tired and anxious, waiting for what would come next.
From: "Peterson, Peter A." <ppeterson@northpark.edu>
Lester Fresnel was not the strangest man in the county. In fact, he wasn't even the strangest man in town. But he was certainly the most patriotic.
Lester Fresnel's cousin John died in 1941, in the attack on Pearl Harbor. John was a private on the Arizona. Since then, Lester has been one of the flag-wavinest, stand-uppinest, hat-on-the-heartinest people you might ever hope to have met.
I didn't know any of this.
In fact, I didn't know much of anything at this point.
We drove up to the gates of the Lester's Junkyard, and and I thought we could have been driving up to some compound in one of those post-apocalyptic movies that Roger liked so much, like The Postman. The Postman woulda fit right in here.
The leaning sheet metal walls of the junkyard circled probably 20 acres of twisted metal piled two stories high. The gates were in the Ranchito 2037 AD style, and were formed of welded and riveted half-inch sheet metal, with a sliding chain link fence as well as two massive steel doors. This whole contraption was covered in red, white, and blue. The sign on top read Lester Fresnel's American Pride.
Inside, the junk yard was relatively neat, with rows and columns, and the occaisional snaky path through the piles of oldsmobiles and tractors ruined in chicken fights and lightning strikes.
Lester's shop was a hangar-sized building, complete with sliding doors and glass windows on the second tier. Inside the hangar Lester kept only the best junk -- an old studebaker, a restored wankel-rotary engine he found, two separate halves of different model-Ts, an 80s era schoolbus, and Lester's pride and joy, a spotless gold '71 caddy.
Lester's house, which was next to the hangar, was a small ranch-style house, decorated in extremely patriotic colors. Lester had curtains made of flags, small flags on his window sills, red white and blue bath mats, and a picture of his long dead cousin John over the mantle. Inside, the grizzled Lester with his red, white and blue welding hat and his stubbly white beard sat next to their linoleum and aluminum dining room table, one of the last remaining relics of the miraculous 1950s. Lester's wife, Cecilia, bustled in the kitchen, which smelled of onions and bread.
"...they attacked us on Sunday mornin'. SUNDAY MORNIN'! What kind of respect or fairness is that? I'mean, I don't know if they got a shinto sabbath or what not, but it's not like we'd go bomb them fer no reason or nuthin'," Lester postulated.
He continued, "...I'll bet you young'uns don't even know who planned their attack... well?"
Dave and I chewed our respective lips for a second.
Wes opened his mouth to answer. " I..."
"Not you," snapped Lester. "I've told YOU this a thousand times, Wes. I know your feelin's about the war."
"We don't know," offered Dave.
"Figures, opined Les. It was Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto. Three-hundred and fifty-three planes commanded by Mitsuo Fuchida. And no formal declaration of war. Do you know how many died? Do you have any idea how many people died?"
"...", said Dave and I.
"OVER ELEVEN-HUNDRED MEN ON THE ARIZONA ALONE!!!... and my cousin John... oh, dear Lord..." Lester began to sob.
"Les, come'on," said Wes, with consolation on his mind. "Let's go get these kids some parts for their car. That's why we're here."
"What kinda car," asked Les.
"It's a 1975 Buick Lesabre," said I.
"Yeah, I got what you need," said Les. "Come here'n get on the tractor bed and we'll go find it."
Anyway, we all hopped into Lester's rusty tractor trailer (a sawed-off truck bed), Lester climbed up into the cockpit, and fired up the old beast. The tractor lurched, and we started our magical mystery tour through the caverns of Lester's junk yard.
Lester swiveled around in his seat and began to yell above the noise of the tractor. "SO! YOU REMEMBER HOW MANY PEOPLE DIED ON THE ARIZONA?"
"ELEVEN-HUNDRED," I yelled.
The tractor drove over an old axle with a thump.
"OVER ELEVEN-HUNDRED ON THE ARIZONA ALONE," corrected Lester, not looking where he was going. "OVER ELEVEN-HUNDRED AND AMONG THEM MY COUSIN JOHN. AND THIS INGRATE," he said, pointing to Wes, "DOESN'T UNDERSTAND HERE THAT YOU HAVE TO MAKE SACRIFICES."
"LES! DO WE HAVE TO BRING THIS UP NOW, YA KNOW I DON'T LIKE TALKING ABOUT
THIS IN FRONT OF OTHER PEOPLE?!" howled Wes.
Les scowled. "HE WAS YOUR COUSIN TOO, WESLEY."
"OH CRIPES LESTER, DO WE HAFTA GO THROUGH THIS AGAIN?" pleaded Wes.
The tractor crushed a wayward shopping cart that had somehow made it's way to Kelliher.
Lester screamed back: "YOU AND ROGER BOTH, (bump) TO THINK THAT YOUR OWN COUSIN JOHN CAN DIE SERVING HIS COUNTRY, (bump) AND YOU TWO ARE THE LEAST PATRIOTIC PEOPLE ON EARTH! (bump) IT'S LIKE YOU DON'T GIVE A DARN ABOUT YOUR OWN HOMES AND FAMILIES!"
Dave and I were just now in abject terror, because it was at this moment that Lester ran into the Buick. A 1975, rusted out POS chocolate brown Buick Le Sabre. Just like mine, except ugly, and with a tractor sticking out of it. We flew to the front of the trailer, an ugly heap of Dave, Pedro, and Wes Boaring. Lester just about flew out of his seat on the tractor.
"Geez, I'm sorry about that guys," mumbled Les.
Steam burst from the tractor's radiator, soaking the ground below.
"Don't worry about it, man," said Dave.
Lester nodded, asking me, "This is the kinda car ya got, right?"
"Yes Sir," I said.
Lester nodded again. "Well, I don't keep the tires on the old cars, it's too hard on them. So we should walk over to the tire pile."
After a winding 5 minute walk, we made our way to what had to have been (and may still be) the largest pile of old tires on the Iron Range. They were sorted into huge piles based on wheel size, belted or unbelted, sidewalls or none, year, make, mags, company, wear, etc. There had to be four-hundred separate piles of tires. The tall pines stood around the clearing as if guarding the behemoth stash.
"1975 Buick Lesabre, no whitewalls, non-mag, radial belted, right?" asked Lester.
"And in good condition, if possible," I said.
"Looks this this is what you want," Lester said, pointing to a pile.
"Great," I said. "What do I owe you, Les?"
Lester smiled. "Oh fer these? Nothin'. They're on the house."
"Well, thanks very much," I said. "We really appreciate it."
"Don't worry about it," stated Les.
We all started to stroll back to the house (since the tractor needed some repairs).
Les turned to Wes.
"So Wes, is Cousin Anna still workin' at the Cafe and Gas? I can't believe that Randy took off on Susan like that."
Wes nodded, wiping his nose with his back-pocket handkerchief. "Yep, she's a hard worker, there nearly 10 hours a day, I think. And yeah, it's a cryin' shame what Randy did."
Dave looked puzzled. "So wait a minute... you two are cousins, and you're cousins with Roger. And you're also cousins to Anna Mae. So is Rog' her cousin too? You're all related?"
Wesley and Lester nodded. Lester smirked an old man smirk.
I laughed. "So, is there anyone up here that isn't related?"
Wes managed to squeeze out one polite "Heh," and tried to cover their unamusement with an explanation.
"Well, ya know...." began Lester, his voice trailing off.
There was an uncomfortable silence. See, small-town folks don't really think the whole related-to-everyone joke is funny *or* true. You're related to who you're related to. It just happens that most of their family lives in one spot, whereas you only see your aunt Julie once every 8 months. Anyway, I should have known this, being from Poplar.
Dave tried to clean up the mess I made. "So You're all related to Cousin John, who died on the Arizona, then?"
"That's right," nodded Wes.
I added it up. "So you have Lester Fresnel, Wesley Boaring, Roger Avery, and where does Anna Mae fit in?"
Les pulled off his cap, ran is fingers through this greasy hair, and chewed on his cheek. "Well, Anna Mae's mother Susan, who was a Boaring, married this man Randy O'Laughlin, who turned out to be a chump. So she's a O'Laughlin, but she's really a Boaring."
"And Roger?"
"Well," continued Les, his watery blue eyes searching a cloud, "Roger's mother was my sister Sally, so he's a Fresnel. Sally married Bob Avery, a real nice guy."
"Wow," I said, sounding deeply intellectual. "That's really interesting to me, honestly -- I love that kind of stuff."
"Yep." said Lester, replacing his red, white, and blue cap.
More vintage northwoods silence. A few crows flew out of the trees and out across the junkyard towards the ramshackle barn.
"Well, we better go find Roger and that Erik friend of yours," said Wes.
"Yeah," I said, my foot playing with the dirt.
"Here," offered Lester, "put those tires in the trunk of my Caddy. We'll go find those boys."
And so we did, piling the new-old tires into the trunk, and sliding into the back seat of the spacious caddy (after Cecilia gave us blankets to sit on and sandwhiches to eat). A cup of coffee later, the Caddy floated out of the garage and willed itself down the old dirt road on the way to town.
"What about John," I asked. "Who is John directly related to?"
"Well, heh," said Les, a twinkle in his eye "John was the odd man out, there. He wasn't a Fresnel *or* a Boaring."
Lester pulled out onto the county highway and accelerated. The birches and the popples whipped by in a green and white blur.
"What was his last name, then?" asked Dave.
"Well," stated Les (a little choked up), "His full name was..."
"No, No, It's ok, I'm sorry for asking," said Dave.
"It's ok," said Lester. "It's ok. His full name was... John Joseph Wicklund."
to be continued...