Sheriff Charley Brown: Chapter XVII

It was noon the following day when Frank Myrick burst excitedly into Charley's saloon, shouting, "Charley, there's a fight in front of Angus McLellen's hotel. Gilbert Godon has gone crazy and is beating the hell out of Alex Montreault. Montreault hasn't a chance against that big bastard. You'd best get there damn quick or he'll be killed."

Charley knew of Godon's reputation¹ as a troublemaker, and also knew the man was wanted in Canada for murder. As he ran out the door following Myrick², he wondered why the Canadian Government had failed to file wanted papers on Godon, and why Godon had suddenly appeared in Pembina?

He arrived at the scene just as Godon was kicking mercilessly at the apparently unconscious Montreault. Spectators had surrounded the pair, but were making no effort to stop the abuse. Seizing Godon by the sleeve, Charley shouted, "Stop it! Stop it! That's enough!"

Godon, a huge powerful man, turned and unleashed a roundhouse swing at the sheriff that would have downed a horse. The blow skimmed Charley's shoulder and in reaction he loosed an open-handed chop that caught Godon across his throat. Godon's eyes bulged as he froze in motion, gasping, suddenly unable to breath. For moments Charley regretted the almost deadly blow, realizing that massive damage might have been done. Godon slowly settled to a sitting position in the snow, his hands at his throat, apparently helpless, unable to breath.

Charley knelt at Montreault's side, carefully rolling the man's body face-up, from the snow. At first glance the man appeared dead, but after long moments small convulsive jerks began in his body, indicating returning consciousness. Disgusted, Charley shouted angrily to several of the bystanders who had watched the fight. "Pick up Alex and take him into the hotel. Get him to a cot."

Turning back to Godon he was relieved to find the man apparently capable of restricted breathing, all of the fight apparently gone.

As the men began to pick up Monteault, Charley exploded, "Don't pick him up like a sack of wheat, he's in bad shape. Get your hands under him and carry him flat.”

Leaning over, he grasped Godon by the shoulder. "Come on, Gilbert. This is one fight you'll pay for."

Getting Godon to his feet required some doing. The man was heavy, retching continually, barely able to breath or remain upright. A small rivulet of blood ran from the corner of his mouth. Charley realized that he had probably caused serious damage to Godon's pharynx. Grimly he thought of the repercussions, then shrugged. What the heck! I was only defending myself.

Escorting the man two blocks to the jail took several minutes, his prisoner barely able to move. The stout, stone-faced breed seemed almost helpless, wheezing for each breath, the damage to his windpipe evidently severe. Flinging open the outside jail door Charley thrust Godon inside. Captain Bob, the jailer, hastily arose from the desk in alarm, "What the hell?"

"Another customer for you, he's been fighting with Montreault. Search him and lock him up -- don't know the charge as yet, it depends upon Montreault's condition and what the witnesses say. The least charge will be assault, but it could also be attempted murder, or even murder if Mantreault dies. Gilbert has killed before."

"Yah, I heard about that. Used an axe on a man at Fort Dufferin, in Canada, just a few miles north of Emerson. But that was years ago."

"It was in October of '73, if I remember right." Charley said. "I was stationed at Fort Pembina at the time. Chief Constable Richard Power of Canada picked him up and he was charged with murder. He was found guilty, suppose to hang, but somehow he evaded the sentence, and then escaped. I'll check further with Fred Bradley, the Justice of the Peace in Emerson. He's a good friend, also a fellow Mason."

Captain Bob quickly searched the prisoner for weapons, finding only a pocketknife and small change. Ordering the two other prisoners to the rear of the cell, Godon was thrust inside, the cell door was closed and locked.

"Will you tell Jud that I've three to feed now?" Bob turned to Charley.

"No problem, everyone downtown probably knows about it already." He walked to the door. "I'm going over to see Alex now; he looked to be in bad shape. I hope those men who carried him into McLellen's had enough sense to send for Doc Appel at the fort. If I see him, I'll have him check Gilbert too." He warned, "You be careful with these three. Remember what happened to Pete. No booze, and make sure no eating utensils or tools are hidden."

Directed into a side room at McLellen's hotel he was surprised to find Doctor Appel already there. Montreault had been stripped to the waist, the doctor busy wrapping his chest with a roll of muslin. Looking up at Charley, Appel said, "He's got at least five broken ribs and one lung is punctured -- also a broken leg. He's black and blue everywhere and coughing blood, might even suffer a concussion. That brute nearly kicked him to death. He should be charged with attempted murder!"

"He will be!" Charley gritted, "How serious is it?"

"It's critical. The puncture of his left lung is causing internal bleeding. If it stops, or if no infection occurs, he's got a fair chance. If not,” He shook his head. Turning to McLellen who stood nearby, he said, "He's got to be kept as quiet as possible. I've given him enough laudanum to keep him asleep for hours, but when he wakes up, you'll have to get more into him. Any movement could kill him. I'll remain in town and check him again after supper. If he has trouble breathing because of an accumulation of blood in his lung, roll him gently onto his right side. It may serve to drain the blood. Come now", he beckoned to McLellen, "I'll show you further, what you must do."

Charley waited in the small lobby until Appel again appeared. The doctor looked incensed. "Isn't Godon supposed to be in prison in Canada? Wasn't he sentenced for murder?"

"Truthfully, I don't know the circumstances, but I'm going to look into it. I'd heard he escaped from prison a couple of years ago, but he's not shown up around here until now. He probably has been farther south. It's my bad luck that he's appeared in town, but I'll see he's charged.”

The doctor looked troubled, "I'm headed to Geroux's for lunch, It is lucky I was in town when this happened. Will you join me? I'd like to discuss the LaRose with you. It appears he won’t come to trial for a long period."

A smiling Marguerite met them at the door of the dining room and seated them at a table. Returning with menus, she asked, "How is that old man, Mr. Montreault. I heard he was severely beaten?"

"News travels fast in this town," Charley smiled grimly. "The doctor here says he's got a chance, but he took quite a beating."

"Good afternoon, young lady!" Appel smiled pleasantly. "What is your interest in Mr. Montreault?"

Marguerite smiled, "None I guess, except that he's harmless. His only trouble is his mouth, he can't keep it shut."

Charley looked down at the table and smiled. "A lot of people in town have that problem."

Marguerite looked perturbed, "I hope you aren't referring to me."

"Nope, just spoke in general terms -- making an observation." He looked up to wink at her.

After placing their order, Dr. Appel said, "Do you think the jury will bind LaRose over for trial?"

"I'm sure of it. His reputation will be the clincher. The trouble is, now I've got three men to hold for trial in July. I've got to feed and keep them until then. The commissioners will be wild at the expense since the district court won't pay a cent on their keep. I'll be glad when they get the new courthouse finished, but that won't be available until fall. The old log jail isn't too secure. Then again, taking the prisoners out each day to cut their own firewood isn't a safe policy. Still, it's an order set down by the county commissioners in an effort to save money. I just hope the jailers keep on their toes. By the way, would you stop over there and check Godon? I may have damaged his neck with the heel of my hand. He has trouble breathing."

"You could have damaged some of his laryngeal cartilage. That's a chancy place to strike a man."

"I know, but I did the first thing that came to mind. He's a dangerous man!"

"I'll check him over after we eat. Frankly, if his windpipe is damaged there is little I can do. It will probably heal with time."

With the LaRose case still not settled, Charley decided to contact Fred Bradley, the Justice of the Peace at Emerson, concerning Godon's status.

Bradley was surprised to hear that Godon had made an appearance in Pembina. "You bet we want him over here, Charley. Although his sentence for the murder of Marchand was commuted, he was transferred to our provincial penitentiary at Upper Fort Garry. In September he broke from the woodpile where he was working with several other prisoners. He made it to a small boat moored on the river. The prison guards were lousy shots; they fired at him but missed. You probably know the rest. He gathered up his wife and scooted to your side of the line."

"But wasn't there some hassle in Emerson shortly after that? Wasn't he captured again?"

"That's the embarrassing part." Bradley wore a look of chagrin. "I had heard he occasionally visited his brother in Emerson, so I laid a trap for him. I deputized Bill and John Lucas, together with my bailiff, William, in case he came back. When we received a tip he was at his brother's house, William was posted at the back entrance to seize him. Bill burst into the house to confront Gilbert, but Godon's mother and sister-in-law tore into him, kicking, biting and screaming. During the excitement Godon slipped out the door and surprised William, grabbing his revolver, then throwing it into a clump of weeds.”

"John managed to run around the corner of the house just as Godon calmly walked away, but his gun failed to fire. Bill, finally free of the two women, got out of the house and was able to fire four shots, but he missed each time. When I arrived at the scene it was all over. Godon had disappeared into the underbrush along the river, evidently crossing to your side of the border. He hasn't been seen since. We never did get around to issuing papers on him; he just disappeared." He smiled guiltily, "We figured he'd stay away from Canada."

Charley shook his head, hardly able to believe his ears. He remarked sarcastically, "Three men and he got away clean?"

Fred looked sheepish. "I should have gone along with my men. I knew they had no experience at apprehending a desperate man. 'Course, neither had I, come to think of it."

"Well, I'm charging him with attempted murder. Another minute or two and Montrault would have been dead. As it is, he has several broken ribs and a punctured lung. He's hanging on, but it's going to be close. If he dies, Godon will hang just as sure as God made little green apples. Incidentally, where did Godon come from originally?"

"Don't know exactly, but I know a few things about him. He came into being shortly after the Riel uprising, used to hang out at Fort Garry and St. Boniface. He also had a bad reputation for fighting and swinging a bottle -- hung out at Fort Garry's, Pride of the West Saloon. It's said the soldiers patronized the bar by day, the Métis, by night. It was only a matter of time until they tangled since they hated each other.”

"During one of the many donnybrooks between the soldiers and Métis, someone fired a shot at Sinclair, the bartender. Godon stepped in the way and took the bullet in his right arm. When reinforcements arrived from the soldiers barracks, Godon was treated and the whole thing was covered up as youthful exuberance.”

"Later he appeared out at Fort Dufferin where old Fawcett was selling illegal liquor to the soldiers. I guess everyone got pretty drunk and when Fawcett tried to shut them off, Benjy Marchand caused trouble, pushing and shoving at Fawcett. A wild fight began between Marchand and Godon, and as Godon's brother and father were present, the Marchand bunch was booted out of the house. They were badly used.”

"When the fight was over Fawcett proceeded to set-em-up again. Then Godon went outside and dragged Marchand in, beating him even more, knocking him to the floor unconscious. Seizing an axe he struck Marchand, and when a man attempted to intervene, Godon again hit Marchand with the blade, killing him, almost splitting his head."

"Faucett was scared so he ran over to the Boundary Commission headquarters and returned with a group of soldiers under Sergeant Armstrong of the Royal Engineers. Godon surrendered and was held overnight, but the head of the Boundary Commission refused to accept the responsibility for him. Released, he escaped prosecution by crossing over to your side of the border."

"I recollect that," Charley murmured. "Bill Morehead put him in jail a few days after the affair for picking fights in town. I remember when constable Power came over to pick him up."

"Yes, a grand jury brought a true bill of murder against him, and a bench warrant was issued. When we got him back the jury deliberated only a few minutes, then sentenced him to death. He was only 22 years of age then, tall, heavy and bull-strong.

"He shared a cell with Joseph Michaud, a gunner of the artillery. Michaud was to hang in August for stabbing a passerby who attempted to stop a fight between Michaud and another soldier. When Michaud was hanged, Dugald Sinclair took up for Godon, beginning a campaign for clemency. He managed to get Godon's sentence commuted to a long term in prison, that's when he was transferred to Upper Fort Garry." He hesitated, "You know the rest as I've told it. He escaped from there."

Charley rose to his feet. "We'll see how he fares at his trial in July. If he gets off lightly, I expect you'll want him back, won't you?"

"I certainly do! I'll watch your trial with interest and have papers forwarded so you can hold him for us."

During his ride back to Pembina, Charley considered the problem of his three prisoners. His worry was compounded by the caliber of his jailers. They each served a twelve-hour shift for their one-dollar a day pay. He knew that all three prisoners would be actively planning an escape. He wished he didn't have to resort to the dregs of town for jail guards, but the county commissioners refused to pay more for good men.

Charley finally made amends with his mother after she surprised him with an evening visit to his apartment. Invited inside, she eyed the interior of his apartment with surprise. "You certainly have improved your quarters. Eugene said your furniture was all old and worn. What I see looks new. Did you lose all your other belongings in the fire?"

"No, it was all saved, I just decided to splurge a little." He smiled, "Kinda miss the old stuff though."

"Still, it's not a home for a woman." She watched intently for his reaction.

"Mother, it suits me just fine. I'm a bachelor and don't need fripperies. I don't have a wife to please and I have no immediate plans to acquire one." Instinctively he knew her thinking; she was probing his mind, attempting to delve into his association with Marguerite.

She changed her tactics at his blunt answer. "I may have a pleasant surprise for you in the near future, perhaps in the month of May. I won't tell you any more, since it's to be a surprise, but you'll enjoy it."

Puzzled, he asked, "Are the rest of the Harris family finally coming out here?"

"No, that's not it; I've had no word from Charles or his mother; this is entirely another matter." She felt a smug satisfaction.

"Well, I'll not worry if it's a secret." He arose from his chair, turning toward the kitchen. "As long as you're here I'll make us tea. Do you still take lemon with yours?"

"So you remembered!" She followed him to the kitchen where he struck a match to light both a table lamp and wall sconce.

"Do you remember the good times back in Martinsburg when you were a boy?"

"Oh, there good times, but then bad times came just before war broke out. I never realized the stress Pa must have been under, trying to keep the lid on things. No wonder he rode me so hard."

"Yes, while Martinsburg was predominantly pro-slavery, there were plenty of Yankee dissenters. We never did understand why you turned to the Union; it nearly broke your father's heart."

Charley looked up at her accusingly, "You've forgotten! I joined the Southern cause, and then Pa and Grandpa Boarman sent some red-necked sheriff after me. After his abuse I was thoroughly disenchanted with the South. You'll remember, the next day I went north and joined the Union Army."

Spooning tea into a pot he then added hot water from the kettle. "I'll let it steep a moment."

As she seated herself at the table, she said, "You were too young for the war, that's why your Father sent south for you. When you were returned to us we never dreamt you'd run away again."

While filtering out the tealeaves he broke into a smile. "I was lucky in the army, managed to stay alive. It was just after I made lieutenant that I was captured. Libby Prison, in Richmond, wasn't all that bad except there was mighty little to eat. Luckily nearly sixty of us managed to escape through a tunnel and got back to Union lines. I guess a lot more were captured because they didn't know the lay of the land. I headed west, swiped some clothes, then I conveniently developed a bad limp." He smiled, "Wrapped my leg with rags so it looked bad. 'Course by the time I got back to the outfit, the war was nearly over."

"Yes, and I remember when the Union troops came to search our house and took everything of value. Grandma had her few gold and silver coins hidden in the bottom of a bowl of peas she was shelling when they searched. They didn't leave us much. You must remember that they took our horses, cows, pigs and everything they could eat."

"Those were hard times," Charley admitted.

"Why did you leave after coming home from the war? I thought you liked your job at the store."

"I was at loose ends and storekeeping grew boring. Plus Josey jilted me. I traveled until my money ran out, then rejoined the army as you already know. In my youth I craved excitement. Now I've settled down to a more staid life."

"Isn't your sheriff job dangerous at times?"

"Nothing like being in the army. While there have been occasional crimes, it's been quiet of late."

"Quiet indeed! I heard you have two murderers in your jail at the moment."

"It runs hot and cold at times."

"Son, you've continued to run with that Grant girl. You must know she's a breed?"

Charley turned to her with a fierce expression. "Yes, I know it. She's a lovely girl, beautiful and talented. Just leave her out of this discussion."

His mother had finished her tea and stood to put on her coat. "She's not a suitable woman for a person of your caliber. You should be more discriminating. You can do far better than to demean yourself."

Charley coldly escorted her to the door. "I've run my own life since I was sixteen years of age. While I respect and love you as my mother, don't attempt to push me. My life is my own."

After his mother left Charley returned to the kitchen to muse over a second cup of tea. Why is it she can get my dander up to easily? She still tries to run people. That surprise she spoke of? I wonder what she's got up her sleeve?
______________________

^{1 -} 1872: Gilbert Godon, a Metis from the Red Lake district of the Minnesota Territory, has gone down in history as Manitoba's first official outlaw when he killed Benjamin Marchand during a drinking brawl in 1872. Godon was in many fights and usually nothing serious happened until the night of October 10th 1872. Godon and a group of drinking buddies arrived at the Fort Dufferin home of A.J. Fawcett who was selling liquor illegally, when Fawcett refused to serve the new arrivals he was pushed and threatened by Benjamin Marchand. Godon, in defense of Fawcett, intervened and chased Marchand outside. Marchand?s son (Benjamin Jr.) retaliated by grabbing a shovel and banging Godon on the head. The fight was then joined by Godon's father and brother and the Marchands retreated to the backyard. They then attacked the Godons for a second time and were again repelled. After the victory, Fawcett remembered that he did have some whiskey hidden, and began serving the victors of the fight. An hour later Gilbert went outside for fresh air and ran into young Benjamin in the yard. Fearing another attack, he grabbed Marchand and dragged him inside. He then knocked him down several times and began striking him on the head with the back of an axe head. Before his family and friends could intervene, Godon struck Marchand in the head with what was to later prove to be a fatal blow from the blade. Fawcett then went to the nearby headquarters of the Boundary Commission (help at Fort Garry was 95 km. north). He returned with fifteen men led by Sergeant James Armstrong of the Royal Engineers. Benjamin died shortly after their arrival so they detained Godon. However, the officer in charge of the Boundary Commision refused to accept responsibility for him and he was released. He then fled across the border into Dakota Territory. Subsequently, a coroner's jury found Gilbert to be responsible for Marchand's death and on November 12, 1873, a grand jury brought a charge of murder against him and a warrant was issued for his arrest. Six months after arriving in North Dakota Godon was involved in another fight and jailed at Pembina. Manitoba's chief constable, Richard Powell, learned of this and traveled to Pembina to return Godon to Winnipeg. On June 19th, 1874, Godon appeared in court and plead not guilty. The following Monday, his trial was held, the jury deliberated for thirty minutes, found him guilty and he was sentenced to hang on August 26th. Godon, however, still had the sympathy of one man, bartender Dugald Sinclair, whose life Godon had saved in 1870. Sinclair began a campaign for clemency and in response to these petitions, the government commuted Godon?s sentence to 14 years imprisonment. He was then transferred to the provincial prison at Upper Fort Garry. On the morning of September 23, 1876, Godon bolted from the work gang he was on, grabbed a small boat and took off across the Red River. He then collected his wife and his horse and again fled to the Dakota Territory. He lived back and forth between Pembina and his brother's place at Emerson. In 1877, Bradley, the Justice of the Peace at Emerson sent a posse to pick Godon up at his brother's house. Godon met them with a revolver in each hand, then in the meelee caused by his mother and sister-in-law he again escaped. In February of 1880 he was again arrested for a brawl at Pembina, locked up again only to escape soon after with Frank La Rose. He and LaRose were reported to be in a Half-Breed camp on the Missouri River five months later. LaRose died shortly after their arrival of hunger and exposure. Gilbert Godon survived, never to be seen in Canada again. - From the Manitoba Metis Federation website...

² - "...Prior to 1878 there had been a few shipments of wheat, which had been picked up along the river by the boats. Frank C. Myrick, who was in the commission business from 1864, made the largest shipment on one of the boats ever made from Pembina. It amounted to 500 bushels of wheat, which he had collected from the back country on the Pembina and Tongue rivers." - History of Wheat Raising Wheat in the Red River Valley (First Wheat Raising Near the Pembina River), Minnesota Historical Society Collections (1899-1904), General Collections, Library of Congress

Expatriate Writer has New Site

I discovered that Mike Haubrich has moved to another website. Another native of our area that writes about his memories of Kittson County. If you visit his blog, be sure and click on the title of each entry to see the FULL entry; some of his earlier ones don't make it clear that there is more to the post, but there is, and trust me, you don't want to miss what he writes.

For instance, one of his posts from June 2006 was about when he used to work at Melin's Furniture store in Hallock.

News from the Past V

Pembina, Minnesota Territory - Froze to Death
Sunday, January 1, 1860

DREADFUL DEATH ON THE PRAIRIES – Lost and Frozen – A Mr. Mackenzie this day met his death on the prairies of Minnesota under the following distressing circumstances, the account of which is extracted from “The North-Wester,” published at the Red River settlement:

A party, including Mr. Mackenzie, started from Georgetown, at the mouth of the Buffalo River, to cross the prairie to Fort Garry. They started December 23rd, taking mules. The latter gave out in three days, distance only half done, and provisions getting short. Here they were, helpless in the heart of a vast, dreary, unknown prairie, in a cold, bleak month, far beyond the reach of all sympathy and aid, with starvation staring them in the face.

On Thursday, the 29th, Mr Mackenzie resolved to reach Pembina, and send back succor. The engineer accompanied him. The day was cold and stormy, and a bitter blast from the north drove them back. They all camped together that night near Pine River, about fifty miles from Pembina. In the morning Mackenzie started again alone. He had a presentiment that he would not get through. He wore but one thin coat, and was lightly clad throughout, wish to be as little burdened with clothes as possible, as he intended to run most of the way. A bit of [pemicam], the size of his fist, was all his food. On Monday morning David Tait pushed ahead, and reached Pembina the same evening. Mr M. had not been there.

Two men were sent, and they fell in with the remnant of the party shortly after midnight on Tuesday, and, after supplying their urgent needs, went off in search of Mackenzie. Wednesday they came upon traces which brought them to his corpse. After leaving his companions, he seemed to have followed the trail for a considerable distance, and then to have lost his way. Night came upon him, and, bewildered by the growing darkness and the drifting snow, he made towards a clump of trees, with the intention, probably, of kindling a fire. If such was his object, he seemed to be unable to accomplish it; and his beaten track showed that, to keep himself from freezing, he had spent the hours of that lonesome night in running round in a circle.

With the break of day, he again started across the trackless waste, every step that he took carrying him farther and farther from the spot which he was straining every nerve to reach. Another weary day of fruitless travel was followed by a second night even more dreary than the first. Again he had managed to stave off what he must have felt to have been the hour of dissolution, by long hours of ceaseless activity. A third day’s journey brought him towards Lac des Roseaux. Here he attempted to run around as before; but the strength and courage which had heretofore sustained him now forsook him.

He dragged his tired footsteps through the loose snow toward a tree, from which he plucked a branch and hung thereon a shred of his tattered coat, as a signal to mark his dismal resting-place; he next tore off another branch of the same tree which he placed as a pillow for his cold bed, and then laid upon it his weary head and died. His right hand was on his heart, and his left hung by his side, firmly holding a compass. The body gave indications of having undergone great suffering. Some portions of it had been frozen and thawed many times in succession, before death intervened and released it from further anguish.

Vincent's Semi-annual United States Register, Jan-Jun 1860 pages 5-6

Lake Stella

From Bob Cameron:

Lake Stella is a natural body of water, not man made. It is very shallow, maybe 5 feet deep or so. It is approximately three-quarters of a mile long and one hundred yards wide. In the past, it would always flood from the south in the spring and a few fish would get caught in there when the water from the Red River would go down.

When I was growing up, I didn't even know about Lake Stella until at some point someone casually mentioned it and I said, what, we have a lake near town? I always thought we were the only place in Minnesota without a lake, since our state motto was 'Land of 10,000 Lakes' and no lake to be seen (to my knowledge) near us (well, not counting Lake Bronson, but that was man-made and 30 miles away...another story in and of itself!) I soon learned that it was a strange little 'lake' - not a pond, or a slough, or a ditch; no, it was a true, natural lake, but just small and rather...long.

At first I couldn't see but a glimpse of it from the highway going out of town. Even on the rare occasion when we went on a 'close' country road, not much more could be seen of it. That, of course, just made it all the more mysterious. I wanted to get closer and find out what it was really like.

It was a few years before an opportunity presented itself. By this time, I had accomplished a dream of mine, of owning a horse. I was out riding one day when I said to myself, "Self, what's stopping me from going to Lake Stella?" "Nothing," I replied. "Well then, let's go for it!" And off I went. (By the way, I find nothing odd about talking to myself, having done it all my life. I picked it up naturally by hearing many people in my own family doing the same thing. They never thought it odd, so never have I; if others do, I think oh well and rattle right on...) Back to the story...

We went east of town, on the dirt road that ran by the old highway to the Junction (now gone); it was once the railroad bed into St. Vincent, that brought thousands (you may laugh, but it is true) into our town on their way west to settle into a new life. Some stayed, but most left. I knew the lake was in the general direction, but due south at a point not far out of town.

As we rounded a small bunch of trees, the sun flashed off the water and there it was, in the distance. I had Sunny cross down into a field, and we cantered across to another field that was fenced. No roads out in this part of the country, and before the new highway, little traffic anywhere. Except for the sound of the wind, and a few birds, it was peaceful. I knew even then that these rides and such times were rare and to be treasured. Thirty years later I still recall them with a smile.

The strange thing is that when we got closer we noticed the grass cut low, like a lawn. It was beautiful, but no one was there to appreciate it except us. I thought what a shame no one uses this lake, a best kept secret! I imagined a picnic on the lawn by the water. Ah well, maybe someone did that, once upon a time...

Early Pembina Photography

www.flickr.com

These photos of early Pembina (and there may be a stray St. Vincent one in there!) have been shared with me from various sources, but mostly from expatriates who have moved away, but also from archival material too numerous to mention. I welcome any information anyone can offer on individuals, places, or events shown in the photographs...

Four Corners Followup

The video above is a followup to the main story we shared earlier. I was especially moved - to tears - to see Noyes so desolate. How long can the depot stay open there, so isolated? It must only be a matter of time before Burlington Northern finds a more efficient automated method and even that will be gone...

Winter of 1873

We're spoiled nowadays...at least we are in the past few winters. It gets a bit breezy or the thermometer dips into the double digits below zero, and suddenly we start talking bad winter. I think -56 below zero, windy, wearing soggy wool and leather, and no central heating is a bad winter

International Falls, Minnesota may have a patent to their claim of being the coldest, but in reality Pembina/St. Vincent is right up there with 'em!

Four Corners of Minnesota: Kittson County

KARE-11 News contacted me a couple of weeks ago when doing research on a story for their Four Corners of Minnesota series. They had found this website during their online research and wanted to talk with me about my impressions of what's going on up home, in Kittson County. I talked with Boyd Huppert, the reporter for the series, saying pretty much what all natives know - that we are sorry to see our hometowns growing smaller but know there's not much we can do about it, or so it seems. Then again, who knows what ideas or developments are around the corner?

It was wonderful to see my music teacher from my school days being interviewed. I almost didn't recognize Mrs. Docken at first, but when I listened to her talk, and saw her eyes, I realize yes, that's her! I daresay she'd probably not recognize me right off either! Time, as they say, marches on!

Like the Back of My Hand

I dream about it.

I've dreamt about my hometown all my life, but the older I get, the more I dream about it. I see the old home, the old trails, the hideouts, the town characters, the cracks in the old sidewalks that the town laid many years ago when it was once proud and up-and-coming. I see the interiors of homes I haven't been in, in years, and the people that lived in them, talking to me like it was yesterday.

When I'm awake, I can imagine it just as clearly.

it's still there the memories are strong tins cans crisco cans raspberries gardens straw hats belts chokecherries bread canning cowboy cookies and teaspoons tea Sunday dinners with Grandpa and Grandma leaf piles nuisance ground hands out of car windows whipped by long blades of sharp grass Canadian geese honking won't be long now fires burning pastures mowing gardens plowing bed making hospital corners dumping the pot porches and slop pails screen doors slamming on the way to Toots' house PK gum and rolled chins tall imposing steps old persian rugs pianos and women talking playing alone imagination running wild looking up through tree branches wind kissing cheeks tasting milkweeds playing house mud pies bugs barn spiders haylofts Dusty Smoky prairie roses peonies in water veined hands crocheting Dad's hands on Mom's legs cattails in kerosene floods trains trips cousins driftwood hospitals piano lessons dreams horses bicycles freedom washing dishes and Star Trek books on shelves discovering new worlds wallpaper transister radios late in the night Macabre Theatre door creaking no borders everything possible no worries love always love changes but it's still there the memories are strong

overalls wide paintbrushes kerosene cleaning tree swish swosh swish swosh bark stained with years of paint leading down a path to a pet cemetery and Hawkeye and Chingascook can I be Chingascook today Popeye shared bathwater Iten's water service cisterns graindoor sidewalks hand-me-downs Outer Limits ceiling grate peek nightmares slanted ceilings that certain smell as I press my nose against the window screen noon 6pm 10pm town whistles county fair quonsit hut blue ribbon jam Egg Pants Tonto George's general store from another time Friehboldt's Garage dime fridge pop swinging from the gas sign Dad filling up Old Man Friehboldt checking the oil exploring behind discovering old jail bars ghost firehouse horse-pulled truck curling rinks town pumps Bordnick's farm equipment cacophony vs. Hughes' livestock menagerie potato bugs canning wringer washer hanging reaching pinning squinting gathering folding the smell oh the smell crisp stiff alive tarp paper garages anti-anti-I-over¹ scared running laughing screaming late Sunday night meetings jumping off church steps hide 'n seek around the church in the fall cold running until we see steam rising off our skins in the moonlight breathing so deep sore throats in the morning no regrets alive so alive so young was it all a dream

Memories rush over me one to another...

silver threads among the gold rope swings I dream of Jeannie with the Light Brown Hair Grandpa napping on the porch Grandma making pound cake with that broiled coconut brown sugar butter topping in the kitchen bike riding down the center of main street look no hands discovering hidden paths back alleys abandoned house begging to be explored the river always the river bridges looking down wondering what it would be like to jump scared yet excited floods dikes sandbags moving away until the water goes down taking the army 'duck' through the waters to the parked cars marooned at the junction Sunday afternoon drives to nowhere cousins dropping in food laughter catching up part of something bigger roots family history cobbler aprons long hair in buns large hands in bread dough warm arms wrapping themselves around you feeling like you are SO special because you are loved so loved those capable arms and legs that love you sucumb and it's your turn to be strong for them wheelchair cat's-cradle those last years together end too soon and you're weeping at the coffin bending over kissing cold lips not caring what anyone thinks feeling for the first time real loss Grandma I will miss you so much you are my best friend remembering sleeping with her, breakfasts of cocoa and brown sugar toast only she makes that special smell of her body as you snuggle with her at night after Grandpa is gone and she's alone Grandpa who gave you pink peppermints whisker rubs and called you his little girl Grandpa who napped on the porch age made no difference they were love

McCall's (Henniman's). Skogmo's. The Spot. Dick's Corner. The Hartz Store. The Tastee Freez. Coast-to-Coast hardware. Ice rink on the banks of the river, lights strung overhead. The dam. South Pembina. The airport. The [old] museum. Crossing the Red, then the Pembina. Ukranian church dome. Old 81. Old Pembina with the vines growing up the side of the old Methodist Church. Ancestors' rocking chairs in the museum...the old museum that seemed like a treasure chest of old area artifacts. Many a summer was spent touring the row upon row of exhibits, taking in as much as possible. Imagination working overtime wondering who the people were that once owned that dress, that gun, that book. So MUCH stuff that each display area was a mini Fibber McGee open closet. Even the walls were covered with treasures all the way up the the ceiling. The Park nearby had a monument towards the back, almost hidden by the now older trees. The white pyramid-like steps led up in the center to a pillar. Names and a dedication, barely legible, told of a war to end all wars, and the local boys that wouldn't be coming home again. I would climb that monument thinking it was magical, touch the white stone, rough and hot in the summer sun. Who were these people who were just names now, I wondered as a child. I was in awe of someone who would sacrifice so much. Bike home over the bridges, daring to stop and look down to the river below. Such a long way it felt, and sometimes there would be a pull in the back of my mind to jump...jump! A little thrill would run up my spine at the thought mixed with incredible fear. I almost drowned once. I was with my mother and her friend Glennis Friebohldt at the Emerson pool on a sunny summer afternoon. I wandered away from the wading pool area. I was little, but could see more people were having more fun in the big pool. I wasn't afraid to try it. I tentatively lowered myself over the edge into the pool, intending to hang onto the side. But the pool was very busy that day, many jumps, splashes, and waves. A wave caught me and lifted my body, and I panicked. My hand slipped, and before I knew it, I was floating away from the edge, I couldn't grasp it, and I was sinking...I was scared, but at the same time, as I went below the surface, I kept my eyes open...I was facing up, looking up, seeing the light above me grow smaller as I sank...The next thing I knew, I was laying on warm cement, coughing up water...Glennis was there. She had seen me as I began to sink and dived in and rescued me. Years later, despite still not knowing how to swim, I love water, and remember that day, and how peaceful it seemed. A few moments of panic, then quiet...

¹ - Ante Over (also Andy I Over; Andy Over; Annie, Annie Over the Shanty; Anti-Anti-I-Over; Nicky-Nicky-Nee).

This old and popular boys' game requires a building over which the ball is thrown. In the gymnasium a curtain is often stretched across the center.

The two teams take their places on opposite sides of the building. A player of Team A calls "Ante Over" and throws a softball over the building. The Team B players attempt to catch it. If someone succeeds, he and his team mates dash around the building and the player holding the ball attempts to hit one of the Team A players, who may take refuge by running around the building. If he succeeds, the hit player joins Team B. and the ball goes to Team A. If no one catches the ball when it is thrown over the building, the side doing the catching calls "Ante Over" and the ball is thrown back. The side wins which has the most players when play ceases.

In some sections the boys call "Pigs tail" if the ball hits the building and bounds back. It is then thrown over again. (Mason and Mitchell, "Active Games and Contests", 1935) - From Hard at Play: Leisure in America, 1840-1940

Talking with Bob

Recently I sent off an email to a hometown contact named Bob Cameron. Bob's Mom was Simone, and she was a cook at the St. Vincent school that I and many others attended. A little slip of a woman, she was ever cheerful as she dished up some mighty tasty lunches.

But I digress...

Bob emailed me back yesterday and said he should call me to talk. I replied with my number. This morning he called me while I was at work, but I didn't let that stop me. When you have a chance to talk with an older resident of St. Vincent, who has ties with even older residents, you do it! What he ended up sharing was like a peek into the past, which is what it was...

- Bob recalled seeing many rats in the town's nuisance ground, which was by the river. He played in it as a boy with other town boys. Descendants of those same rats were seen stranded in the nuisance ground's trees during the 1950 flood, the poor creatures starving to death during the weeks the water was high.

- Matilda (Ottem), (William) Wallace Cameron's second wife*, a renowned seamstress in the area, was a good friend to my grandmother.

- Wallace was 'town cop' for St. Vincent at one time. He carried with him a small book that he kept in his shirt pocket to keep notes on; it saved his life one day in 1914, when he had to wrestle a drunk (and disorderly) man to the ground. The man was carrying a gun that accidentally discharged in the tussle. Today, that book and the impression the bullet made into it can be seen at the Kittson County Museum.

Bob ended by saying the next time he's down my way, we should grab a cup of coffee (or tea) and chat more. I'm definitely taking him up on that offer and intend on picking his brains some more; it goes without saying that I'll be sharing what I'm told right here!

UPDATE, October 2021:  I never did get that cup of coffee with Bob, and now I never can.  I broke my own cardinal rule of never waiting until it's too late, and now it is...

* - His first wife was Luella Pearl Hutchins, who passed away in 1910...