by Jerry Apps
“Figure it out,” she said proudly.
“It’s a rabbit,” a youngster wearing a big red parka said. “It’s not either a bunny,” his sister said. “I think it’s an igloo.”
As people continued watching, they slowly saw a wild rose emerging from the ice, its five petals and stem clearly visible.
“Remarkable work,” an older person said. “Remarkable work.”
Brittani smiled.
The afternoon events featured an axe-throwing contest, an event held every year since the first festival. Chair of this year’s throw was Don Happsit, barber at the Tamarack Corners Barber Shop. Promptly at 2:00 p.m., he took the microphone. “Those interested in watching the axe-throwing contest should gather at the west side of the park shelter, near the river’s edge.”
This longtime festival favorite attracted contestants from as far away as Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada. This year, an even dozen contestants competed for the Golden Axe, an old logger’s axe painted gold, now faded after many years of being passed from winner to winner. The winners’ names and years were inscribed on the handle. Last year, Dan Burman won the contest, with Shotgun Slogum a close second. Most residents in the valley had little to do with Burman, and he liked it that way. He did things his way, including breaking a few game rules from time to time. Slogum, long-time vegetable grower in the valley and a bit of an eccentric, had little to do with Burman, although they had both been born and lived their entire lives in the valley.
Happsit continued his announcement after the contestants and a substantial audience had gathered. “The rules for the contest are these. Each contestant gets one practice throw and three throws at the target, which is exactly twenty feet away. Hitting the bull’s-eye is five points, the next ring four, and so on to the outer ring, which is one point. You must use a double-bitted axe with a blade edge no larger than six inches. Each axe handle must be at least two feet long but no longer than forty inches. An axe must weigh at least two and a half pounds. Are there any questions?”
The audience gathered a bit closer to watch as the contestants stretched, hefted their axes, and made throwing motions with their arms.
“Are we ready to begin?” asked Happsit as he motioned to the first contestant, selected by drawing the contestant’s name from a hat.
“Our first contestant is Freddy Jones, from Milwaukee. This is his first year competing for the Golden Axe Award. We’re ready when you are.”
Freddy, in his early twenties, tall and muscular, wore a jaunty French voyageur-style cap and a plaid wool shirt. He stepped up to the line, hefted his axe, pulled his arm back, and tossed it hard.
“Whack.” The axe stuck into a pine tree alongside the target. He had completely missed.
“Remember folks, each contestant gets one practice throw, so Freddy’s miss doesn’t count.”
Freddy retrieved his axe, hefted it once more, spit on the handle, pulled his arm back, and tossed it. “Whack.” The axe stuck the target firmly in the blue ring, for four points. With a big smile on his face, he walked up to the thirty-six-inch target, firmly attached to pine boards, and retrieved his axe. After two more tries, he’d earned twelve points, a respectable score, especially for a newcomer.
Each contestant in turn threw his axe, once for practice, and three that counted. Burman achieved a perfect score—all three tosses stuck firmly in the bull’s-eye. Two contestants later, Shotgun Slogum did the same thing. The crowd swelled to watch these two competitors, both experienced and both previous winners, do another round to break the tie. A tossed coin determined that Slogum should go first. All four of his tosses, including the practice toss, landed in the bull’s eye. Burman, a serious look on his face, and his reputation as the best valley axe thrower at stake, faced the target, carefully hefted his axe, and threw it hard. He drove nearly the entire blade of his axe into the bull’s-eye. Same for tosses two and three. But something happened with the fourth toss. Something broke his concentration. No one really knew what it was—a baby crying in the audience, a snowmobiler making a practice run down the river in preparation for Sunday’s snowmobile race, loud laughter coming from the beer tent. Anyway, the fourth toss landed in the four-point ring, and Shotgun Slogum was declared winner of the Golden Axe.
Slogum came forward to retrieve the award, smiling, but not broadly. He was not one to show much emotion, especially when he was being recognized for something.
“Thank you,” he said quietly when he received the trophy axe. He turned to walk away, and there stood Dan Burman, directly in front of him.
“Congratulations,” said Burman as he extended his hand to Slogum.
“Thank you,” Slogum said.
The two men parted, neither saying another word to each other.
Sunday, Josh stopped by Natalie’s cabin a little after 12:30, and they drove on toward the Tamarack River Valley. A few flakes of snow gently struck the windshield of the Ford Ranger as they drove on.
“Looks like a few flurries,” Josh said. “A little snow shouldn’t stop anything at the festival.”
“Surely not the snowmobile races,” said Natalie. “They’d race in a blizzard. They’re a tough bunch of guys.”
The falling snow increased in intensity soon after they arrived at the park. They walked by the now snow-covered ice sculptures and the equally snow-covered artists, who were standing by their creations to answer questions and talk. Josh and Natalie chatted for a bit with Brittani.
“This is really nice work,” said Natalie as she looked carefully at the wild rose, its edges now covered with freshly fallen snow.
“Thank you,” Brittani said, smiling.
The snow continued falling as they walked among the other sculptures, waiting for the snowmobile races, scheduled to begin at 2:00 p.m. on the river. The wind had come up a little, blowing swirls of snow across the parking lot and making it difficult to see any distance. By the time of the snowmobile races, it had become impossible to see across the frozen river. The announcer’s voice, sometimes lost in the wind and swirl of snow, began giving instructions for the race, a straight-away half-mile course. Over the wind, Josh and Natalie heard the first group of racers revving their engines and then tearing down the river, the sound of the machines soon lost in the storm. No one could see them. The race watchers soon drifted off toward their cars, now covered with three inches of snow, with more on the way, from the looks of the sky and the feel of the wind. Josh and Natalie found shelter in the big festival tent, its canvas roof beginning to sag a bit from the accumulating snow. A few others were there as well, waiting for the snow to let up so they could watch the rest of the races, which continued without pause. Josh bought paper cups of hot chocolate from the beer tent, where coffee and hot chocolate had become far more popular than Wisconsin’s famous craft beers.
The snow did not ease but continued falling, even harder. The wind, now from the northwest, swirled the snow about the park, festival tent, beer tent, and park shelter. The ice sculptures were nearly buried when Josh and Natalie headed for Josh’s red pickup, which, fortunately, had four-wheel drive.
“Still game for dinner?” asked Josh as they both brushed snow from the truck’s windshield.
“I’m starved,” answered Natalie.
“Might be a little tricky driving back to Willow River, even if it is only fifteen miles.”
“So, what kind of a truck is this, anyway?” she said, smiling. Both knew that she was comparing his little red pickup to her much larger one.
Soon they were seated at a table in Christo’s, near a window facing the Tamarack River, which gave them an opportunity to watch what had become a blizzard, with snow blowing down the river in walls of white, the river sometimes disappearing into the storm.
“I love blizzards,” said Natalie as she gazed out the window. She wore a cherry-red knitted sweater, and her blonde hair hung loose on her shoulders. “It’s like we are sitting inside the storm and looking out.” Her brown eyes sparkled as she talked.
Costandina came by with menus. “Prime rib is the special,” she said. “With all the trimmings.” They agreed on the special and, while they waited for their food, shared a bottle of merlot. They looked out the window and watched melting snow make little rivers down the glass. They could hear the wind tearing around the corner of the restaurant, swirling the snow, piling it up in drifts. For a long time, neither said anything.
“Any thoughts on the new hog farm coming here to the valley?” Josh asked, breaking the silence.
“As a DNR employee or as Natalie Karlsen?”
“So, you really are two people?” Josh said, remembering an earlier conversation. Natalie laughed, and her eyes brightened. Josh liked that.
“As long as Nathan West meets all the requirements, jumps through all the hoops, it’s the company’s right. No law says a hog farm should be a certain size.”
“What about this old river we can’t see this afternoon? How will the Tamarack River and a Nathan West hog factory farm get along? What about the people who live here in the valley, people who like it quiet, hold annual winter festivals, fish on the river, walk in the park, live out their retirement years in little cabins? What about a factory farm and these people?” asked Josh.
“I worry about these things, Josh. This is me talking now. Not an employee of the DNR. I think about these questions a lot.”
Natalie was looking out the window, staring at the swirling snow and the rivulets of water that trickled down the window.
After a few moments of silence, Natalie said, “How about some dessert at my place? I baked a cake.”
“You baked a cake?” Josh asked. Natalie wrinkled her nose at the comment.
Back in Josh’s pickup, he immediately punched the 4x4 button. They carefully made their way out of the restaurant’s parking lot and onto the county road that led to Willow River. As Josh drove, trying to keep his eyes on the tracks of the few cars that had traveled ahead of him, the truck’s wipers slapped against the windshield, scarcely able to keep up with the falling snow. He could not see more than ten or fifteen feet in front of his truck; he felt like he was driving into a wall of snow that constantly retreated as he entered it—at a top speed of twenty miles an hour. They finally arrived in Willow River; Main Street was deserted, and snow swirled around the street lights, casting eerie shadows. They drove through town, toward Natalie’s place. Josh pulled into the drive that led to Natalie’s cabin; he could feel all four wheels digging into what had become more than a foot of snow. He shut off the engine and turned off the truck lights.
“Quite a ride,” he said, letting out his breath.
“Come on in. We’ll start a fire in the fireplace and watch the storm over the lake. And have some of my chocolate cake.”
“You didn’t say it was chocolate. I like chocolate.”
“Most people do. You know how to start a fire in the fireplace?”
“I do,” Josh said. He crumpled an old newspaper, checked the damper, and balanced a few sticks of kindling wood on the paper, then struck a match to the little pyramid he had made. Soon a brisk fire was crackling. Outside the big picture window, snow swirled and the wind howled, but it was cozy and warm in Natalie’s cabin.
“Like some more wine before dessert?”
“Sure; whatever you’ve got would be fine.” Soon, Natalie was back with the wine. She sat down beside him in front of the fire.
“Nice place you’ve got,” said Josh.
“I like it. I rented it shortly after I got here. Couldn’t see living in an apartment. Too many nosy neighbors around. Here, I’m all by myself.”
“Isn’t that a little dangerous, I mean being out here all by yourself ?”
“You forget; I do know how to use a gun. . . . Would you like me to rub your neck? I’ll bet it’s killing you after driving through a blizzard.” She began rubbing his neck and his s houlders, relieving the tension. It had been a long time since Josh had felt this good; it had also been a long time since he sat like this with a good-looking woman.
Soon, they were eating chocolate cake and drinking more wine. The blizzard had not let up; in fact, it had grown in intensity. One time, Josh looked out the window at his truck in the driveway, and it appeared nearly buried; a drift of snow had crawled up one side, and the hood was covered with what looked like at least six inches of the white stuff.
At eleven o’clock, Josh stood up and said he should probably make his way home.
“You should stay here tonight,” Natalie said quietly, putting her hand on his knee. It was warm and friendly. “You shouldn’t be out in a storm like this.” She smiled when she said it. She leaned toward him.
23. Fred and Oscar
Damn, it’s cold this morning. Colder’n a witch’s tit,” said Fred when he joined Oscar at Christo’s for coffee the Wednesday after the Winter Festival. Fred rubbed his hands together as he spoke. “Quite a snowstorm on Sunday. Ain’t had one like that for a while.”
“Sit down, and quit complaining,” said Oscar, who already had a cup of steaming coffee in front of him.
“I ain’t complaining. Cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey, though. Twenty below zero this morning,” said Fred.
“I didn’t think it was that cold. You sure your thermometer ain’t broke?”
“My thermometer ain’t broke. It’s just plain colder than hell.” Fred hung his red-and-black-checked wool Mackinaw over the back of his chair. “How’d you get your coffee already?”
“If you’d get goin’ a little sooner in the morning, you’d get early coffee too.”
Costandina, unbeknownst to both of the old men, was standing off to the side, taking in the conversation and smiling from ear to ear.
“You like some coffee, Fred?” she asked. She had an empty cup in one hand and a steaming pot of coffee in the other.
“You betcha I would. Need to warm up. Cold out there today.” He rubbed his hands together again.
“Looks to me like you got yourself a new haircut,” said Oscar.
“Yup, I did, had my ears lowered. Cap fits better now.”
“That’s one of the reasons you’re so damn cold.”
“What’s one of the reasons?”
“You got your hair cut, dummy. Nobody gets his hair cut in the winter. Hair keeps you warm. Olden days, nobody got a haircut in the winter. They let ’er grow.”
“Well, this ain’t the olden days, Oscar. If you haven’t noticed.”
“So, what’d you make of the winter festival?” asked Oscar.
“Saturday was pretty darn good. About the best Saturday we’ve had in years. That high school band over at Willow River, boy those kids are good. No question about it. Those kids know how to toot on them horns. Expect you’d like to hear what I’ve picked up about your ghost performance,” Fred said.
“What’d you hear?”
Fred smiled, hesitated, and took another sip of coffee.
“Well, what’d you hear?”
“Hate to have to tell you this,” said Fred, trying to be serious.
“What?”
“Folks said it was the best performance you ever gave. Best goll-darn ghost recitation you ever did.” Fred was smiling broadly. He took another sip of coffee.
“Pleased to hear it. Pleased to hear it,” Oscar said. “Sunday kind of fizzled, didn’t it? They did the snowmobile races—at least I think they did. You could hear ’em roaring down the river, but you couldn’t see ’em. Wonder how them snowmobile drivers could see where they was goin’? I wondered about that.”
“I didn’t stay. Drove on home when it started snowin’ hard. Tires on my pickup ain’t the best any more. Traction’s not so good,” Fred said.
“Say, you been reading the Farm Country News?” asked Oscar.
“Yeah, I read most of it the day it comes out. Sometimes I r
ead all of it. Depends on how busy I am. Sometimes I’m pretty busy.”
“Well, did you read that stuff that somebody using the initials ‘M.D.’ wrote?”
“Yeah, I read it. Supposed to be poetry, I expect. Do you think it’s poetry, Oscar?”
“Doesn’t matter what it is, matters what it says and who says it.”
“I’m just not sure it’s poetry. Set up like poetry, short lines stacked up on top of each other, but isn’t poetry supposed to rhyme?”
“Damn it, doesn’t matter if it’s poetry or not. What’d you make of it, Fred?”
“First off, whoever M.D. is, he doesn’t think much of the new pig farm comin’ into the valley, does he?” answered Fred.
“He sure doesn’t, and I pretty much agree with him,” said Oscar. “I don’t think havin’ that many pigs on one piece of ground is a good idea.”
“But them pigs ain’t gonna be outside. They’re gonna be in buildings, big, new buildings,” said Fred, taking another sip of coffee.
“There’s still pig manure, Fred, inside a building or not. Pig manure’s gotta get outside sometime or another. And pig manure stinks.”
“But don’t we need something to lower our taxes? Property taxes are just about killin’ us. Keep goin’ up every year. Need a new business to increase our tax base.”
“That we do, Fred; that we do. I agree with you there. Say, who do you think is writing these poems? Who do you think M.D. is? Could it be one of our doctors in Willow River? They’re all MDs, aren’t they?”
“Nah, don’t think it’s no doctor. Those folks are so darn busy, they don’t have time to do anything but help sick people.”
“I think I know who M.D. is. I think I know,” said Oscar.