Shelter

by Sarah Stonich

  Though I was over forty, I was still introduced as “the Stonich girl that made up that book about here.”

  There was a lot of subdued chatter in the bar. Just out was the news that a bunch of young local men and a juvenile had been arrested for accosting a group of campers within the Boundary Waters, threatening them both verbally and with weapons. Shots had been fired. Both Juri and Earl knew most of the boys charged. Both used “we” and “us” when talking about their community. Most everyone in Dee’s knew at least one of the accused.

  Juri smacked the bar. “Tourists’re gonna think we’re a bunch of backwater hicks, like in that movie …”

  “Deliverance,” Earl finished for him. “These boys are all charged with terroristic threats.”

  “More like asshole-istic, if you ask me. ‘Terroristic’ makes us sound like a bunch of towelheads.”

  “Right, but whatever you call what they did, it leaves us twisting in the wind to make things right.” Earl swept an arm to indicate everyone in the bar.

  “Like we got time to be goodwill ambassadors on top of everything else.”

  “They shouldn’t ‘a been in there with motorboats anyway.”

  “Well, that’s another issue altogether.”

  Attitudes here are as mild as the weather. Most residents have wildly differing opinions on issues from declassifying wolves off the endangered species list to potential copper mining or the use of motorized vehicles in restricted areas. Political arguments are heated. Moral attitudes are more private, though often evidenced in the plastering of bumper stickers, some indicating that the drivers are both pro-life and pro-war, or letting us know what their personal Jesus would Do, Say, Buy, or Bomb. My favorite sticker says as much about the place as the people, applied to the back of a rusted Land Rover: SHIT HAPPENS.

  Ely made national news when its city council officially denounced the invasion of Iraq, then made the news again the following week when they revoked that denunciation after a vivid dispute between council members who were split on the issue, members of the antiwar coalition, the then mayor, and veterans who interpreted the vote as anti-troop and anti-American. There is little neutral ground here—radios are tuned to public radio, AM conservative talk shows, or eighties rock.

  If isolation fosters extremism, northern Minnesota is a potential incubator for nutcases on either end. A fanatic, as my father defined one, is anybody with his head so far up his own ass he can’t smell anyone else’s. I guessed that meant a zealot was somebody who feared and distrusted anyone who didn’t understand or smell the world in the same way he did. On the road north, you’re welcomed to the region by an array of signs planted next to Highway 53 near Cotton, where for decades a landowner has been posting hand-painted billboards that change as his beefs do. Sometimes the signs are illustrated with primitive drawings, as if painted by a sort of Curmudgeon Moses. At the height of the anti-French sentiment that swept Real America a number of years ago, the curmudgeon painted the UN flag being urinated on by a poodle, with the words “Piss on the Poodles, and Kofi Annan too!” Curmudgeon also seems to harbor great disdain for the Postmaster General and pretty much whoever is in power. His most recent billboard rant depicts President Obama as a half-naked spearchucker with a wide grin. I want badly to interview this man, but the fact that his compound is surrounded by ten-foot fencing made of scrap metal with a sign that warns “No Trespassing, Injury Very Likely” would dissuade most anyone from approaching his bunker, or spaceship-in-progress, or whatever it is he lives in behind the scary fence.

  When I Googled an Ely topic, the first hit was an article published in a small Punjabi newspaper written by an Indian reporter. Ely might seem an odd place for the World Press Institute to send its fellows, but it’s done just that for years, hosting an annual gathering of international journalists, with locals opening their homes to the visiting foreigners. At the latest forum, when the issue of gun control arose, most of the journalists offered that in their own countries, guns are highly restricted. Then the mayor weighed in that in Ely there is this saying: “My wife, yes; my dog, maybe; my gun, never.” This is the sort of Deliverance response that Earl and Juri cringe over, knowing it will only color perceptions of the place. They are trying to earn a living and well understand that tourism depends on outsiders. More recently, the same mayor was charged with theft and illegally entering the BWCA, an offense he’s been cited for numerous times since 1978, despite federal regulations that designate it as wilderness.

  “Which, hello, is exactly what brings tourists and their money here.” Juri rolls his eyes.

  Earl insists folks here do read more than just the local paper, most are law-abiding and can properly interpret the Constitution, and they do welcome diversity and more awareness of the world beyond. Of course, as in any small town, there are also those who want nothing of the world, and Earl says it’s sometimes hard to tell one from another. It’s senseless to judge an old-timer holding up the bar at Zaverl’s when he says things like “That Negro fella is doing a pretty good job so far” because it’s possible the geezer was out hunting during the decades of political correctness and missed the phases of rephrasing and probably thinks GLBT is some new sandwich down at the café. A few are intentionally up front in their prejudices, like the Foghorn Leghorn store clerk from the South who crows his own brand of intolerance within earshot of anyone buying a bag of finishing nails, claiming he isn’t afraid to call a spade a spade and that one of the reasons he moved this far north was “'cause they ain’t none.”

  Historically the Range has remained a predominantly Democratic, pro-union, and labor stronghold, but most people keep views to themselves or limit them to their fishing buddies or coffee klatches, aware that this is indeed a small place and that we do all have to live together. One thing everyone agrees on is that Ely is an interesting place, not an easy place, to live. City limits are only a concept here, and the community nets out to include anybody for whom Ely is the hub. We’re all neighbors, whether separated by blocks or miles, rivers or bays. “Town” is where we go to get groceries, check e-mail, trawl the farmer’s market, do laundry, get food we can’t have at The Lake like pizza or ice cream, or just hang around the coffee shop and listen to voices that aren’t radio. Ely is much changed since my childhood in the sixties, when I cannot recall there being a stoplight.

  My grandmother Julia died in 1987, just when change for the better was finally coming after years of the Iron Range holding itself close against a long recession, mine closures, and flagging tourism. She would be impressed to see the town now, thriving as a vacation destination, though she might shake her head at the touristy “shoppes.” She would have laughed off the concept of new furniture for a cabin or special clothes for fishing.

  It would have pleased my father that fifty thousand additional acres were added to the protected BWCA after his death, that the place remains pristine and has been kept from the fate of other vacation regions across the state, where shores are pocked with over-development as if Woodbury or Eagan had been dragged north and dropped lakeside.

  Dad had a particular gripe over use and abuse of snowmobiles and ATVs. When the first three-wheelers were just appearing in the mid-seventies, he derisively called them “trikes,” shaking his head and exclaiming, “Grown men driving them!”

  We are the lucky few to be near places of true wilderness, where the land is preserved in a triumvirate of amazing parks: the Boundary Waters, Quetico, and Voyageurs. It’s easy to take for granted that such places are here for us, but their preservation didn’t come easily, and the battle to save this jewel box of wilderness was long and fraught. Many are familiar with the writings and voice of Sigurd Olson, but only some know the work of conservationists like Ernest Oberholtzer, who lobbied and toiled tirelessly in spite of financial hardship and even personal threats. Dozens of people worked for decades to stave off industry, to warn the government of the bleakness of a future without wilderness, and to educate the citizens. Individuals beh
ind the various battles included some familiar names, like Frank Hubachek of the Wilderness Research Center, Bob Marshall of the Forest Service, Aldo Leopold (before he was Aldo Leopold), Robert Sterling Yard, Benton MacKaye, Harvey Broome, Bernard Frank, Harold Anderson, and others. Presidential examples set by both Roosevelts encouraged such men to fight when opposed by the until then omnipotent industrialists. Preserving wilderness might be one of FDR’s greatest achievements along with his job programs like the WPA and the Civilian Conservation Corps, both directly benefiting our park systems. Perhaps the most important message the conservationists finally got across to the American people was that wild places are necessary. If they didn’t exist, how could we possibly know now what the untouched, unsullied wild actually looks like, feels like, smells like? To lose it would be to lose natural history. Maybe equally important is the growing relevance of gauging our own impacts on the planet by comparing them to these rare unimpacted environments.

  Here, most of the drama is external. The glaciers that raked and carved the land made it both beautiful and difficult. Life is harder here, and the hardship is often credited as building character. Maybe it bulks up a certain tenacity, but it sometimes seems life here can constrict character—the isolation, the months of workdays begun and ended in darkness, with no time for leisurely chat outdoors because your nose hairs are iced, your face is numb, and your dog will freeze to the sidewalk if you don’t keep pace. There is a taciturnity that prevails here. People are not terribly outgoing, but they are far from unkind. They are not always talkative, but they do have stories. Some can be suspicious of outsiders, or just tolerant. This isn’t the South; stories are told quickly with little embellishment. Time matters: sunlight is limited, and there’s wood to chop, diesel to pump, sidewalks to clear, hotdish to bake, batteries to jump. Life is short.

  Ten

  Since I was building here, was going to be here, shouldn’t I be interacting more with the locals, be less an observer, more of a citizen? Maybe have some fun, get to know somebody—perhaps even Biblically. It had been a long time since I’d dated, but the idea grew on me once I looked around and realized there were plenty of outdoorsy, handsome guys on the streets of Ely.

  Alas, there are woefully few venues for singles to meet besides the VFW and the few local bars like Dee’s Polka Lounge, the Portage, Zaverl’s, and establishments I’d never gotten around to, like the Kwazy Wabbit, with its sign hung upside down. In Dee’s I met an interesting man I would have considered desirable if he hadn’t stood up to become less so by not being able to stay upright unaided. Less shit-faced was what I was hoping for.

  In such a small town, the question then was, if not the bars, where? I could hang out around portages and put-ins as if just passing by, or frequent the building supply yard, the union hall, or canoe outfitters, trying to look nonchalant (“Have we met?”) Or I could crash a booya dinner at the Jugoslav Hall where I might nab a hottie with his own rolling oxygen. The odds of getting a decent date on this side of the Laurentian Divide were as good as winning Powerball but not as good as being struck by lightning.

  While parked to check my cell messages at the one high spot in town, I had a view of a full parking lot and a quiet revelation. Maybe the best read one could get on local bachelors is by simply checking out their vehicles. You are what you drive here. What a man’s truck says about him is as telling as having brunch with his mother: size of gun rack, number of axles, types of load racks and hitches (does he pull an ATV trailer or haul canoes?). What’s in the truck bed? Too clean? Too dirty? Is the radio tuned to AM? What sort of discarded food containers and wrappings litter his dash? Who’s his bobblehead? What’s hanging from his rearview mirror? Is that a teeny propeller adorning his trailer hitch? Bumper stickers and magnetic ribbons are almost too easy. Little window decals reveal affiliations to AAA, AARP, DFL, GOP, IBEW, NRA, NPR, PETA, or UMWA. What, or whom, is the little Calvin decal peeing on? License plates offer evidence of whether the driver’s a veteran, a volunteer fireman, or just dweeb enough to have vanity plates. Damage to the rear bumper? Passive. Dents to the sides? Distracted. Front bumper? Aggressive!

  During a rainy family reunion, my sisters and I sat in a cabin on Jasper Lake discussing man-catching strategies. I told them my idea for stalking parking lots, which they agreed was a good idea in theory, but a) Who has time?, b) Just how does one approach some guy in his truck?, and c) How does one determine if said guy is single?

  No matter what, I’d seem like a psycho.

  Trips to town suggested that the ratio of males to local females was definitely in my favor. All I’d really need to do was tack up a poster next to the lost dog fliers around town: “Female, breathing.”

  “Maybe a little more,” suggested Mary, who’d once worked writing ad copy. “You know, ‘height/weight proportional,’ or perhaps a sort of teaser, like ‘must love taxidermy.’”

  “Right,” Valerie added. “Things men like.”

  “What,” I asked, “beer, blowjobs, and bowling?”

  Julie, not fully in, popped her head up, “You’d go bowling?”

  I opted for Internet dating, joining one of the hipper online sites where potential dates looked less desperate. I fiddled with writing a profile and cast around for a photo that was an honest enough likeness yet would make my eyes seem less close together. While I was filling in the blank for age limit of potential dates, Sam looked over my shoulder, asking, ”What is desirable about fifty-five?”

  Note to single mothers: Never ask your teenage son for help with a dating profile. Do not allow him in the same room, and definitely do not ask which photo makes you look datable.

  On the other hand, any man I might seriously date would eventually have to pass muster with my child. A newcomer would have to get us and would have to accept our many familial quirks, like our habit of speaking in gargled Glaswegian accents à la Trainspotting. When we read or told stories, we endeavored to do so in character, shooting for authenticity, and believe me it’s not easy to keep cadence through A Child’s Christmas in Wales maintaining a Welsh brogue. Sam was surrounded all day by people with accents, in his Spanish immersion school and at home with Laura, our Spanish exchange student, and Duffer, the lovely Scot who often worked around the house, watched Sam, and occasionally cooked. Sam still waxes nostalgic for her shepherd’s pie, shaking his head over my attempts, asking, “Whay cahn y’nay scrrrape it op lake our Dahfferr?” He’d also seen more than his share of foreign films of all vintages and was perhaps the only teenage boy alive ever to have claimed, “Maggie Smith is hot.” Sam became an adroit mimic, though my favorite of his impressions was accent free (word free, actually) and of a Minnesotan, consisting of one very exaggerated, seemingly endless, old-mannish, loooong suck-it-in-inhale through the nose: his Garrison Keillor.

  Whatever man if any that might step into our fray would have to be a good sport, prepared to leave the hamming to others. He would have to take us part and parcel, a two-for-one deal. And Sam would have to at least like him.

  The dating site took in my information, personal desires, and credit card details and within a few days spat out a total of two not-quite matches within fifty miles of the Ely zip code. The vaguely interesting one was widely read and self-employed but hinted that what he did was nobody’s business. He lived off the grid in a sort of enclave described in a way that hinted Una-bomber. The other, a therapist transplanted from out east, said he liked to cook, which I thought was a good sign; cooking could mean he was in touch with his inner domestic. Then his e-mail response came back with a smiley emoticon :-) and additional photos that revealed he not only liked to cook but eat—a lot. He wasn’t even close to being HWP though his profile claimed he was. Sure, once :-))

  At my age, I wasn’t up for much compromise and at least knew what I wasn’t looking for. I updated my search to cast a wider net that included the Twin Cities. Within a day my mailbox filled. It seemed there were lots of matches in the metro area. Then I realized most profil
es tended to include a shocking amount of fiction—men portraying themselves not so much as who they are but as whom they would like to see cast as themselves in the film of their dream lives. Over-representing or misrepresenting oneself on a profile seemed so pointless. No matter what the ruse, it was bound to fall flat over the first date.

  Bachelor Number One was handsome and interesting, definitely showing promise right up until the bill came. We both had the same meal at dinner, and we each had a beer. When it was time to split the tab, he tallied it to factor the price difference of my bottled beer to his draft beer, making my share seventy-nine cents more. I paid my extra and then covered for his miserly 10 percent tip. Date over.

  My second date lasted minutes. Bachelor Number Two somehow knew my identity and had Googled me, even though by then everyone knew it was bad form to go ogle somebody before a date. He admitted he wasn’t actually interested in dating but had brought along a manuscript he’d written, thinking I might like to look it over. I rose to leave abruptly enough to spill coffee, not quite on his lap but at least on his manuscript.

  Bachelor Number Drunk looked so unlike his profile photo he might have stolen it. We met for an early weekend brunch, during which he had to get three Bloody Marys down before his hands stopped shaking. Date over just as he was ordering a fourth, implying to the server that I was a party pooper for not joining in.

  Others weren’t much better, more like skits than dates. One I remember absolutely nothing of except a flash of when the man crossed his legs, revealing that he wore sock garters.

  I was disheartened but not surprised to discover how many men over forty were rabidly uninterested in women over forty, one claiming, “I don’t do carbon dating.” The women’s profiles revealed that many of them caved to that mindset, obviously lying about their ages, eager to appear young and hot. Many had telltale boob jobs and brassy foiled hair, and some even posted glamour shots. Of course, they got more responses than those “physically authentic” models like me, but then I wasn’t looking for a guy who would date a self-proclaimed Youthful! Sexy! Fox! Internet dating for women my age seemed like some sort of scramble to beat the expiration of a freshness date. If we didn’t find someone we’d dry up and die alone like some crazy aunt who sleeps under butcher paper with her ferrets.