Scarlet Stone

Well, another Fourth of July has come and gone, and I enjoyed the entire week ramping up to the holiday by bunting my deck rails, in addition to Porch Lady and adding some colorful lawn spinners to my yard. I enjoyed a dinner in Ely with my spirited “woo-woo” friend who is a kindred soul, and we have woven a close relationship from sharing life-altering events for over two decades. I was joking with her, saying the most stress I’d had on that hot day was trying to manage my chocolate-dipped swirl cone as the melting ice cream quickly formed rivers that threatened my clean shirt.
It was what I refer to as a “high-maintenance-cone day, and we have all had them, though mostly in our youth when our cone-management skills were not yet fully honed. It’s very stressful to watch a child with a cone on a hot day and I have to avert my eyes, knowing they are experiencing the challenge of a lifetime, and will soon have to endure a plop in their lap followed by tears.
As I comically chatted about my cone situation, I knew on that day, in that moment, I was seemingly free from huge concerns … yet on a larger scale, in this country as of late, things can change very quickly. The escalating threats to our democracy surely had slapped a wet rag right over the top of my usual festive Fourth of July mood, but I still attended the Tower parade.
I had just bought a sturdy camp chair for setting up streetside in front of the Timberjay office, and I executed this mission on Thursday morning, long before Friday’s 11 a.m. parade, choosing a prime spot in the shade for myself and a friend and her grands. I was glad I did, because many chairs were already securing the best spots, a practice that seems to aggravate some folks who find it unfair.
Well, it’s fair game, folks ... so when you show up ten minutes before the parade starts and can’t get your chair on a curb, you must resign yourselves to stand. I simply call my method parade insurance.
I’ve been stuck behind big, tall guys for years and I-have-HAD IT ... so I wanted to see that parade, get my needed dose of community, join in the festivities while visiting friends, and encourage the innocent kids to scramble for candy.
Getting a front row seat brings a funny story to mind. It was the summer of 1993, and I was living in Chisholm with my then husband Mike, who was a crane operator at National Steel in Nashwauk. He was proud of his skill and would occasionally remark, “Crane operators boom up higher.” However, we will keep the clutch held fast on that one for now.
Excitement was at a high because Hibbing was celebrating their Centennial and a huge parade was about to take place. We had strategically set up our chairs in the early morning outside of the Homer Bar on First Avenue, a favorite old haunt of ours.
At that time, owners Big Nick and Rosey Maras were running the place and had been for decades.
Big Nick, with his huge hands, was a larger-than-Hibbing sorta character and the gem of the Homer, who would draw in the patrons to listen to his colorful stories. But he kept any rowdies in line with a curse and a boot out the door. I had started screen-printing T-shirts by then, and Big Nick asked me to do their centennial shirts. Back then, at least for me, doing designs and color separations were rendered by hand, as I didn’t even own a computer.
The design was a three-color creation on a light blue shirt and featured wooden whiskey barrels from the prohibition era with some humorous, historic verbiage pertaining to the bar’s basement. Just before the parade, I eased into my chair with the hubster on my left and on the other side was the elderly Widow “M,” a sharp-tongued, comical old redhead in her big blue muumuu and support hose with her cane resting between her plump knees.
I’d met her at The Sabin O’Neill Bar in Chisholm at a regular Sunday polka event that was a popular social venue for fun-loving seniors. Legendary accordionist Frankie Kramer was often there, as well as Dick and John Sabin, and let’s not forget One Beer Frank,... who prided himself on his ability to limit his intake, hence earning that nickname.
At any rate, we were yucking it up as the first tissue-flowered float came into view, when out of the crowd appeared a young photographer with his camera and tripod.
He rushed to set up his rig right in front of the widow, who looked him up and down, lifted that cane and gave him a couple of jabs while yelling, “Hey you, I didn’t set this chair up early to look at your hind-end!” Off he strutted with equipment haphazardly clutched and a bruised ego ... no doubt. It was a great comical moment for me, and every time I sit at a parade I think of the widow “M.”
It was by far the best Iron Range parade I have ever witnessed, with several marching bands proceeding in nice, straight rows, some still wearing the old-style wool uniforms with brass buttons. What a memory! Yesterday, after thinking about the Homer Bar design, I headed to my basement print shop to look through the remaining stack of musty design proofing squares from over the decades.
Unfortunately, I no longer have the Homer Bar design but have so many others such as The Stardust Lounge’s centennial design featuring a Model-T Ford with a sign that reads, “Alice (location name) to Hibbing 15 cents,” and the centennial dates, 1893 to 1993.
I knew owners Paul and Rochelle Stark, and the design featured one of Paul’s vintage cars. In my screen-printing collection are designs from Tuffy’s & Checco’s Bars of Hibbing, Helen’s Diner and many from Jim’s Sports Club of Chisholm.
There’re also designs from Ironworld, various town festivals including Merritt Days, designs from the Riverside Inn, National Steel Pellet Co, not to mention the 18th Annual Bay View Flo’tila … where we got a phone call from Bob, the owner requesting us to hurry and print more shirts as he had sold out. We printed a few dozen, slapped on a rush/travel charge and delivered them.
The list goes on, and so I guess I am qualified to call myself an experienced hippie printer!
This Fourth of July parade seemed very different than any othe, and I did my best to not think about the state of our current American government, but the fear, anger, shock and drastic changes make it nearly impossible to forget. I found it tough to celebrate our independence when we’re losing it.
This “big ugly bill” of Trump’s is rolling in like the blackest threatening storm I’ve ever seen at a parade. I sat in my chair while memories of past parades tumbled through my head like the Tootsie Rolls being thrown to the innocent children that scurried to grab them. I saw the flyover and thought about the millions of wasted dollars spent on Trump’s parades.
It’s tough to joyfully move forward when wondering about the pain and anguish ahead for so many of our American citizens as they face illegal deportation, lose their Medicaid and food benefits, and who knows what next?
Our communities in rural northern Minnesota may lose clinics and hospitals, and I do wonder if we’re just going to see the fabric of democracy fraying with the winds of each passing holiday.
I popped back to the present moment, choosing to enjoy the efforts and creativity of float builders and band participants who marched through the heat of the day for us. When next year’s parade moves through town, what will the backdrop be?
None of us know, but we can choose to support our communities and strive to still be our best in light of it all. Our friends and families need us to hold steady with the hope that America and democracy will come out from behind the dark clouds that are moving across this land.