A True Ghost Story

Michael...The following true events happened in the summer of "58

At the end of Roosevelt Road and atop Mt Roosevelt, there stands a monument dedicated to the memory of our late great twenty-sixth President. I know that his likeness carved on Mt. Rushmore is a fitting tribute to his presidential accomplishments, but this monument atop Mt Roosevelt is special to me. The monument, a massive stone structure shaped like a silo stands on a square base some 16 feet by 16 feet. The round silo portion extends skyward almost 40 feet then flares out at the top just like a castle turret. You could drive your car all the way up to the monument. Ten stone stairs led up an opening that you could get through by leaning forward and ducking your head. Once inside you could see the stone stairs that circled around the interior until they reached the top. Story had it, you could see four states from the wooden platform at the top, but I never figured out which four states loomed in the distance

That summer Mother’s older sister, my Aunt Rachel and her new husband Frank Johnson, were flying into Rapid City for a visit. My mother confided to me that she did not think Johnson was his real last name because he was an Italian fellow that my Aunt Rachel had taken up with when she lived in Chicago. One day Mother received a phone call from my Aunt Rachel. She had married Frank Johnson and they were now living in Tampa. They were in the real estate business and were doing quite well. Their new real estate business was doing well enough, my aunt said, so that they could afford plane tickets to Rapid City.

Aunt Rachel was the family chronicler. She wrote about a youthful ancestor that signed on with a group of privateers. They ventured upon the high seas to sail under the American flag. Henry (first name) while cruising the West Indies fell in with a British ship and after a desperate fight captured the unlucky British vessel. Henry, in the ensuing battle, lost three fingers of his left hand by the stroke of a cutlass that was meant for his head. After that, this intrepid group of privateers met up with a British man-of-war of a very superior size and force and was in turn captured. Henry, along with his surviving shipmates spent eighteen months in an English prison. Finally, the British signed a treaty with the United States and Henry returned to his home in New York upon his release. His family, believing he had been lost in battle, greeted him joyously as one who had risen from the dead

There is a lot more in the chronicle about Henry and how he traveled west to Ohio, established settlements there, became a justice of the peace, became a surveyor, an agriculturist and a horticulturist. It all seemed to me to be somewhat anticlimactic after his adventures on the high seas. I mean what you do for an encore when you have sailed aboard what was for all practical purposes a “pirate ship” and then end up locked in an English prison for eighteen months in the year 1782 and lived to tell about it.

Mom told me some other things about Aunt Rachel. When she
lived in Chicago she was the top court stenographer. She could take court notes in shorthand faster and better than all the other court stenographers. One day while she was in the courtroom she got a psychic revelation that her fiancé, Lucky, had been killed in an accident. She ran out of the courtroom, ran to the nearest telephone, and heard the news that she already knew. After that, she took up with Frank Johnson and they left Chicago for Tampa.

I received a call from my friend, Joey who wanted to hang out with me, so I got on my bike and left Frank Johnson at the creek. He had his pants legs rolled up around his knees wading in the deepest part of the creek he could find. I waved at him as I went by, but he did not even look up. He was having too much fun.

Joey and I were hanging out down in downtown Deadwood. There were a lot of tourists in town for the festivities that preceded the big Days-of-76 parade. We were hoping to strike up a conversation with any unattached young ladies when we spotted it: a brand spanking new 1957 Mercury Montclair hardtop. If there was anything that Joey and I were experts on it was the latest model cars turned out by Detroit. We temporarily abandoned our plans for conversations with unattached young ladies and drifted across the street for a closer look at the big Mercury. It was a two-door coupe, painted red on the bottom with a white top. To complement all that there was a gold painted scoop on each side that started just short of the door and stretched back to the taillight.

Joey and I were giving the big Mercury a close-up inspection when a short round faced man came up and said, “What do you boys think? Do you like my car? Maybe you boys would like to go for a ride?” He was accompanied by a younger man who was tall and muscular looking.

“I don’t think so mister.” Joey quickly replied.

“You boys live here in town?” the shorter one of the two said.

“Joey does.” I replied. “I live outside of town.”

“Listen boys. My name is Sal and this is my friend Jimmy. We could use a couple of young men to show us around your town. We just drove in from Florida and don’t know much about the area. Could you use some extra money? I would pay you.”

I almost blurted out that my Aunt and Uncle, Rachel and Frank Johnson were staying with us were here from Florida too, but something made me stop short.

Now that Joey heard that money was involved he did a complete turn-a-round. “We could go with you mister, but we can’t leave our bikes here.”

“That’s no problem.” Sal said. He went around to back of the big Mercury and opened up the trunk and said, “Look at the size of this trunk. Jimmy and I will put your bikes in here and you can show us around.” As big as the trunk was the bikes would not quite fit in, but Jimmy produced some twine and tied the trunk lid shut and off we went.

Jimmy was doing the driving, Sal sat in the passenger seat and Joey and I were in the back when Sal turned around, pointed at Joey and myself and said, “Hey Jimmy! We’ve got a couple of live ones here to show us around, Scott and Joey. They are going to give us the grand tour.”

We headed out of Deadwood towards Lead through Central City. Central City rivaled Lead and Deadwood back in the gold rush days, but now was only a collection of boarded up businesses and non-descript homes. When we got to Lead, I volunteered the information that Lead was the site of the world’s largest gold mine and that if you wanted to you could take a tour of the mine. Jimmy spoke a complete sentence for the first time and said to Sal, “I don’t want to take no tour of no stinking mine. I just want to find Frank and get out of here.”

My blood ran cold and I could scarcely believe my ears. They couldn’t be talking about Frank Johnson could they? Sal turned to Joey and me and said, “Jimmy and I are looking for our cousin, Frank Johnson. We want to talk to him about some things. He is supposed to be here on a vacation. Do you boys know anything about a Frank Johnson that just got into this town?”

“Look at that one.” Jimmy says, looking at me through the rear view mirror. “He is sweating like a pig. He knows something. I can choke it out of him as soon as I can find a good spot.” Fortunately, for Joey and me, Jimmy in his haste to find a place where he could begin choking the life out of me began to speed up as he passed into Deadwood. We flew by Art in his gray Pontiac, strategically parked to apprehend any miscreant foolish enough to speed inside the town limits. Art is the Deadwood Police Chief and he patrols our streets in his big old ‘55 gray Pontiac. Art pulled in behind us and turned on his red light. Not wanting any trouble with the local police Jimmy quickly pulled over to the side of the road and stopped.

Art quickly approached the driver side of big Mercury and said to Jimmy, “You were going a little fast as you came into the city limits here. I see by your license plate you are from Florida. I just wanted to caution you to take it easy and have a safe time while you are in our town.” Then he looked in the back seat, saw Joey and me sitting there, and said to me, “What are you and Joey doing there?”

Before I could stammer out a reply Sal sputtered out, “These boys were giving us a tour of all the sights around here.”

“Well, that is really a nice thing to do. We all need to make sure our visitors have a good time so they will want to come back,” Art said in his best chamber-of-commerce voice.

“I need to get home,” were the next words to come out of my terror-stricken body.

Joey could only manage two words, “Me too.”

Sal had to get out and fold the seat forward so Joey and I could scamper out and as he stood there Joey recovered his ability to speak and accosted Sal, “What about the money you said you were going to pay us?”

“I don’t owe you boys a thing.”

Art got wind of what was going on and said still in his best chamber-of-commerce voice to Sal, “If you fellows said you would pay these boys for taking you on a tour then it might be a good idea to do that. They did take you fellows on a nice tour. That would probably be less than the twenty five dollar fine for you could get for speeding.” Sal dug out his wallet and deposited six one-dollar bills in Joey’s hand of which Joey in turn handed me three bills. Under the watchful eye of Art, Jimmy cut the twine that held the trunk lid in place and Joey and I rode off as fast as we could pedal. I glanced back one time and Art was still talking to them. He was probably grilling them about a place to vacation in Florida.


When I arrived home Aunt Rachel was lounged in a hammock stretched between the two huge pine trees fronting the driveway to our home. Frank Johnson was pushing our old rotary lawn mower over the lawn. I hopped off my bicycle, not bothering to put down the kickstand and left the front wheel spinning rapidly. I ran over to Frank Johnson and said, “There are two men in town looking for you.”


He and the mower came to an abrupt stop and he said, “What are you talking about?”

I related the whole story about the big Mercury, Sal and Jimmy, the tour, almost being choked like a chicken, and Art. Then I pulled the three one-dollar bills out my pocket as if to prove I was telling the truth. I have heard stories about people turning all colors of the rainbow when confronted with bad news and now I had reason to believe those stories were true. His complexion went from completely white to beet red and then back again at least twice and perhaps a third time. Finally, he just sagged down to the ground and said in a low voice, “This is not good.”

“What do those guys want with you?” I demanded to know.


“One thing for sure is they just don’t want to talk.”


“Are they going to try to beat you up?”

“They are going to do worse than that?”

“What do you mean worse than that? Why are they after you?”


“Did you tell them where you live?”


“I told them I lived outside of town.”


“But did you tell them where outside of town?”


“No, but all they have to do is ask around. Everybody in town knows where I live.”


About that time Aunt Rachel popped up from the hammock, looked around to see why the lawnmower had stopped, noticed that Frank Johnson and I were having a serious discussion and asked, “Frank, why are you are sitting on the ground? Are you feeling all right? Pushing that heavy old mower must have worn you out. You don‘t look good at all.”

“I’m ok honey. I’m just a little tired from trying to do too much,”

“What are you two whispering about over there? Whatever it is, it looks serious.”

“ It’s okay sweetie pie. Scott was just telling me about the Deadwood Days-of Seventy-Six parade tomorrow and I decided to rest for a bit.”

“My goodness, Frank. You are as white as that sheet hanging on that clothesline over there. You need to go in and lay down before supper. Let Scott finish the mowing.”

After supper I finished the mowing, put the mower away in the garage and turned to go in the house to get my peach cobbler when I saw Frank Johnson standing by the front door. He motioned to me to come with him and we walked around the front of the house and then over to and down the back steps that led down to Roosevelt Road. We stood there for a few minutes, both of us kicking dirt clods by the side of the road, not saying anything. Finally I asked him, “What is going on? Who are those guys?”

“Sal, Jimmy and I all work for a guy in Tampa named Santo.”


“I thought you sold real estate.”

“No, I don’t sell real estate. I work for Santo. He controls the Bolita in Tampa.”

“Bolita?”

“It’s sort of like the numbers game in Chicago only in Tampa they do it with numbered balls.”

“Are you a mob guy?”

“If you put it that way, I guess the answer is yes.”

“Does Aunt Rachel know what you do?”

“No, she has no idea. I met her after her fiancé, Lucky, died in that car accident. She never would have had anything to do with me if she knew I was a mob guy. I told her I sold real estate; actually I collected for the guys in Chicago. I wanted to make a fresh start in Tampa, go straight and make a nice life for your Aunt. I did try real estate, once we got to Tampa, but it just wasn’t working out.”

“So you got a transfer from the Chicago mob to the Tampa Mob?

“Well, it’s not quite that simple, but if you put it that way, Yeah. I came highly recommended too.”

“I had no idea you could do that. I still don’t know why Sal and Jimmy would drive all the way from up here from Tampa. What did you do to get them to drive all that way?”

Frank Johnson kicked another clod of dirt and then he said in a low voice, “ I’ve been skimming a little off the top of the collection for about a year and Sal and Santo never missed it until now.”

“Holy crap, you have been stealing from those mob guys?”

“Well, if you put it that way, yeah, you’re right.”


“How much did you take?”


“Altogether about fifty thousand.”


I stood there for a few moments while I took in the enormity of Frank Johnson’s crime and said, “Frank, these guys are going to kill you, aren’t they?” He could only manage a small nod of his head. “I mean, I heard they shoot you, then put your body in the car trunk and then take you out to the country to dump your body. Frank, we are already in the country. There is no need for them to put you in the car trunk after they shoot you.”


Frank replied, “After you went outside to finish the mowing I told your Mother and Rachel everything. Your Mother is really at me for putting you in danger. Rachel is packing our clothes up. She is mad at me too, but I think she is going to stay with me. I told your mother we need to leave tonight so she is going to drive us to Rapid City. Rachel and I will catch a late night flight to Minneapolis.”


Twilight began to set in as we turned to start back up the stairs. We heard a car coming and dived for cover. Turns out it was Mr. Burring in his 1953 Golden Dragon Kaiser racing up the road. We breathed a sigh of relief, stood up and brushed ourselves off. Then like our native bobcat stalking his prey Sal’s big Mercury crept up on us. Sal was out of the car in a flash with his pistol pointed directly at Frank Johnson’s face. “You shouldn’t have taken the money, Frank. Santo is not happy with you,” he growled. “Both of you get in the car.”


“Leave him here, Sal,” Frank Johnson gestured towards my now trembling body. “He can’t hurt you.”


There was no arguing with Sal. Jimmy came around, grabbed me by the collar and deposited me in the back seat. Sal shoved Frank Johnson roughly onto the seat next to me. Jimmy quipped as he and Sal got into the front seat, “Ain’t no local yokel cop gonna save you this time, boy. You got lucky today, but now your luck has run out.”


My mind raced to think of something to save our hides. I looked over at Frank Johnson and Sal still had his pistol pointed directly at his face. He was not going to be any help. Sal told Jimmy to drive on up the road to find a deserted spot to where he could “let us out.” We quickly passed the log cabin and the “White House.” Mr. Burring, standing out in his front yard, glanced up at the sound of spraying gravel as we went speeding toward Mt Roosevelt. He just stood there staring at us in total amazement.

As we passed Mr. Burring, in total desperation, I blurted out, “He buried the money at the monument.” This piqued Sal’s interest and the pistol swung over to my face. This was not the result I was looking for, but at least I had Sal’s attention.


“What are talking about, boy. Frank, did you bury Santo’s money at some monument.” The pistol swung back to Frank Johnson.


Frank Johnson sensing an opening took the ball and ran with it. “I buried the money at the monument.” He was clueless as to what monument he had buried the non-existent money, but to his credit he took any opening he could get.


“What monument are you talking about, Frank?”


“He buried the money at the monument at the end of this road. You just keep on this road and we’ll come to it. It’s a monument to Teddy Roosevelt,” I managed to gasp out.


The pistol swung back to me and Sal said, “You better not be lying, boy.”

A full moon shone brightly as we arrived at the monument. Jimmy stopped the big Mercury, got out, folded the front seat back, grabbed my arm and yanked me out of the back seat. To accomplish this task he planted his left foot against one of the boulders that lined the circular drive. In the moonlight, I noticed his awkward posture. I raised my left foot knee high and raked his shin all the way down to his foot with the heel of my shoe. I then launched my body into his mid-section and he tumbled backward howling in pain as he went down. I ran toward the monument and shots rang out as Sal began firing wildly in my direction.


I had no other option as, Jimmy, by that time had regained his footing and joined Sal in shooting at me. I ran up the stairs and into the monument as their bullets banged against the stonewalls. Safe for the moment I quickly realized, just like a rat in a maze, I was trapped. Maybe they would be too scared to come inside the monument after me. That hope faded away when I saw Sal and Jimmy dragging Frank Johnson with them and heading straight for the monument. There was one choice and that was up the stone steps circling up the inside wall of the monument that led to the wooden platform on top. Once on the high wooden platform I tried to make myself as small as possible. To my horror, Sal and Jimmy came slowly up the stone steps behind me pushing Frank Johnson ahead. Once inside there was some hesitation about climbing up to the top of the monument, but there was no way Jimmy was going to let me escape after what I had done to him and Sal still clung to the faint hope that the money was buried somewhere nearby.


Sal pushed Frank Johnson onto the wooden platform and then Jimmy was close behind. It was such a cozy little group; myself and Frank Johnson about to die, and Sal and Jimmy ready to be the instruments of our deaths. Sal, still clinging to hope of recovering the money began to negotiate, “Frank, if you tell me where the money is I will let the kid go.”


This enraged Jimmy. He grabbed Frank Johnson by the front of his shirt and started yelling at him that he had had enough and he had better produce the money or die. This startled Frank Johnson out of his stupor and he began to fight with Jimmy. Unnerved, Jimmy stepped back to duck the ferocious blows. Frank Johnson pummeled him with his fists, but Jimmy succeeded in ducking a particularly wild swing and as he did, Frank Johnson lost his balance and went over the side of the monument. Down, down, down he went, some forty feet below. We all froze, waiting for the sound of his body hitting the ground. There was no sound.


Back in Tampa Sal and Frank Johnson had been close friends working with Santo and his gang and it was my belief at the time that Sal wanted to spare Frank Johnson’s life. However, now that Frank Johnson was out of the way Sal harbored no compunction about killing. He grabbed me around the neck with one hand and with the other hand grabbed my seat end, lifted me up above the monument top rail and threw me as hard as he could out into the night air. The one thing I remember about that flight was that it seemed like it took an awful long time to reach terra firma.


I landed with a soft thud. To my everlasting amazement Frank Johnson was standing upright apparently unhurt by the fall. Alongside Frank, a luminescent figure dressed in a long overcoat with a monocle in one eye raised his hand and delivered these familiar lines, “Walk softly and carry a big stick, you will go far. Up San Juan Hill you Rough Riders. Remember the Maine. I feel as fit as a bull moose.” Then the apparition turned and walked straight off into the pine trees and vanished.


Pistol shots rang out overhead. As Frank and I gazed upward we glimpsed another luminescent figure in pirate garb chasing Sal and Jimmy around the top of the monument. Jimmy and Sal were shooting at the pirate to no avail. Our pirate still wielding his cutlass now chased Jimmy and Sal down the monument stairs and out into the night and remained close at their heels still whacking away at them. As the now terrified Jimmy and Sal passed us running flat out, I could plainly see that our pirate was missing three fingers on his left hand. They headed for the big Mercury and managed to get inside and start the engine all the while taking blows from the cutlass of our pirate. Spitting and spinning tires from the big Mercury formed a huge cloud of dirt and dust as Jimmy gunned the engine and headed for the exit road. Just visible in the moonlight and through all the dust and dirt our pirate had seated himself on the roof of the big Mercury, still whacking away at Jimmy and Sal with his cutlass.


Frank Johnson and I sat down on a couple of the boulders that lined the circular drive and listened as the engine noise from the big Mercury lessened, then faded into nothingness. We looked at each other and then burst out laughing. I mean we hee-hawed. It was the first time in a very long day that we had something to laugh about and we certainly enjoyed the moment. Finally, Frank Johnson said to me, “Can you believe what just happened to us? Nobody is going believe that we fell from the top of that monument and didn’t get at least some broken bones. Unless, we died and just don’t know it.


“I don’t think we died, Frank. T.R. and Henry just saved out lives.”


“What are you talking about?”


“T.R. is Teddy Roosevelt, the twenty-sixth president of the United States. This monument’s dedicated to him. He loved these Black Hills. You could see his ranch from the top of the monument. He saved our lives. He really did.”


“What about the pirate? How are you going to explain that?”


“That’s easy. If you ever read any of Aunt Rachel’s family chronicles you would know about Henry. He was the one who lost three fingers on his left hand. They were cut off in a battle to take over a British ship. He and his shipmates sailed under the American flag. These self-proclaimed privateers were trying to run the British out of the West Indies. I would just call them pirates.”


We sat there for a while in silence trying to recover our and make some sense out of what had just happened when we heard a car coming up the road. Frank Johnson stood up and prepared to run. I told him it was okay. It was the familiar engine whine of Mom’s ‘52 Chevy and not the deep-throated roar of the big Mercury. We ran to meet the oncoming car. Mom braked sharply when the headlight glare picked us out of the darkness. Aunt Rachel rushed out of the passenger door and ran to see if we were all right. “Frank, I knew you were in trouble. I saw you falling when I was back at the house. Did you fall? Are you hurt?”


“I fell, but I am not hurt. We had a little trouble with those guys from Tampa that I told you about. They are gone now and I don’t think they are coming back.”


“I saw you fall a long distance. Are you sure you are alright?”


“I’m ok. I must have landed in some soft dirt up there by the monument.”


About that time Mom reached us and inspected me for broken bones. Satisfied that I was a whole person we all headed back to the car. No one spoke during the ride back to the house. Frank Johnson and I were alive and that was enough.

Epilogue

I am telling this story now because all the other participants in this story have long gone to their reward.


Sal and Jimmy reportedly sped through Sturgis, South Dakota at over a hundred miles per hour. The Sturgis police gave chase, but soon lost them. Sturgis police radioed the South Dakota Highway Patrol that the 1957 red and white Mercury Montclair bearing Florida plates they chased out of town had someone in pirate garb atop the roof. The dispatcher for the Highway Patrol sent a trooper to Sturgis to see if the police there had been drinking.


Sal and Jimmy made it into Nebraska. At dawn the just across the White River on Highway 385 close to Chadron, Nebraska they sat in the big Mercury, now out of gas, still oozing blood from the many cuts on their bodies. The Nebraska State Trooper, who found them, took them to the hospital in Chadron and arranged a tow for the big Mercury.


After checking out of the hospital in Chadron about a week later, Sal drove the big Mercury all the way to Tampa. Once in Tampa he was never seen or heard from again. Jimmy found true love with a male nurse, named Paul, who attended Jimmy’s wounds. They bought a little bakeshop in downtown Chadron and Jimmy ran the business for many years. In all that time, reportedly, Jimmy never crossed the Nebraska state line into South Dakota.


Frank Johnson and Aunt Rachel settled in a city in the northwest and this time made it big in real estate. Reportedly, Santo received a suitcase full of money and called in the contract he put out on Frank Johnson’s life. Aunt Rachel opened up a psychic reader shop and raked in the cash. I never saw them again


The Forest Service closed off the road to the monument, removed the outside stairs and barricaded the opening. They did all this to prevent vandalism and to keep the drunks from going up the inside stairs and falling to their death. The bronze plaque commemorating the monument to the memory of Teddy Roosevelt pried from its mountings by vandals was replaced. It’s gone again leaving a dark empty spot. I never fail to go up there when I visit the Hills. The excitement at seeing the monument again as I walk up the path builds at each turn and I find myself running to catch the first glimpse of the monument.

As for me, by a quirk of fate, I ended up living in Tampa.

When the producers of the movie "Fargo" decided to label their film as a true story they were told that they couldn't claim their story was true if it wasn't true. They said "Nuts to that" we can claim it is true if we want to.

He's a Maniac

Michael…I managed to get my buddy some help in spite of himself.

Rob and I are reclining on the sofa in the watch room. We should be studying for the upcoming driver exam, but the Fire Chief’s Handbook and the Firefighting Tactics book remain safely in their appointed place on the shelf. It is summertime and the fall examination for driver is far away. Our brunch of softly scrambled eggs on a large piece of Cuban bread slathered with mayonnaise, topped with crisp bacon strips, raw onions, salt, pepper and a little tobasco sauce cause our eyelids to become exceedingly heavy.

A police officer walks in off the street and helps himself to the ever-present firehouse pot of coffee. Rob sits up with a start and says to me, “We should not be giving these cops free coffee.” This is an astonishing remark coming from my friend and my mind races for the reason behind it. Suddenly, I realize that Rob drives like a maniac 100% of the time. “You got a traffic ticket, didn’t you, Rob,” I inquire? There is no reply and the chase is on. He will have no peace until I find out his secret. Out the door and up the stairs we go. He tries to hide in a bathroom stall, but I am relentless in my search for truth. Finally I corner him in a downstairs broom closet and to get me to leave him alone he utters one word, “WILLFULL.” My mind reels, Rob has gotten a ticket for willful and wanton reckless driving.

It seems as though Rob has a trunk full of tools and he tried to use that as an excuse for the back end of his old Plymouth swerving wildly when going around a sharp curve. The officer that pulled him over wasn’t buying it and of course Rob has to argue long and loud which does not endear him to officer. They nearly come to blows, but thank goodness that did not happen. As a result he gets the maximum traffic ticket he can without going to jail.

Our coffee drinking officer quickly enlists to help and he calls the police officer, which wrote the ticket, to come over to our fire station. Negotiations begin and our officer ends up going to court with Rob. Reduction of the charges from willful and wanton reckless driving to careless driving is a fait accompli.

Those Houses were not of Good Repute.

Michael....Any mention of Deadwood must include the infamous “cat houses” down on the lower end of town. They have been there for many years and are a relic of the rip-roaring days when the town was just a mining camp. There are three “cat houses” in our town. They are the Shasta, the Pine and the Cozy, all in a row.

My two friends and I after consuming two cans of beer among us decide we are men and we are going to partake of the activities that the “house” offers. We walk up the stairs and ring the bell. The madam comes out and looks us over and asks “How old are you boys?” It seems as though there is an age limit here. This may be a house of ill repute, but by some stretch of the imagination there are some rules that just cannot be broken. My friends can go in because they are already sixteen years old, but I readily confess to the glaring madam to being only fifteen. At this point my two friends decide that they are sticking with their underage friend and will not go in without me. Years later I sill remember just how terrified I was at that moment and how glad I was to retreat down those stairs, now completely sober, with my virtue and my money intact.

I recently received an email from my friend Richard in New Mexico detailing his eyewitness account of the closing down of the “cathouses” by the states attorney.

My wife and I decided to travel to Sioux Falls with our daughter who was two at the time. We were going to spend a few days with my folks over the Christmas holidays. We decided to leave very early in the morning and as we were going through town we were met with a whole downtown full of police and highway patrol cars. It seems that very morning (unbeknown to the local police) the state raided the town and shut down all of the “cathouses” on the strip. Upstairs, downstairs…every cathouse in town was unceremoniously being raided. People were running about in nearly every stage of dress…and undress. As I recall, they were shut down for some time after that. I honestly can’t recall if it was Christmas or Thanksgiving, but as I recall, it was at that time of year. When we returned from our vacation townspeople were still “murmuring” about the night the lights went out in our town. It wasn’t long after this that the states attorney that started all this was summarily booted out of office.

A Gene Story

Michael...I must stop and give you an update about your Uncle Gene.

Your Uncle Gene is not in the best of health now. He has had several bouts with cancer and has had both knees replaced so he has a little trouble getting around. Then there was the time his heart stopped, but the doctors managed to get it going again. He smoked until spots were discovered on his lungs. He still eats greasy food, but quitting smoking will most likely give him some extra time here on this earth. No matter what happens to him I will always remember him as a tower of strength, resplendent in his Air Force khakis.

If you were to go to Great Falls to visit your Uncle Gene you would be taken fishing. No questions asked, the camper is already to go, his boat is hitched and if you don’t give him a hard time he will provide the sandwiches. The best time I ever had with him was when we headed out for a weeks stay at his favorite lake. We caught lake trout until our arms ached from the effort. We cooked the trout over an open fire and I ate them until I hurt. Our weeks stay ended when several other campers pulled up to the lake and your Uncle Gene said, “This place is getting really crowded.”

There are a lot of Gene “stories” out there, but the latest one came from your cousin Lorrie’s husband, John. He told about the time he was out on a lake fishing with your Uncle Gene and he was about to freeze. Now this was a rite of passage for the new son-in-law, an initiation into the clan, of sorts. Now John doesn’t drink coffee, but he just wanted something warm to keep his hands from freezing, so when your Uncle Gene got out his thermos full of coffee, just to be polite, he asked John if he wanted some. John replied that yes he would like some coffee. This caught your Uncle Gene off guard because he knew John did not drink coffee. Being as there was only one cup, that being the cap to the thermos, your Uncle Gene began to look around for another cup. He spotted a stryofoam cup lying in the bottom of the boat that had previously held earthworms to be used for bait. There was a small amount of dirt in the bottom of the cup so your Uncle Gene emptied that out of the cup and for good measure rinsed the cup out in the lake water. He then poured coffee into the cup and handed it to John.

Life is good at Station 24

Michael...You were just a baby when I received my assignment to Station 24. I mean you could not have been more than six months old. I never did talk with you about those early years with the fire department. Now I have a lot of time on my hands to regale you with stories of those days.

When I walk into Fire Station number twenty-four to begin my new assignment I
see her—sitting there like some great hulking red bird of prey waiting to come screaming out of its lair at the slightest provocation. Two huge black tires shiny with glycerin support the cab where the driver and the captain ride. At the very rear of the truck the two rear tires sit directly below the tiller seat. Directly in back of the cab are the seats where the sidemen sit and between them is the heart of our bird of prey, the engine. Amidships is the turntable for the one hundred foot aerial ladder. The aerial operates so smoothly that rotation with a firefighter on the aerial is a safe procedure, something not possible on the other aerial ladders on the job. Below the turntable are the four outrigger jacks that support the aerial ladder extended

Mounted underneath the aerial ladder are the bangor and straight ladders. The side compartments of our truck hold our generator, lights, extension cords, thick lifeline ropes, self-contained breathing apparatus, and forcible entry tools. Sharp red handled axes mounted close to the cab are ready to wreak havoc on any obstacle that gets in the path of a determined firefighter. Her red color fades in spots and there are spots where there is an application of new red paint, because fire got too close and blistered the paint. She is truly a thing of beauty to behold.

Our fire station is very old and if you did not know that by the condition of the building you might ask what those small holes are on both sides of the doorway. You see,
these were holes used to hold the pins that attach to the fire horse harnesses. The old fire chief used to come clip clopping around to this fire station in the dead of night in his horse drawn buggy. Then the old chief would fire the night watch on the spot if he discovered the poor soul nodding off. Thank goodness our crew doesn’t have to stand a wakeful watch during the night hours. We don’t spend a whole lot of time cleaning our fire station. We can concentrate on fighting fire, cooking and sleeping. Work management has not yet come to our fire department. Later on we will move to a new station and spend all of our time cleaning the place, but life is good for now.

Our ladder truck glides swiftly into the warm spring night. The call from dispatch comes in the early morning hours. There is a large two-story home fully involved in flames. Our engine company is responding with us along with one other engine company already on the scene preparing to lay two hose lines from the closest hydrant. There is little need for the siren because of the hour. The overhead beacon light turns slowly against the darkness, seemingly as sleepy as the crew. There is a chief officer coming from downtown and the rescue car races ahead. Our engine company makes a connection at the hydrant and begins to pump the two hose lines laid down by the other engine company. We pass by our engine company and take up a position at the front of building as the smoke is now blowing to the rear of the home. There will be no ventilation work tonight. The fire is through the roof and has ventilated itself. Our crew sets the aerial up and we will pour water on it until it dies. We return to the station at dawn. All occupants of the burning home escaped the fire and there are no injured firefighters.