Sunday at Summer Lake

Tractor Tales
By Jim Pluimer
Posted 5/15/03

My fishing line snapped somewhere in dreamland, and I woke up the next morning with a sudden jerk; I was back in the world of the ordinary. I got dressed and did a double-dutch, double-scrub on my hands and ears before showing up at the breakfast table. I was immediately inspected and passed. We had Cream of Wheat with steamed prunes that morning; it wasn't too bad.

Later on we walked over to the church for the 10 a.m. service. Reverend Gray, from Thor, was pastor of the tiny Kirke av det Vanlige (Church of the Ordinary). The name of the church was adopted to avoid any argument of the nit-pick nature. Thus: "The Ordinary." Reverend Gray was a very cautious soul when preaching to this bunch of old-time Norwegians. He was neither "too little" nor "too much." He stayed well within the "Gray Area."

We were out of church in less time than it takes the Dutch Reformed to get started. Stepping outside, we were greeted by a misty east wind that promised us an all-day rain. It was a gray world indeed. Instead of going home like I expected, we (the entire congregation) headed across the street for the Tower Cafe. Something was in the air and it smelled like hamburgers!

"Where are we going?" I asked Shirley.

"Community lunch," she replied. "We only do it during the summer months."

A1 added, "Remember all the folks that showed up for the dance last night? They're paying for it. The whole town shows up for it too. Even Tin-Can-Mike!"

The aroma of hamburgers made my stomach rumble so loud, it sounded like an approaching thunderstorm. Once inside we made our way to the ballroom area where the tables were waiting and the food was ready. With the crowd finally settled in, one of the locals, Bob Eigersund, yelled out, "Fri kjøttkaker (free hamburgers)! Tusen takk høy klasse!" Even the kids laughed at that one. The burgers came in by the platter, and basket upon basket of delicious sugepotet.

Summer Lake Note-

Sugepotet were like miniature sugestim filled with potato instead of fish and were BETTER than French fries!

The last person to arrive for lunch was Tin-Can-Mike. He was riding on a beautiful gray steed that was bigger than the biggest Deere. Mike was a hermit, and the town kids genuinely feared him. During the summer, he rode in twice a week on his horse, Greyfell - once on Wednesday to get his supply of hermetikk (canned goods), and once on Sunday for kjøttkakers. He never spoke a word to anyone; he lived in a world of nods.

It was great having the whole town under one roof: eating, laughing, socializing and nodding. Lots of kids were there too, quietly checking out the "new guys"--me and Harv. Harvey was seated about 15 feet away and was motioning like he wanted to flip a sugepotet at me. With a little encouragement he tossed one high into the air. It immediately caught the attention of the other kids in the room as their heads traced the trajectory--right into my open mouth! Acting as if nothing happened, I calmly began chewing the flying potato. Muted squeals scattered throughout the spacious hall. Harv and I had taken our first step into Summer Lake's kid society.

The rain intensified. After all, June IS known as the month of rains in Minnesota. The Valley of the Pines was losing its bold, defining outlines, and Mother Nature was slowly closing the lid on her paint box. I listened to Uncle Al's fishing stories that afternoon. Although they were interesting and sometimes funny, I think they were mostly whoppers. The only believable part of the afternoon was his story about fly fishing and the Melon River Flea.

³Take a look at these flies, Jimmy," Al said. "I tied them myself."

I looked inside the box and couldn't believe my eyes. "Wow, I've never seen anything like it!" I said while marveling over the delicate, detailed patterns of the twisted hairs.

"I call this one the Melon River Flea," Al proudly pointed out. "I sent six of them to the governor back in early May but I haven't heard from him."

"You mean Orville Freeman?" I asked. Al gave me an affirmative nod.

I sat there in awe of my uncle, then my "newsreel" imagination kicked in: "Yesterday, while fishing on the Isabella River, Governor Orville Freeman landed the largest brook trout ever to be taken from Minnesota waters. The ŒBrookie¹ weighed in at 5# 10 oz., easily breaking the previous state record. Governor Freeman says he owes it all to his 'Melon River Flea' and A1 Tavista of Summer Lake!"

"Jimmy. Did you hear what I said?" Uncle Al said while trying to get my attention.

"What?" I asked.

"I said if it's nice out tomorrow we¹ll go fishing. Maybe we can catch us a couple of lunkers. How's that sound?"

My heart beat to a rhythm that would have taken out the average adult.