Matt is slight of build and the eyes behind his spectacles are sparkling blue. When he first got the glasses, they were not fitted to his satisfaction, so he improved them by grinding the lenses himself. He reminds me in many ways of my own father, who had a bit of Matt’s genius and versatility. When I see Matt work, I seem to see my father again ... building, planning, dreaming, trying to make something out of nothing.
Ervin owns the general store in Herbster. Every week he drives his truck to Duluth for supplies, carrying with him a frayed, pocket-sized notebook in which he has written down everything people have asked for. Once I had a chance to look through this notebook which Ervin treasures with his life. Only Ervin could possibly know what was written in it.
Ervin’s capacity for eating is marvelous to behold. While the children stare at him in petrified wonder, he will put together a sandwich of cheese, sausage, fish, butter, meat balls, even strips of raw meat. His capacity for work is equally limitless. He is a powerful man and can wrestle with bags of cement all day long. But he cannot catch fish! At least that is his story and his claim to fame in the area: never to have caught a fish that amounted to anything. I don’t believe a word of it.
Ervin fights many of the same business battles I have fought with no capital and extended credit. He worries about it, but the odds are a challenge to him. You cannot long endure at Bark Point unless you are capable of meeting challenges.
In addition to his appalling eating habits, Ervin chews tobacco and is a horrifying master of the art. He showed our boys the full range of techniques employed for spitting out of a fast-moving truck, and they thought it was wonderful. But he has also taught them all about the bears and deer and foxes and wolves and other wild life that abound in our forest. He helped me with the plans for our house, with the boat, with the art of reading a compass, and with the geography of the myriad lakes and streams hidden throughout the area. Ervin knows everything and says very little. He is easy to be with, and a solid friendship based upon mutual respect has grown between us.
When spring begins to come, something that has been kept buried in our winter hearts can no longer be suppressed. The children start saying, “We’ll be leaving for Bark Point soon, won’t we?” One spring day when the children were on vacation from school, I packed the boys into the car and we set out for an early visit to our spiritual home. The day of our arrival was clear and beautiful. The ice had gone out of the Bay and clumps of snow remained only here and there. New grass was coming up from the steaming earth. There were pink-flecked clouds in the sky and a glorious smell everywhere that filled us both with peace and exhilaration.
But early the next morning it began to snow, coming down so thick and fast it was a sight to behold. My exclusively summer experience of the North Country warned me of nothing. We delighted in the snowy wonderland seen from the snugness of the house, and bundled up in heavy clothes and boots to go out and revel in it.
It snowed all through the night. On the following morning, it seemed to be coming on stronger than ever. I phoned Ervin—fortunately the telephone lines were still working. He thought the snow might stop by evening.
“How are your supplies?” he said.
“Still o.k.,” I said.