Sharon saw Frank Matson walking through the doorway into Rick’s Café. “Frank’s here,” she told the cook, then took a cup and the coffee pot over to the breakfast table and poured him a cup within an instant of when he sat down. “How are you doing today?” she asked.

“’Bout the same,” he said, adding, “Just bring me the usual.”

“Hey, Frank,” LeBlanc said, “You know why black kids have a flat spot on the top of their heads?” Frank didn’t answer, but LeBlanc supplied the punch line, anyway: “That’s where the doctor puts his foot when he pulls their tails off.”

Frank groaned. LeBlanc had to know every racist joke in the world; at least his well had never run dry. It got a little tiresome after a while. No, more than a little tiresome. He shook his head and said, “Sam, you know, some day the NAACP is going to come up here with a hit squad, looking for you.”

“Them coloreds only shoot at white boys. Other blacks, they hit.” LeBlanc looked at Sharon’s backside as she retreated toward the kitchen. “God,” he added. “I swear, she’s got an ass that’s prettier than some people’s faces.”

There was no stopping LeBlanc. Matson was relieved to see Bud Ellsberg sit down at the table across from him. “How goes the cleanup?” he asked.

“Reasonably well, considering,” Bud said. “We’re going to reopen today, but there’s still a lot of stock we’re short. I’m going to try and get over to see you this afternoon.”

“No big rush,” Frank said. “Get the store under control, first.”

Bud shook his head. “I don’t really care if it’s under control or not, I just need to get out of the damn place for a while. About three all right?”

“Don’t see why not. I haven’t got much on today. Another month, and things ought to be picking up again, and the new car models will be out again.”

“Hope they’re better than the shit they had this year,” Howard Meyers said. “Damn pollution control equipment really screws them up. That damn Ford of mine will hardly run.”

“Fix or repair daily, that’s a Ford for you,” Ellsberg said. “I wouldn’t drive one if you paid me.”

“No, you drive those stinking Pontiacs,” LeBlanc replied. “Had one once. Piece of junk.”

“Hey, Frank,” Meyers said, heading off another interminable and pointless argument about cars. “How’s your dad doing?”

“Getting along pretty good,” Frank said.

“Kind of wondered,” Meyers said. “Saw him drive into town Monday. Thought he might have been going to the doctor’s office.”

“No, he came down to the bank. There were a couple of reports he had to go over, and he wanted to make some phone calls. Some years, he makes it back to the bank for an hour or so two, maybe even three times over the course of the summer.”

George Webb came in late and sat down at the table. “Get the paper out all right, George?” Gil Evachevski asked.

“Pretty good,” George said. “All the late stuff fit, for once, without having to be rewritten six times and still axed down. Just got Kirsten and Mike off for Camden.”

“You sent both of them?” Gil asked.

“Yeah, it was Mike’s turn, and he didn’t know where the plant is, so I sent Kirsten to show him. Hey, Sam,” the editor added, “I see you got on Donna Clark’s shit list last night.”

“No, it was Mike Johansen who got put on,” LeBlanc said. “I’ve been on it for years.”

“Always knew my mother had some taste somewhere,” Matson said. “What the hell happened this time?”

Webb shrugged. “Council turned down paying for cleaning up after the Chili Festival.”

“Now what the hell did you want to do something like that for?” Matson asked LeBlanc.

“Oh, hell, she’s always coming down to the council and asking us to burp up funds for some horse’s ass thing or another,” LeBlanc said. “I just thought this was a little bit too much.”

“That’s horseshit, and you know it,” Matson said.

LeBlanc shrugged. “I’d expect to hear that from you. Why didn’t the bank offer to pay for it? I know, you ain’t too hot on this chili festival, anyway.”

“Big thing is, she never asked,” Frank said. “How much we talking?”

“Hundred, maybe a hundred and fifty bucks.”

“You cheap-ass sons of bitches,” Frank said. “Cut off your damn nose to spite your face.”

“It’s not the money,” LeBlanc replied. “It’s the principle of having her on our ass all the time. Hell, you ought to have a full dose of that.”

“It’s a family thing, so I have to put up with it. Besides, this time she’s right. You cheapskate bastards are willing to vote yourselves soft chairs to sit in at council, but you don’t want to do anything that might help this town. Now, I’ll be the first to admit that this chili festival is a stupid pissant thing, but at least they’re trying to do something to liven up the deadest part of the summer.”

LeBlanc got up. “I don’t have to sit here and listen to this,” he said. “Besides, I’ve got a tee time at nine.”

“Got another pigeon lined up, Sam?” Coach Hekkinan asked, trying to spread a little oil on the troubled waters.

“Yeah, some fat cat from down in Camden. Got him for a hundred a side.” With that, LeBlanc left.

“I don’t know where he comes up with them,” Hekkinan observed. “For a florist, he’s got to spend more time on the golf course than he does in the daisies.”

“That crap really pisses me off,” Frank said. “He’s going to win more money on the golf course this morning than it’s going to cost to clean up after that festival.”

“The reason he doesn’t like the festival is that it won’t draw him any flower business,” Gil observed.

Matson nodded, guessing that Gil had pretty well hit it on the nose. “Who else voted against it?” He asked Webb.

The editor scratched his head. “Well, Ryan Clark, of course. He’s watched his dad take so much shit from Donna over the years that he votes against Donna as a matter of course. And Mike Johansen, I think he just wanted to go home and watch the Cubbies get their asses whipped.”

Matson shook his head. “Yeah, well, I guess when I get over to the office, I’d better call mother up and tell her the bank will burp for the cleanup.”

“I’ll chip in on it,” Ellsberg told him. “Otherwise, Kate would have me out there Saturday, and I’ve already had enough garbage for one week.”

“Count me in,” Gil added, “but just for fun, tell her my donation comes from the West Turtle Lake Club.”

“You do that, and I’m going to leave you the hell out of it,” Frank said. “We’re being nice to her; there’s no reason to twist her tail for the fun of it.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Gil said. “Count me in for the store. Hey, I’ve got an idea: Would the Fire Department do the cleanup for a donation? Maybe we can leave the city all the way out of it.”

Frank looked around. “Where’s Harry?” he asked.

“Over in the hospital,” Webb said. “Got a hot appendix.”

“Lucky bastard,” Frank said, shaking his head. “There’s no way he’ll be able to judge the chili festival.”

Spearfish Lake Record-Herald, August 20, 1975

LOCAL BUSINESSES PAY FOR CHILI CLEANUP

by George Webb
Record-Herald News Editor

After last week’s refusal by city council to pay for cleaning up after this weekend’s Chili Festival, several area businesses made donations for the project.

The cleanup was performed by Spearfish Lake Troop 602 of the Boy Scouts. Making donations to cover the cost were the Spearfish Lake State Savings Bank, the Spearfish Lake Super Market, and Spearfish Lake Appliance Center.

“The council may be a bunch of cheapskates,” a spokesman for one of the businesses said, “but there are a few people around here who believe in Spearfish Lake moving forward.”

Going to college was like going to camp on a bigger scale for Frank Matson. It was an interesting period for him; for years he had been top dog in his class, but now he had to struggle just to keep up.

Nevertheless, college was a liberating experience: liberating from the small hassles of Spearfish Lake, liberating from the ongoing squabble between his father and his mother. Early on, he found his resolve about returning to Spearfish Lake after graduation being tested.

However, he had to return to Spearfish Lake sooner than he had expected for the funeral of his stepfather, Wayne Clark.

Clark, by now semi-retired, had been out on the municipal golf course one fine day when he collapsed from a heart attack. By the time Harry Masterfield showed up with the ambulance, there was nothing that could be done.

The funeral was large; Clark had been principle owner of an important employer in Spearfish Lake, and the town all but shut down for it. It was a suitably miserable day when they buried him out at the town cemetery, and everyone knew that an era had passed. Clark had brought the plywood mill to town deep in the heart of the depression, when a job could not be had in Spearfish Lake for love nor money, and had been a large and stable employer ever since. It had given Clark an important position in the town.

Not many people noticed that Garth Matson had some words of condolence for Donna Clark. It was the first time that they had spoken to each other in six years.

Donna took the death of her second husband well, all things considered, but many wondered what the future would bring for her. The elder Clark had been a stabilizing influence on her over the years. Now, no one knew what would happen.

Frank Matson could not be gone from his classes long, and he was back in Ann Arbor when the mill stockholders met a few days after Clark’s death.

Since the mill was a closely held corporation, it was not a large meeting, nor a terribly formal one; it was held in the conference room at the plant, and only a handful of people were there.

Deciding what to do about the plant was a matter of importance; Brent already held a large block of the company’s stock, and knew from his father’s will that he would be getting another large block. Several senior employees, including Dan Evachevski, also held small blocks of stock, but the largest one, after Brent’s, was Donna’s.

“Your construction business is minor, compared to the plant,” Evachevski said. “I think you ought to come over and run it.”

Brent protested. “I haven’t had anything to do with the plywood business for ten years,” he said, “and it’s changed a lot in that time. I’m willing to serve as chairman of the board, but I’d suggest we hunt around and find a professional to do the actual management and serve as president.”

“I think I should serve as chairman, and you should run the plant.” Donna said.

“Donna, with all due respect,” Brent said, “you know even less about the plywood business than I do. To have me running the thing would be in neither of our best interests.”

“You may have a big block of stock, but you’re not the majority shareholder,” Donna complained.

“No, but I have proxies in my pocket that give me a majority,” Brent said. He wasn’t a man to throw his weight around, even where Donna was concerned, as much trouble as he had gotten from her over the years.

“Whose proxies?”

“I’m not saying,” Brent told her. “I wanted to get something done today, not get into a hissing fit.”

“Garth holds them?” Donna said.

Brent confirmed, “He holds them in trust for a minor, at this time.”

“Then I don’t know what we’re doing here, today,” Donna complained.

“We’re going to peacefully put the seal of approval on what’s going to happen,” Brent said.

“I’m not going to let you sit here and give this business to Garth Matson,” she said, getting up and storming out of the room.

Spearfish Lake Record-Herald, January 14, 1959

WAYNE CLARK WILL PROBATED

Control of Clark Plywood will remain in the hands of Wayne Clark’s son Brent Clark, the Spearfish Lake district court decided last week, when the court finally decided to let the will of the founder of Clark Plywood stand as written, in spite of strong protests by his widow.

The will stated that forty percent of the senior Clark’s estate and stock in Clark Plywood was to go to his son, Brent Clark, ten percent to his minor stepson, and a further ten per cent each to both of his minor grandsons, the children of Brent Clark. The remainder of the estate was to go to his widow.

The widow, Donna Clark, had sought relief from the court, seeking a larger share of the estate, and control of the stock of Clark’s minor stepson. Her petition was denied.

Brent Clark, who has been serving as acting chairman of the board, said that with the estate settled, plans for further expansion of the plant could go ahead. “Our new president has been working hard on increasing our market share,” Clark said, “And it’s becoming vitally important that our production capacity keeps up. With this settled, it clears the way for Clark Plywood to continue to be a major employer in Spearfish Lake.”

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