Breakfast over, Frank Matson walked up the street to the bank. Though Matson’s father, Garth, was still the president, he was fading from the active operations of the bank a bit, and now was almost never around in the summer.

Frank, now the executive vice president of the bank, and the largest minority shareholder, knew that he really did need to talk to “The Colonel,” as his father was almost universally known in Spearfish Lake. There were several things going on that needed his attention, and the railroad abandonment could affect a couple of major clients. The Colonel could maybe use some of his political clout in the state capital to twist a couple of arms and keep the railroad service going a while longer.

But, to talk to the Colonel, Frank would have to drive out to see him. His father, liking his peace and quiet out at the West Turtle Lake Club, had never allowed a telephone to be installed anywhere on the property.

If Frank went out there, his mother was sure to hear about it, and he’d catch hell. He always had, ever since he had been a little boy.

At times like this, Frank both resented and envied his father’s summer reclusiveness. Frank could get along well with his father when it was just one on one, even taking into account some notable differences of opinion on several matters. He even got along well with Helga, his stepmother, despite her screwball ideas.

But Frank’s mother, Donna, absolutely hated the ground that his father and Helga walked on. She considered both the Colonel and Helga to be absolutely certifiable nut cases, and had felt that way as long as Frank could remember.

Actually, even Frank wasn’t so sure that his father wasn’t a nut case.

For example, he remembered the time, ten years or so before, just about the time he and his wife Diane felt solid enough in the bank to buy a new Buick instead of another old Chevy, the Colonel decided to become a hot rodder. Not just a normal hot-rodder, either, but a sneaky one.

The bank had repossessed an almost-new Rambler Classic, and the Colonel, just then in need of a new car, had repurchased it at a bargain rate. He drove it around town for some months, being laughed at behind his back for driving such a wimpy car. The laughter continued until about the third time the Colonel heard about it; shortly thereafter, the car needed a spell in the shop.

The Rambler emerged from the shop with its 327 engine bored out to the water jacket, with the biggest stroker crank that could be fitted into the block, an Isky cam, dual quads, a four-speed transmission and high-angle rear end. This was the era in which a 409 Chevy was about the hottest thing on the road, and the 409 gave up no cubic inches and near half a ton to the Colonel’s Classic.

The Colonel quickly made believers of all the local street rodders, who were something of an epidemic at the time. Finding he enjoyed it, the Colonel made a few excursions to Camden, and once all the way to Woodward Avenue, returning with a thick pocketful of small bills. As far as Frank knew, the Rambler was still in the barn behind his father’s big house out on the point, and for all he knew it still may have been the hottest car in town.

Kate Ellsberg was waiting for Frank when he walked into the bank. Kate was one of those people who absolutely couldn’t put up with the Colonel; not unexpectedly, as Kate and Donna were two of the prime movers of the Spearfish Lake Woman’s Club.

Kate wasted no time. “Frank, I want you to be a judge for the Chili Festival,” she told him.

Frank blanched inwardly. Somehow, he had gotten volunteered for the duty the year before, and it had taken his digestion days to recover. “Are they going to have that Lutefisk Chili this year?” he asked.

“I told Hjalmer I didn’t think that was funny,” Kate said, rather acidly.

“I didn’t think it was very funny, either,” Matson replied. “And I was the one who had to eat it. I mean, I wouldn’t mind it if everyone didn’t think that they have to have a hotter chili than the next person, so the chili becomes jalapeno soup. I don’t know if my hospitalization is paid, so I think I’ll beg off, Kate. Get Bud to do it, maybe.”

“He’s already one of the judges,” Kate told him. “And I think you should be, too. After all, you, of all people, should be supporting community activities.”

It was blackmail, pure and simple, and Frank knew it. If he said no, then Kate would call Donna, and Donna would call him, and he would be a couple of weeks hearing the end of it. Knowing that he had to go out and see the Colonel just made it worse.

Now, there was an idea! If he left now, he could spend the next ten days out at the West Turtle Lake Club. Catch some sun, play some golf, avoid some pressure. Donna and Kate might know where he was, but he was sure they wouldn’t come out there to look for him.

But no, that wouldn’t work, either. He’d wind up paying for it worse than ever.

“Oh, all right,” Matson surrendered, “but if I get the slightest whiff of lutefisk, it’s disqualification time.”

“Well, I can live with that,” Kate smiled. “Thank you, Frank. You won’t regret it.”

Matson knew that he would, but dealing with his mother would be worse. “Who else are you going to have judge?” he asked.

“Well, Bud, of course. I asked Joe Upton, but he’ll be out of town. Got any ideas?”

“How about Gil Evachevski? All that Vietnamese junk he ate out in the boonies ought to prove he has a cast-iron stomach.”

Kate frowned, dismissing the idea without comment. Evachevski was Helga’s son-in-law, after all. Who knew where that could lead?

“Harry Masterfield?” Frank said, throwing out another name. “He’s supposed to know what to do with hot stuff.”

“Hadn’t thought of him,” Kate admitted. “I’ll call out to the oil company and ask.”

The two talked for a minute more, then Kate got up and left, leaving Frank wondering what she had on Harry Masterfield.

Spearfish Lake Record-Herald, August 13, 1975

CHILI COOK-OFF JUDGES NAMED

by Mike McMahon
Record-Herald Staff

Three well known Spearfish Lake men have been named as judges of this weekend’s chili cook-off, according to Kate Ellsberg of the Spearfish Lake Woman’s Club, sponsor of the event.

The three lucky judges, who will get to sample all the various potions that will make the Spearfish Lake atmosphere fragrant are Bud Ellsberg, owner of the Spearfish Lake Super Market, Frank Matson, Vice-President of the Spearfish Lake State Savings Bank, and Harry Masterfield, First Assistant Chief of the Spearfish Lake Volunteer Fire Department.

Matson, in his second year of judging the cook-off, commented last week that he was looking forward to the cook-off. “I hope the overall quality of the entries will be even better than last year,” he said.

Ellsberg, also a judge last year, said, “I’m looking forward to seeing a winner selected.” Masterfield, a new judge this year, commented, “This could be the experience of a lifetime.”

Brent Clark didn’t officially know what the Colonel was up to when he proposed the purchase of the stump land out around West Turtle Lake, but he was about ninety per cent sure.

Probably better than anyone else in Spearfish Lake in the spring of 1946, the younger Clark knew things about Colonel Matson that no one else had yet realized. Brent Clark had been in his father’s shadow during the years before the war, but he’d worked with the Colonel for the last six years. He knew that, while the Colonel was not a man who wanted much, he’d damn well do his best to get that little bit. He could be devious about things, but much preferred the direct attack, preferably with good artillery preparation. What was more, he took absolute joy in accomplishing several things with the same move. He had a talent for turning problems into profits, and he wasn’t above revenge as a motive.

The former Major Clark could tell stories. Oh, could he tell stories out at the Legion that would underline just what he knew about the Colonel at war.

There was the time that the Colonel thought that the battalion needed a few days off of the line, and some replacement guns. Clark wasn’t quite sure how the Colonel managed it, but somehow a couple of truckloads of booze destined for the Naples officer’s club went astray and wound up in the camp of the 2nd Bn., 144th Field Artillery. Coincidentally, everybody got a couple of days off as well as a couple of bottles, and during the downtime, some of the booze had greased the skids for a trade for some new 105 tubes. Clark was sure outright theft was involved at several points along the way, and bribery was certainly a factor, but the end result was that D Battery got a couple of badly-needed days off and their spirits built up to face a period that turned out even tougher than what had gone before. It had been a badly needed breather; Clark had been one of those about ready to break.

If the Colonel was actually doing what the younger Clark suspected, then he had Clark’s support; maybe even more support than the Colonel realized. So Brent kept his mouth shut and just let things happen.

The winter of 1945-46 was hard and long. By spring Helga was pregnant again and found herself yearning for the warmth of the sun.

For that matter so was Garth.

If he had not known it from the beginning, Garth had learned by this time that while Helga was perfectly willing to be flexible on many issues, there were a few where she fully intended to dig in and get her way.

Vegetarianism was one of these. Helga had never let meat pass her lips, and while Garth (she never called him “The Colonel”) enjoyed being a carnivore, she set out to reform him.

It wasn’t so much that he lost the battle, but realized, ultimately, that it wasn’t worth fighting. Eventually they worked out an agreement based somewhat on, “What you don’t know, won’t hurt you.” Thirty years later, Sharon still served Garth his bacon and eggs every winter’s morning at Rick’s Café; time had worked out the agreement that Rick’s was off limits for Helga, at least before nine in the morning.

In their earlier years, Helga was to come down hard on Garth about deer hunting, before he made it clear that going out to the deer camp with the guys, shooting the bull, playing cards, drinking beer, farting with abandon and occasionally going out in the woods was not a negotiable item. If he should happen to shoot a deer, he could give it to someone who needed the food.

Helga gave in, reluctantly, but it should be noted that the Colonel, a crack shot, didn’t shoot a deer between 1946 and 1957, then followed that one with another seven-year drought.

On some issues, there was no reason to argue. Given the vast difference in backgrounds, their viewpoints soon became remarkably similar, albeit for perhaps different reasons.

It was not until the spring of 1946, a month or so after the land at West Turtle Lake had been transferred, that Brent Clark found out for sure what the Colonel was up to and got a glimpse of how the Colonel’s mind worked, as well.

One fairly nice spring evening, essentially the first one of the year, the Colonel and Helga and Brent sat out on the front porch of the huge old house out on the point, overlooking Spearfish Lake, watching the ice break up. Brent Clark was still single then, but he enjoyed a dinner at the Matson’s occasionally. The two-year-old Carrie had been put to bed, and the three sat on the porch, talking of the “good old days” in New Jersey, and yes, even Italy.

“More wine?” the heavily pregnant Helga asked, brandishing a carafe.

Both of the men replied affirmatively. Neither had been much on drinking wine, but Helga had the ability to select good wines, not an easy thing to do in Spearfish Lake in those days. Being of good German stock, she considered a reasonable amount of good wine to be positively healthy. As a result, both of the men were developing a taste for it as well. She poured them each a glass.

“I’ve been thinking,” the Colonel said out of the blue. “You belong to some plywood manufacturer’s association, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Brent replied.

“They got any stock plans for small houses, vacation houses, stuff like that? Things that use a lot of plywood? Cost, say, a thousand or fifteen hundred?”

“I’ve probably got half a file drawer full out at the plant,” Brent admitted. “I’ve got a bundle of them out in the car. I’ve been thinking about setting up a little sideline, building vacation cabins and hunting lodges for people down in Camden.” Used to the authority of a Battery command in the army, Brent had chafed a little at having his father looking over his shoulder and making every little decision, and he knew he wanted to separate himself from the plywood business when he could.

The Colonel knew that, of course, but refrained from commenting. “Why don’t you go out and grab a handful?”

Brent was back from his car in a few minutes, his arm brimming with plans. The three pawed through the pile for a few minutes and set a few that particularly interested them to one side.

“Thinking about a new hunting cabin?” Brent prodded.

“No, I’ve got something else in mind,” the Colonel said, eyeballing one plan especially closely, then handing it to Helga. “What do you think of that one?”

“It might be a little large,” she said, her German accent, though slight, hanging in the air after her words were spoken. “We want something small, that will not a lot of housekeeping take. But I like the large, screened-in porch.”

“It is a little large,” the Colonel agreed. “But if you did it in the three-bedroom version, there’d be more room for guests. Brent, what could you build that one for?”

Clark glanced at the plan. “At a guess, twelve or fourteen hundred,” he said. “I’d have to cost it out thoroughly, but it ought to be somewhere around there.”

“Could you knock the cost down some if you were to build a development of them? Say, a couple of dozen?”

“Off the top of my head, I could probably knock off ten percent. Maybe more, depending on how the site costs are shared out. You wouldn’t be thinking about this development on the West Turtle Lake property, would you? That’s miles out of town.”

“That’s the general idea,” Helga said.

Brent shook his head. “There’s no market for something like that, unless you’ve got something special in mind.” He looked at Helga, whose smile told him all he needed to know. “You really think you can find enough people to buy in on this to make it work?”

“I think so,” Helga said. “There’s some people I knew in the east who might be interested, and a couple of families who have moved to Camden would I am sure be interested, if we can keep the cost down. Plus, we really haven’t tried to sell it yet.”

“There’s two or three people from D Battery who might get interested, too,” the Colonel added. “I kind of figured that you might be one of them.”

Clark thought for a moment. “Well, I’m not going to rule it out, but there are some other factors to consider. How are you figuring on setting this up?”

“Non-profit corporation. We lease the home sites, but the buyer owns and finances the buildings. The lease payments go toward property improvements, things like a community hall, maybe an airstrip, a golf course, stuff like that.”

“Well, you’ve got enough land for a golf course there, but it’s full of stumps.”

“There’s enough land for a lot of things,” the Colonel agreed, “Plus plenty of land surrounding the central area. A lot of those stumps your dad left out there are aspen. In a couple of years, when the leaves are on, it’ll be like a wall.”

“You think this will work?”

“It doesn’t cost us much to think about it,” the Colonel explained. “Plus, the tax situation could be interesting.”

Clark shook his head. “That’s not what I’m talking about. What are people around here going to think?”

The Colonel smiled. “Would you believe it if I said I don’t much give a squat?”

“But …” Brent started to say, but then, perhaps with the help of the wine, the heavens lifted the veil from his eyes for a moment.

Of course. The Colonel had much more in mind than just keeping Helga happy. If they wanted to go to a nudist camp, even build one, they could do it fifty miles out of town, and who in Spearfish Lake would care? No, the Colonel wanted to build the camp locally, so they would know about it, have their faces rubbed in it, and have to put up with it. The people of Spearfish Lake had more or less forgiven Donna for the number she had pulled on the Colonel back in 1940, and it would be his way of repaying them by making them live with the consequences.

Plus, Donna would shit a brick. Not once, either, but every time the subject came up. Hell, people would blame her for it; after all, if she hadn’t left the Colonel, it would never have happened …

And there were obvious advantages to having a tax-sheltered non-profit corporation in which to hide money from the IRS, especially if you could arrange for the money to come back to you, anyway.

It could be interesting to watch, to say the least, and not to mention that it could get his construction business off the ground.

“But let me have another taste of that Silvaner, Helga,” he said finally. “Count me in for now, anyway, though God knows what’ll happen when the time comes for me to get married.”

Helga gracefully reached for the carafe. “We will just have to get you married to a good naturist,” she said. “Do you remember the Mandenberg family, back in New Jersey?”

“Sure. They had that cute little kid, Ursula. Maybe fifteen or sixteen.”

“She thought you were nice, too, and she is not fifteen any longer,” Helga said, filling her husband’s glass, then her own. “She’s nineteen now. The Mandenbergs are living in Camden, and they’re visiting us next weekend.”

“Let’s drink a toast,” the Colonel said. “To the West Turtle Lake Club.”

The thought crossed Clark’s mind that he hadn’t been that happy working under his father’s mind in the plywood business, anyway. “To the West Turtle Lake Club,” he agreed.

Spearfish Lake Record Herald, May 18, 1946

RESORT DEVELOPMENT PLANNED AT WEST TURTLE LAKE

Brent Clark, of Clark Construction Company, announced early this week that his firm had been retained to undertake the construction of a private resort development at West Turtle Lake, northeast of Spearfish Lake.

Clark said the development will feature several cottages for members of the private club, a community center, a golf course, volleyball courts, a swimming beach, and an airstrip.

The development, to be called “The West Turtle Lake Club” is partly financed by the Spearfish Lake State Savings Bank, and partly by investors from Camden and elsewhere, Clark revealed.

Clark said that construction will get under way immediately, with some occupancy planned for this summer. However, Clark said that it could take several years for the project to reach its completion, which would depend on sales of memberships in the club.

Clark, formerly commander of “D” Battery during the war, said that he would be hiring ten to twenty men to work in the construction, and that preference in hiring would be given to veterans.

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