Tuesday was always the busiest day of the week around the Spearfish Lake Record-Herald. George Webb, the editor, usually even skipped breakfast at Rick’s to wrestle with getting the paper out, and coffee consumption at the paper was always high, sometimes until late at night.

Except for special sections, the body copy of the paper wasn’t usually pulled together until Tuesday afternoon; the advertising department and the makeup people were usually still building ads as the paper went together around them.

The day started early, when Webb called a conference in his office, with Mike McMahon, Virginia Meyers, Kirsten Langenderfer, and Carrie Evachevski in attendance.

“All right, Mike,” he started, sipping coffee from his cup, “what we got this week?”

“Nothing real major,” Mike said. “Probably the biggest thing, besides the chili festival, is the mess at the Super Market. I got some good photos Saturday while the place was still soaked, but I think the one I got of them cleaning the place up Sunday was a lot better.”

“You get them souped yet?” Webb asked. There never was a good photo until after it was developed, as far as he was concerned, and “souping” referred to modifying them to essentially make them look real.

“Yesterday,” Mike told him. “Negatives and contacts looked good, but I know you’ll want to look at the contacts before I make prints.”

“Good job. You were on the ball to hear about that thing Saturday. It’s too easy to sneak out of town and let something like that slip by you.”

“What I can’t figure is why they called five fire departments when the alarm went off,” Mike said. “I mean, they didn’t even have a fire.”

Webb smiled. “With the history of that place, the fire department is a little gun shy. They’ve had a policy for years that they answer any alarm there with everything in the locker. You’ll want to get a ’graf on the past fires into the story to show why Bud put in the new systems, but don’t go overboard with it.”

“Already did,” McMahon said. “Virginia told me about the fires they had years ago.”

“How do you think we ought to play it?” Webb asked.

Mike shrugged. “Lead with it, I guess. Nothing else quite like that going down, and council probably won’t do anything much tonight.”

“Wrong,” the editor told him. “We lead with the chili festival. That’s upbeat news, and maybe something can be made out of it, someday. We’ll put the Super Market stuff on the left. It’s bad news, but not real bad news, and it is kind of funny, unless your name is Bud Ellsberg.”

Mike shook his head. “Lead with the chili festival? That’s not going to amount to anything.”

“Yeah,” Webb said, thinking that he really didn’t want to put up with the phone call that he’d get from Donna Clark if he didn’t. “Anything else look good for the front?”

Mike named two or three stories, all of them relatively minor, then Webb asked, “Virginia, you got anything for front?” Mike winced. Virginia always seemed to have something for the front page that he should have heard about and missed.

Virginia did it again. “Did you get the story about the Amboy Township bridge bonds being sold last night?”

“Never knew they were for sale,” Mike said. “Who do I talk to?”

“You ought to call up Heikki Toivo about it,” Virginia said, adding, “He works over at the plywood mill.”

“That won’t be more than three or four ’grafs,” Webb said. “Although, I heard they got some pretty good numbers.”

Mike winced again. Webb had heard about the story, too. When was he going to learn about all the ins and outs of this place? “Anything else, Virginia?” he asked.

“I heard they hired somebody over at the plywood plant. Some kind of a sales trainee. I don’t know if that means they’re planning on doing some more hiring.”

“Who do I talk to about that? Brent Clark?”

“No,” Virginia said. “He chairs the board, but doesn’t do anything about the operations. You might want to talk to his boy, Ryan. He’s the personnel director.”

“All right,” Webb said. “Carrie, anything much over the transom?”

“About like usual,” she said. “Only two weddings, though.”

“Szczerowski one of them?” Webb asked. Carrie shook her head, and the editor turned to Kirsten. “How are we looking on advertising?”

“About eighty-three columns,” the young blonde said. “That’s going to jump around a little, since we’re still working with Mr. Ellsberg on what he’s going to do with the Super Market.”

Webb played with his fingers and sipped at his coffee while he thought, before saying, “OK, Carrie, are we going to have enough stuff for a thirty-seven-column news hole, or should we try to hold it to eighteen pages?”

“No way we can get copy in twenty-five columns,” Carrie said, “But we’ll be stretching it to go thirty-seven.”

“Nineteen-page paper again,” Webb shook his head. “No matter what, we seem to wind up with an odd number of pages, and naturally, we can’t keep it to sixteen pages so we can run it in one section. OK, we’ll run twelve in front, eight in the back. Carrie, dig out some of those chili recipes from last year, and a couple of photos, and we’ll lead the second section with the rehash. Mike, why don’t you figure on building the sports page this week? Dig out a couple of those canned fall fishing stories to help fill it out, but don’t dump too much on Carrie so she sets more than we need. Kirsten, see if you can come up with some sort of a seasonal house ad. Make it big. Let’s get rolling, people. Mike, you stick around.”

“I’ll get doughnuts, if anybody wants them,” Virginia volunteered.

The girls got up and left, leaving Mike alone in the office with the editor. “You have a good weekend?” the editor asked when they were alone.”

“Kind of dull,” Mike reported. “Went swimming over at the municipal beach, watched a couple of ball games on TV.”

“You did good on catching that business at the Super Market,” Webb told him.

Mike shook his head. “I just keep getting the feeling that everybody but me knows everything that’s going on.”

Webb nodded. “Virginia pulled the same crap on me almost twenty years ago. Don’t let it bug you. You’re beginning to take hold OK. In time, you’ll learn to pick up some of it. How’s the Matson-Clark thing going?”

Mike, relieved at the statement, quickly reviewed in his mind his limited research so far. “Seems like a custody battle that got out of hand,” Mike summed up.

Webb nodded. “Well, that’s at the core, but there’s more to it than that. Keep your eyes open.”

“I talked to some people over the weekend, and learned quite a bit,” Mike said.

“Like I said, hang in there. You think you’re about ready to get going on Marlin Sports Talk next week? Better do it now, before the football season gets here, or else put it off till the season’s over. If you want to start doing it, I’ll help you with some of the gossip I hear around town, but if you want to put it off, I don’t mind. People in this town take Marlin football seriously.”

That was a big deal. Sports had been one reason Mike had been hired in, but being summer there wasn’t much in sports for him to cover, and Marlin Sports Talk had represented most of the school sports reporting. Now, with the football season starting, it would be more important. “How about letting me take a swing at it next week, and see what happens?”

“Fine with me,” Webb said. “Actually, I’ve just been filling in. I’m no sports fan, but it isn’t hard to sound like one. You’ve been doing good, kid. Hang in there.”

Mike came out of Webb’s office feeling a lot better than he had when he went in. Out in the front office, Kirsten was getting set for her morning advertising rounds, while Carrie was priming the Compugraphic, getting it set for the day’s work.

“You know the volleyball game Sunday?” Kirsten said. “Did you see the chest on that guy in the twenties league just when we were leaving?”

“Looked like a bear rug,” Carrie said.

“I sure would like to snuggle up on that bear rug,” Kirsten smirked. Resolutely, Mike went over to his typewriter and dug out the number for Clark Plywood, while Kirsten continued, “Do you know if he’s married?”

“I think so,” Carrie told her.

“Oh, drat. How’s he getting along with his wife?”

Carrie shook her head. “Beats me.”

Mike dialed the phone, wondering what Kirsten might say about him when he wasn’t around. The girl at the plywood mill answered, and, after inquiry, Mike learned that he would have to go over to the peeling mill to catch up with Toivo, but he was able to get a brief story out of Ryan Clark. Yes, they had hired somebody the day before, to fill a special sales trainee position, but no, it didn’t represent a major callback, yet.

All the while Mike was on the phone, Kirsten continued to rave over the physique of the volleyball player. Apparently the roofer from last week was past history. “OK, thanks, Mr. Clark,” Mike finally said, and hung up the phone.

Mike waited for a break in the conversation between the two women, then asked, “Anybody know how to get out to the peeling mill?”

“That’s kind of complicated,” Carrie said. “Why do you need to?”

“I’ve got to go out there and try to find this what’s-his-name Henry Toivo.”

All of a sudden, Kirsten turned white. “I better go,” she said, and grabbed her briefcase and headed for the door, leaving the papers she was working on scattered on her desk.

“Jesus,” Mike said to Carrie. “What’d I do? Say the magic word so we can divide up a hundred dollars?”

Carrie got up from the Compugraphic, and went over and leaned up against Mike’s desk. “Yes, Mike,” she said. “I’m afraid you did. It’s kind of a long story, but I think you’d better know it.”

Spearfish Lake Record-Herald, August 20, 1975

MARLIN SPORTS TALK

by Mike McMahon
Record-Herald Staff

With Marlin football season starting a week from Friday night, Marlin Coach Harold Hekkinan says, “The kids are getting about as ready for the opening game as they can be.”

The Marlins are looking for a good season this fall, one that should overshadow their lackluster 4-5 season last year.

“We had a real good crop of kids come up from JVs this fall, and we didn’t lose many key players when they graduated,” Hekkinan said.

Hekkinan said that they will have to play each game as it comes, but the opener, here in Spearfish Lake, against Coldwater, should set the tone for the season.

“A lot’s going to depend on how well the backfield players keep their heads,” Hekkinan said. “We’ll know a lot more next Friday night.”

Gil Evachevski was not looking forward to the closing of the club’s nursery in a couple of weeks. While he had promised that he would take care of the kids so Carrie could work, they were already driving him batty. At least at the West Turtle Lake Club, he could let the older ones run free pretty much, and the younger ones could be taken to the nursery. When it closed, though … maybe he should have stayed in the army and taken his chances with Vietnam again. It was hard to get used to the idea that he was out, after twenty years.

He was walking back to the cottage from dropping off the kids, when he saw a strange car sitting in front. He walked closer, and noticed his father-in-law, wearing a pair of shorts, and a strange man, fully dressed.

Taking the cue from his father-in-law, Gil ducked in the back, and found a pair of shorts to pull on; they were surprisingly hard to find. Then, he went out to the porch to see what was going on.

“There you are,” Colonel Matson said, taking note approvingly that Gil had gotten his unspoken message about the shorts. “Gil, I don’t know that you’ve met this gentleman, but this is Heikki Toivo, the township supervisor.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Gil said. “We talked on the phone there a couple of times, but I’m real sorry I couldn’t have had better news for you.”

“Sergeant Evachevski …”

“Please call me Gil.”

“Gil,” Heikki said, “I don’t know how I can thank you for what you tried to do for us, even though you didn’t find much. It meant a lot to me and my wife, and his fiancée, Kirsten.”

“No problem,” Gil said. “I just wish I could have done more, but I don’t know what more I could have done.”

They sat in silence for a moment, before the Colonel finally spoke: “Gil, I know you trusted your friends, but would you consider going and looking yourself? I’ll finance it, and I talked to George Webb, and he can get you correspondent credentials.”

“No,” Gil said, “It can’t be done, now.”

“It would mean much to me, my family, his fiancée,” Heikki said.

Gil shook his head. “Believe me, I would if I could, but … look, I never told you this, because it didn’t matter, but that’s all Indian country now. Just before I left Germany, one of my friends who looked for him showed up, and he said the division and the Berets pulled out of the area last winter and gave it over to the ARVNs, who ran right away. It would be just possible to insert someone in there for a look around, but they wouldn’t find anything. The area has been combed over pretty good. Look, Henry grew up around here. Was he good in the woods? Did he have a good sense of direction?”

“He ran all over these woods and never got lost,” Heikki confirmed.

“Kinda thought so,” Gil admitted. “My guess is that once he realized he was separated from his unit, he must have headed back toward their base camp, rather than try to find the unit again, and never made it. That means there’s square miles of jungle to search through. One man, or a small patrol, staying covert, could never find anything. The chances against it are enormous. I’d be willing to try, but the chances of my coming back aren’t real good, especially since I’d be totally freelance, without any kind of support.”

“I appreciate that,” Heikki said. “I was a Marine on Guadalcanal, and I know how bad it must be.”

“Gil, I can’t ask you to take a risk like that,” the Colonel said. “I hadn’t realized it would be that bad.”

“Well,” the retired sergeant said, “if he doesn’t turn up when the POWs come home, maybe someday …”

The Colonel shrugged. “You say his unit really balled up the search for him?”

“That’s what my friend told me,” Gil said. “In Germany, he said the platoon commander just acted like he didn’t care if he lost somebody or not, and when the battalion commander found out about it a couple days later, he sent a sweep back through that patch of woods. My buddy doesn’t think they missed anything, but Henry must have already left the area. I doubt very much they thought to search the area on a line back to base camp. My friends took a pass through that area, but it was kind of unfriendly by then, so they had to stay covert. They didn’t find anything.”

The Colonel looked interested. “The platoon commander screwed up, then. Any way we can get him sent to Leavenworth?”

“No,” Gil said, “but if it’s any consolation, he already got his. Somebody fragged him.”

“Fragged?” Heikki said. He hadn’t heard the term, and neither had the Colonel.

“Somebody didn’t like him and flipped a grenade into his hooch one night.”

“Damn,” the Colonel said. “I can think of at least one other person who would have liked to have pulled the pin.”

“Two,” Gil added.

“Five,” Heikki snorted.

Spearfish Lake Record-Herald, September 4, 1971

AMBOY TOWNSHIP FAMILY STILL HOPES FOR RETURN OF MIA SON

Amboy Township supervisor Heikki Toivo said last week that he still had hope his son would come home, although hope is fading.

Toivo said he had recently received information that diminished the hope that his son is still alive, although he hopes that someday he may find out what happened when PFC Henry Toivo disappeared in Vietnam in June of 1970.

PFC Toivo, a graduate of Spearfish Lake High School …

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