Ontonagon
By Kristin King
Industry blasted the ore out of the earth and Ontonagon developed under the settling dirt. The ore held out for ten years, then the blasting stopped. Production closed and big industry moved on， leaving behind a loading platform and four empty Northern Iron freight cars. The townspeople stayed on; they had nowhere to go or couldn’t summon up the interest to leave. They opened five-and-dime stores, hardware, and live bait shops. Some worked in the paper mill by the tracks, others joined the logging crews.
Ontonagon was an ugly, weather-beaten town. It pushed into the southern tip of Lake Superior and suffered for having hacked away all the trees. In winter the wind blew snow off the ice-chuncked lake into the sealed-up town. In summer, it blew smut from the pulp factory into the screen doors of the diners.
There were two dinners in town. People recommended Cliff’s for Tuesday Fish Special, but Macey’s for everything else. We stopped in at Macey’s once for pizza. A girl with an apron over sweatshirt and jeans took our order, then bent over a chest freezer, pulled out a pizza, and slapped it in the oven. She opened our warm Cokes behind the counter and carried them over to us with straws in them. We took the straws out and drank from the bottles and looked at the drab oils crowded on the wall. While we waited, the screen door slammed shut on a pair of thick-soled boots. A man in a red plaid lumber jacket and stubbled-chin clumped in. He eased himself onto a stool.
“Got any homefires ‘n ham, Peg?”
“Coming up…Do you want onions ‘long side?”
“Not today. Heard about the washed out timber line north of sixty-one?”
“Caught it on the news this morning’. Tom’s working in that area. Some big order down Chicago way.”
“Well with the rain ‘n all, it, it’ll set ‘em back some fer sure.” The girl handed him his ham and potatoes. He mixed them together, choked them in ketchup, and started shoveling. He didn’t look up until he’d gulped the last from his thick coffee mug. Then he left some change on the counter and nodded at Peg on the way out.
The people in town never gave more than a nod. They’d pass each other on the street and look up when there was just enough time to nod and nothing more. There really wasn’t much to say and conversations ended awkwardly so people didn’t bother. The town had one theater, a Christian Science reading center, a clothing and hardware store, two diners, and five bars. All the stores had wood floors and last year’s stock on the shelves. We never came into town except to buy food or do laundry.
The Laundromat was at the end of the town where sand and grass had started to take over between the sidewalk slabs. We came here twice during the week to do wash. After I’d pulled every one of the ten-cent laundry soap knobs, checked the pay phone for money, and read the labels of all twelve brands of cigarettes, there was nothing left to do. I’d sit and watch the women in their tight knit pants and sleeveless blouses folding loads of diapers and more knit pants and more sleeveless blouses. They’d move slowly form washer to dryer to folding table, counting out dimes and adjusting temperatures. Between loads they would sit and smoke and stare at the dead files on the windowsill. Questions: