The day the shingles turned to booze

Based on a story published in The Rainy Lake Chronicle -1974

In my last column, I wrote about the struggle partner Bill and I had in finding the proper fixtures to finish installing a new faucet and sink at my friend Mona’s place up on South Sturgeon Lake north of Chisholm. So it’s my first call of duty to let everyone know that the sink is working! We had to leave the project unfinished, however another friend of Mona’s from down the lane was able to wrap it up successfully with only two more trips to Hibbing.

Recently, while cleaning in my office at home, I came upon a small collection of newspapers in a manila envelope. They were Rainy Lake Chronicles that had belonged to my mom, who’d grown up in Ranier on the Canadian border. I started reading and came across one particular story which sparked memories worthy of sharing. I first heard about the incident one Easter.

The Easter holidays of my childhood meant traveling to the home of my grandparents, Charles and Esther Houska, who lived in International Falls.  It was pretty much a done deal that we had to go there every Easter. Formal arrangements always had to be made in order to visit. Esther, my Norwegian step-grandmother, was as they say, “laced tight.” 

Their home was decorated with white carpets, fine upholstered furniture and plenty of breakables.

Routinely on Easter morning, upon mother’s insistence, we’d put on our best clothes. Dad always wore slacks, a dress shirt and tie. So with the five of us all properly dressed and coiffed we’d head north to International Falls. Arrival at my grandparents’ house brought pleasant embraces and a neat peck on the lips from Grandpa. He had his own way of doing that. Highballs were offered to the folks, with 7-UP in small decorative glasses served to us kids. We’d sit quietly, for what seemed like hours, awaiting dinner, exhibiting military behavior as the adults visited.

After snacks and a highball or three, dad usually had loosened his tie. We’d listen to my Grandpa tell colorful stories of living in Ranier, the small town on the shore of Rainy Lake about three miles east of International Falls. It’s where he raised my mother and his three sons in a small house, still standing on the only point of land that juts out just past Harry Erickson’s old store and the sand beach.

There were stories about Native Americans coming across from Canada by canoe to set up summer camp just down the shore from their house. It was a ritual that had been done for centuries. I remember hearing great tales of powwows, my Uncle Rod’s huge arrowhead collection, Kettle Falls fishing trips and experiences Grandpa had while working for the D.W. & P. Railroad Customs office.

One story I recall was written about in a 1974 issue of The Rainy Lake Chronicle, a Ranier newpaper no longer in publication.

It happened on a December night during Prohibition back in the 1930’s when a train bound from Winnipeg to Duluth came across the drawbridge from Canada into Ranier shortly after 9 o’clock p.m.  The accompanying paperwork for one particular train car aroused my Grandpa’s suspicion. The papers were made out to a customs broker in Fort Frances, Canada instead of Ranier and the inventory listed a load of 400 shingles, which wasn’t enough to fill a train car that size.

Grandpa had the car disconnected and pulled onto a sidetrack for closer inspection. Fellow Customs officers pulled open the door and saw that the shingles were packed very tightly up to the opening. Grandpa, growing more suspicious, knew from experience that it would take from 1,000 to 1,200 bundles of shingles to fill a car that tight. After the officers started unloading shingles, a curious wood box strapped with steel bands was found and when they broke it open sawdust poured out. Beneath the sawdust they discovered a thirty-gallon keg that gurgled when they moved it. They all agreed that they’d come upon quite an irregularity. A worker was sent down to a nearby tavern to get a brace and bit, a piece of siphon hose and a cup. Upon the man’s return they tapped the keg, filling a cup to pass, and all agreed it was whiskey. They sealed up the keg and train car, stationing a few trustworthy guards to keep vigil until morning when they’d deal with the situation. Word about the discovery traveled, and by early the next morning folks were driving to Ranier to get a look at the cache.

The Customs men had returned at daybreak with a sturdy ton-and-a-half truck and parked it alongside the train car. Grandpa directed the men to unload the car. They rolled 79 thirty-gallon barrels, in loads of 6 or 7 per trip, and hauled them down to the village dock where a large hole had been cut through a foot of ice on the Rainy River. Crowds of interested locals were gathering to watch the destruction. The barrels were supposed to break on the edge of the dock when hoisted off the truck but poor marksmanship left many intact. Customs men were standing with axes in hand to remedy the situation and one by one the barrels were ruptured with the cold whiskey pouring out on the ice. The intention had been for the whiskey to flow into the hole but much of it spread into a wide pool on top of the ice, forming a frosty edge all around it.

Many began pulling cups out of their pockets to skim a taste, some even lay at the edge of the puddle, lapping up the whiskey. Others with hardier spirits brought buckets, washtubs and even coal scuttles in hopes of procuring some of the liquid mishap. Customs discouraged this activity, kicking over many of the containers.

One wiry, disgruntled resident of Ranier who lived downriver claimed contamination at the site of his winter water source. He’d put a kettle of water on for tea that morning and when the house started smelling like a distillery he knew something was awry. The problem was traced to a crack in the ice that led from the whiskey-emptying site to the resident’s water hole. The resident reportedly threatened to sue the government until he realized what had happened. 

After the seventy-ninth barrel was pushed off the truck and emptied the crew thought about the odd number and assumed the shipper in Winnipeg had overlooked the eightieth barrel, but my Grandpa took a lot of kidding about it for awhile.

A local bootlegger is said to have tested the alcohol content with his hydrometer reporting the whiskey to be 110 proof. It was calculated the Canadian whiskey wholesale price of the load was $32,864 but the Chicago bootleg price would have been $63,200.

My grandfather claims it was the largest irregularity that he was ever a part of during his 31 plus years working for the Customs Service. The story was said to have been a national sensation, but in Chicago it proved to be sad Yuletide news. What was anticipated to bolster Christmas trade in the notorious city, ended up in the Rainy River-or most of it did.

Stories like this are part of my cache of memories and I plan on reading all the Chronicles to gain a brighter glimpse into the bygone days of my grandparents’ life up north in Ranier near the Canadian border.

O’Hara can be reached at: scarlet@frontiernet.net