January 16

Good Morning and welcome to the Almanac for Tuesday, January 16, 2018.
First of all, I would like to share some statistical information with you. Statistics show that January is very cold in northern Minnesota. Daytime highs are often below zero and nighttime lows are often too cold to be measured with a normal thermometer. Instead, people measure the cold at night by saying things like “I better plug in the car” or “those flat spots on the tire will round out once we get going” or “that polar bear will thaw out come June”.
With that said, a notable person born on January 16 was Robert Service. He was born in 1874 and he wrote one of the few poems I can remember from my years in elementary school, the Cremation of Sam McGee. I have included the poem below, which hopefully falls under our light-hearted fair use laws.
Sticking with the theme of cold, another person born this day in 1901 was Frank Zamboni. He was born in Eureka, Utah and to prove it he became an inventor. His most famous invention, of course, bears his name to this day. The frankfurter was invented by Zamboni in the late 1940’s. He would drive around his ice rink on a cart loaded with frozen frankfurters, trying to sell them. It was on one of these trips around the ice that he noticed that the little vehicle he was driving was shaving off the top layer of ice, washing it, and then resurfacing the ice with a thin layer of water. Unsure of how this would sell his frankfurters, and actually quite disheartened that nobody wanted ice cold hot dogs, he came up with the idea of selling the machines to resurface ice rinks around the world. Nobody to this day knows how he came up with the name Zamboni for his ice resurfacing machines, but the machines have gained quite a bit of notoriety.
At this point I must tell you that I sometimes get my facts confused with fiction. For example, I was sitting on the banks of South Fork of the Roseau River the other day listening to a gentleman explaining to his wife about how this was one of a handful of rivers that actually flows to the north. He asked her if she knew why this river flowed north and she replied that she did not know. Being the friendly (and interrupting) type that I am, I informed the two that the reason that this river flows north is due to the high iron content of the water which is attracted to the magnetic north pole. They both rolled their eyes in obvious amazement at my intellect.
Thanks for reading, and email me at ffefreekshow@hotmail.com with any errors you find in this almanac entry. I look forward to reading them. You can also send me a letter by boat on the South Fork of the Roseau River. Make sure that the boat is not magnetic.

The Cremation of Sam McGee

By Robert W. Service

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.


Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way that "he'd sooner live in hell."


On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.


And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."



Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursèd cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'tain't being dead—it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."


A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains."

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows— O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May."
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; ... then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm—
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.