Rants from the Relic The Stains of Toil: Matt M Luthanen (1912-1999)

In a letter to me over 50 years ago, my dad wrote “Not only does one leave behind the stains of toil, but also chills, aches, and pains.”
This poetic philosophy was in reply to my question to him about the cultural foundation of the sauna -- what, besides a bath, did a sauna mean to Finns?
Matt Luthanen was a man who knew the stains of toil. For 37 years he descended 1700 feet into a vein of iron ore on the Vermilion Range of northeast Minnesota to drill, dynamite, and tug the stubborn blue mineral to the surface. Mud pulled at his boots, dust penetrated his pores, the persistent air drill racket robbed his hearing, acrid smoke invaded his lungs.
How did this environment mold him? In a picture taken underground by a co-conspirator, we see Matt, cocky grin, miner’s helmet askew, holding a lighted stick of dynamite. If we have to do this, let’s have fun.
He knew chills. At the end of his career, he set explosive charges on the wind-swept Laurentian plateau through ten Minnesota winters.
He knew aches. His first wife, crippled by polio, died when he and she were both too young.
He knew pains. In his final years, his hands, gnarled and swollen, failed to serve him.
How did this man, son of Finnish immigrants, handle this life?
With a sparkling eye, a roguish grin, and unbearably corny jokes.
Passenger: “Does this bus go to Duluth?”
Driver: “No, it goes ‘ting-a-ling’!”
When a waitress would ask him if he’d like a cocktail before dinner, he’d order a Martini. “Only one olive and make it a small one so that it doesn’t displace too much gin,” he’d predictably reply knowing we’d all heard this line dozens of times but would be disappointed not to hear it again.
He was an athlete as a youth, holding Ely High School’s 100-yard breaststroke record for years.
He was crafty and resourceful -- during the Depression he built a log cabin with recycled and innovative materials. It stood and served his family for over sixty years. He remodeled our home 28 West Conan -- backscoring and steaming drywall to fit the graceful curve of the living room. The trades came easy for this man who worked so hard.
Many men of his generation in that part of the country worked in the mines and did their own moonlighting. It’s part of the ethic.
But for Dad, working a dangerous and demanding job and remodeling, repairing, gardening, and tinkering off the job were not enough.
He learned to play the violin, quite badly, but with an infectious gusto. He blew on a chromatic harmonica accompanied by Mom on the piano -- errant squeaks ricocheting off the ceiling he had lowered. He juggled golf balls. He tap danced. He sang in the chorus and performed “It’s in the book,” to howling audiences. He sent unsuspecting friends of mine for a “sky hook and a hundred feet of shoreline.” He sang “You get no bread with one meatball,” an allusion never grasped by us kids when we asked for a second cookie.
In a tiny shoreside sauna building on his beloved Burntside Lake property there is an eight by ten plaque with his “stains of toil” quote.
On Thanksgiving Day, 1999, eleven days before his death, Dad and his entire family sat at a makeshift table in my sister’s then under-construction cabin next to that sauna.
He proposed toasts, told improbable stories, repeated familiar jokes, performed card tricks for my nephew -- and nodded and smiled.
He had lived for 87 years in Ely and a day never passed without him entertaining someone.
That December, he left behind the stains of toil and the chills, aches, and pains.
And three kids who were lucky enough to call him “Dad.”
Doug Luthanen grew up in Ely and graduated from Memorial High School in 1967. He wrote a weekly viewpoint column for the Northwest Arkansas Times for four years and is an occasional contributor to The Ely Echo.