Laona Wisconsin in 1902 was only two years old. The Connor Lumber and Land Company saw mill was partially built and being operated to a limited extent. The Chicago and Northwestern Railroad had reached Laona from the South.Crandon, the county seat, was about fourteen miles from Laona and the only method of transportation between the two towns was with sleigh or wagon over a tote road. The road was very narrow and went over steep hills and through swamps. Large tree roots crossed the road and big stones everywhere made it hazardous to travel any time of year. In the winter, the deep snow cut off transportation entirely. The only way to go from one town to the other was to walk. The best walking was to follow the Indian trails, however one had to know his directions as trails branched off in different directions. A pedestrian had to be prepared to meet a wolf or bear at any time. It certainly was a perilous route, especially at night.
The new, three story, all wood frame, forty room Sargent Hotel with its large saloon with a forty foot bar in the basement was completed and doing a flourishing business. The building was temporarily heated with large stoves and there were two large outhouses in the rear, one for each sex, in lieu of in door plumbing.
The proprietor, Len Sargent was a giant of a man, known as a hard-boiled business man and politician who could be as rough and as tough as they came. It took that kind of a man to operate an establishment like that in those days and to keep certain types of lumberjacks in line. He was no church going man, in fact; he had not seen the inside of a church for many years.
Never-the-less, he insisted that us kids go to church with our Irish Catholic mother. There was no church of any denomination in Laona at that time.
A few days before Christmas, at about five o’clock in the afternoon, the saloon was half full of lumberjacks who had come in from the camps. Some were on their way home for Christmas, some just for a spree. All of them had long hair, beards and wore heavy, rough winter clothing. In many instances, they were louse, also, due to the straw ticks and bunks not being properly taken care of in camp, and continuous sleeping in their underwear. The saloon was becoming reeky with tobacco smoke and the crowd vociferous with rough talk and song.
Almost instantaneously, a hush fell over the assembly due to the sudden appearance of a person who appeared in the main entry; a man who because of his dress and posture made him the most out of place person who can be imagined. He was immaculately dressed in a black suit and overcoat; but his clothes were somewhat shiny from wear. He was small in stature and sported a neatly trimmed Van Dyke beard. He made his way through the crowd to the further end of the bar where he put down a nickel and asked for a glass of beer (a nickel would buy a schooner, about a pint, of beer those days.) He took his beer and sat down at an unoccupied card table and took some bread and sausage from his pocket.
My brother, Joe, who was about fourteen years old and was never known to be bashful, was in the saloon at the time. He noted the strange looking man and it occurred to him that the stranger was a clergyman and was out of place in the saloon. Joe marched over to the stranger and asked him who he was.
The stranger answered: “I am a minister.”
That was enough for Joe. He bounded upstairs to the lobby and said to dad, “Pa, there is a minister downstairs eating a lunch.”
Pa answered: “To h*** you say.” and went down to the saloon.
He strode over to the stranger and asked him if he was a minister.
The stranger answered, I am Reverend Webber, the new Lutheran minister at Crandon. I walked over here from Crandon this morning to visit some members of our faith who live here and as soon as I finish this lunch, I will start back.”
Pa said, “A saloon is no place for a minister. You should be upstairs in the hotel.”
Reverend Webber replied “I have no money. My congregation consists of all poor people.”
Pa said “That doesn’t make a d*** bit of difference, Reverend, you are not going to walk back to Crandon tonight over that dangerous road in this cold weather. Come with me upstairs. You get a warm supper, a good bed and breakfast, and then start for Crandon. Furthermore, you do that every time that you come to Laona.”
The Reverend Webber came to our hotel many times and made himself to home. He was a gifted artist and presented my mother with a beautiful painting which she kept and cherished until her death.
I have always thought that in this incident, our so-called hard boiled dad taught us youngsters the true spirit of Christmas.
This story was written by Len F. Sargent (b. 1885) and given to his grandchildren in 1973 along with many other stories about his life in the Northwoods.
