Of the Stratford Hotel Fire of
1977
While passing through Riverside
Cemetery not long ago, a pair of gravestones caught my attention because
the date of death was the same on both-- 1977. I backed my car up to
take a closer look and discovered that the name shared by both was the
same - - Twedt: Beth and Tony Twedt.
A chill went through me, for I
knew in an instant how those people met their fate: It was in that
horrible Stratford Hotel fire which killed a number of people I knew on
a sub-zero blizzarding January nite.
I knew them because, while a
student at NDSSS during the summer of 1958, I had gotten a job as night
clerk, working the 7 pm to 7 am shift. That job allowed me to become
part of that fascinating community that made up the Stratford Hotel and
Cafe. It was a very memorable season of my life.
My employer was a widow lady
named Stead. She was quite elderly, very serious minded, and thorough in
her instructions for me. She also had a very distinctive disability
which forced her to wear about a three-inch lift on one of her shoes.
She was very kind and considerate, and helped me very patiently as I
struggled to master the switch-board connecting all the rooms and the
outside world to the desk. Mrs Stead also gave me a free room to live in
while I was there which helped me a lot.
The hotel lobby adjoined the
Stratford Cafe, which was owned and managed by Beth and Tony Twedt, who
became two of my very favorite people in the building. Every evening
when I came to work, I would usually find them in the first booth on my
left as I passed from the lobby into the cafe. Tony gave me a little
good-natured ribbing about the pink knees that peeked out from under my
Bermuda shorts, and I had a punning field day with the name 'Twedt,
which was fun for a kid just in off the stweet. But the thing I most
remember from that first meeting was how he kindly told me I could raid
his walk-in cooler if I got hungry in the middle of the night.
I'll tell you my friend, that
cold turkey or roast beef or ham was gourmet food for a guy living on
day-old bread, 10 cent baked potatoes and tap-water instant coffee.
“And the evening and the morning
were the first day” of work. And in the morning Tony offered me a free
breakfast. He seemed to have a heart for kids working their way through
college. Whatever his motivation, he was a real friend in need back in
those formative days.
A number of other hotel regulars
caught my attention as well. A trucker named Jerry Lehman sported a
cowboy hat and boots and a long wallet hooked to a chain. Jerry Reed of
“Smoky and the Bandit” fame looked a lot like him. Lehman was in the
cafe a lot courting a pretty waitress working there whom he later
married. Also Jerry's aunt, Grace Lehman, became sort of my dorm
mother—waking me up often with her mop-bucket and cheery good mornings.
And her brother Hank, drove the Wildcat bus to all of the away games and
Melodic Caravan shows I was part of.
Also there were the traveling
salesmen, many of whom tried to sell me stuff, putting on demos right in
the late-nite hotel lobby. One, Knute Nastad from Northwood, persuaded
me to sell Kirby vacuums for him. That became a huge source of income
for me later.
The hotel lobby was a real
hang-out for all kinds of people. The railroad employees came in
regularly. as did passengers coming and going on both the Great Northern
and the Greyhound lines. Many of the live-in residents came down and sat
about the lobby just as if it was their living room. One unforgettable
old guy often showed up very late at nite. Jake, I think was his name.
He looked like he had been sleeping in a coal bin. He had a smoker's
hack you could feel in the pit of your stomach. He usually came in,
bought cigarets, grumbled something nasty, and then coughed, spit in the
cuspidor, and left. The place was a people watcher's paradise, and I saw
it as the hub for both of the twin towns. I later appreciated movies
like “Grand Hotel” more because of that job.
I mentioned in an earlier column
how I met my telephone-operator wife over the switchboard there, and
later when we were established as residents of Wahpeton, we came to the
Stratford Cafe often for ice cream sundaes or late nite breakfasts after
nites on the town.
And then came that bone-chilling
minus 20 January night of 1977 when all the sirens sounded at once and
fire engines and men from all the surrounding towns converged on
Breckenridge at the Stratford Hotel. But it was all to no avail. The
conflagration was literally devastating, and very few of the residents
there made it out. One of our English Dept. teachers had signed up to
stay there that night, but thanks to an invitation by a friend, Art
Boss, from Underwood, Minn. escaped a horrible death.
But Beth and Tony and Mrs. Stead,
and many others didn't make it out. The memory of that great tragedy
still gives me solemn pause. Yet I feel deep down that I may well see
many of those great people again,and it may not be long from now at all.
How does that great old spiritual “Deep River” end? “It's not far/
Just close by/ Through an open door.”
Gene Pinkney: For the Daily
News - Oct. 5th,
2020 edited html update 08-23-2021