Tuesday afternoon was George Webb’s favorite time of the week, the period of controlled insanity when the paper was pulled together. It was like a gigantic jigsaw puzzle every week, with a lot of possible answers to pulling together a final product, but only one way that was really right, that really set well on the gut.

Webb often reflected that things were a lot different than when he had first started working on newspapers. Back then, everything was done in hot type, and the paper was mostly laid out on dummy sheets in the front room and then pulled together out of leads and slugs in the backroom, by men that worked with presses. Then, the paper would be printed on the site, and the smell of hot lead and paper, and the thumping of the building when the press was running really gave the feeling that something important was being created.

There was still one Linotype machine in the Record-Herald building, but it was now used exclusively for job work, and very little of it at that; the programs for the local funeral home were about the only jobs left to run on it now, and some day, even that trace of the past would be gone. Webb could still remember the fascinated hours he had spent just watching Joyce Berlin run the huge, black machine in years gone by; thousands of gears and levers and wheels and arms, all working in perfect synchronization, with the tink-tink-tink of the forms all falling into place one by one, and the story taking shape, line by leaden line, cast from molten metal.

All gone, now.

These days, they didn’t even print the paper. Setting type consisted of Carrie, running the big blue and gray machine, typing a lot faster than Mrs. Berlin had ever managed, and after a while, a long strip of white paper would emerge from the processor, ready to be proofread and have the rare corrections pasted on. Then, the edges would be cut off the paper, and its back would be waxed, and it would be pasted into place on large sheets of paper called “flats.” On Wednesday, someone would take the flats to Camden, where they would be photographed and transferred onto plates and printed using the newer process, and whoever drove down to Camden would come back with a van load of newspapers.

The “new” process, the Record-Herald had been using it for four years, now had another advantage: it was an operation that didn’t take as much skill to put it together. While two women worked much of the week assembling the ads that Kirsten and Harry Bailey brought in, the actual assembly of the paper was done by these specialists, and the “front-office” staff pitched in, so the work was done fairly quickly.

George usually reserved the makeup of the front page for himself, and this week, he had to admit that there was not a great deal to work with. The chili festival story was just as dumb as Mike had accused it of being, but that was the kind of “community involvement” story that couldn’t be passed over, especially when it had been as dull a week as it had been in Spearfish Lake.

George had to admit that Mike had done a good job on the chili festival stories, considering there was essentially nothing for him to work with. Under them George left a fairly small hole for the city council story. The city council always met on the same night the paper was put to bed, so it meant that every other week, the last thing that would get done, early Wednesday morning, was that the reporter’s story from the night before would be inserted. There was always jimmying and last-minute changes to make sure that the story fit the hole left for it. Of course, if there was a last-minute fire, or obit, or something, they’d have to make room for it somehow, too.

On the upper left hand corner of the page, George put a photo of Bud Ellsberg, shovel in hand, up to his knees in glop, ruefully scooping up sodden boxes of corn flakes. Mike had written a good story to go with the photo, and George threw in a second photo, one of the fire trucks outside the building, not so much because the photo had much news value, but because it showed without saying so, that the Record-Herald had been on the spot when the story broke, and had not just shown up on Monday with a camera. Little touches like that were important to George.

George roughed in the rest of the page with some other stories: the bit about Clark Plywood hiring, the Amboy Township bonds, and some other things like that. It would be a dull front page, but it would have to do. With a blue marking pen that wouldn’t show when the page was photographed, George wrote out headlines for the advertising makeup people to make up, and while that was in progress, he walked down the line of layout tables to see what progress other people were making.

In the middle part of the first section, Virginia Meyers had already finished the obit page. “Not a lot in the way of obits this week, huh?” George asked.

“It’s pretty dead at the funeral homes,” she agreed.

George gave an obligatory laugh, then glanced at the other social pages. Weddings, birth announcements, anniversaries, engagements, plus Virginia’s gossip column, who had dinner with who, who got cards in the hospital, that sort of thing. At one time, there had been much more of that sort of thing in the paper, but it was slowly dying out, and, as far as George was concerned, good riddance, too, but he didn’t let Virginia know that. Once she retired, someday, there would be even less of it.

On down the tables, at the back of the front section, Mike was working on the sports section. Only one page this week, and that largely ads, but in two or three weeks, when the Marlin sports season got going and the bowling leagues were under way again, there would be two or three pages, without much advertising. Mike hadn’t done much makeup, until now; this gave him good practice.

Looking over Mike’s shoulder, George could see that Mike’s inexperience was showing. While his basic idea for treating the page was good, his execution left several small holes around the page. “What you’ve got to learn to do,” George taught with a comment, “is learn to concentrate your white space into the largest blocks you can. You’ve got more flexibility with a large block than you do with a small one.”

“All right,” Mike said, peeling up the copy.

Webb went on down the line, to where Carrie was working on the second front. The girl could lay out a page, George admitted; he usually let her lay out the front when he couldn’t do it. “You got those set this soon, with everything else you had to do?” he asked.

“I peeled them up from last year’s flat,” she said. “They haven’t faded, so we might as well use them again. Besides, I hate to have to type some of these recipes if I don’t have to.

“Would be dull,” Webb admitted.

Carrie shook her head. “It’s not that,” she said. “Some of these names are downright gross! Thunderbutt Chili! Fire in the Hole Chili! I was around the army long enough to know that’s what you yell when you’re about to set off a blasting charge, but with all the beans and chili peppers in this recipe, I don’t think that’s the fire or the hole they mean.”

“My gut hurts from thinking about it,” the editor agreed, glancing over to read some of the recipes.

On down the tables, near the end, Kirsten and one of the makeup girls were putting the finishing touches on the classified pages. She had done a good job, what with Bailey being gone. He’d be back next week, and Webb made a mental note to pass along his compliments to him. The kid may be giddy and flighty, but she can sure push an ad, he thought.

Webb went back to see how Mike was coming. By that time, he’d rearranged the stories, and the page did look better. Mike saw him looking and asked, “Now, what do I fill the page out with?”

“See how big a hole you have at the bottom, then go dig through your junk pile and see if there’s anything that you can set for filler. If all else fails, ask Kirsten for a filler ad, but you’ll have to be careful where you place it. She’ll know what I mean.”

“All right.” Mike went through the door into the front office; the mere mention of Kirsten set him to thinking about her again.

She had come back into the office about half an hour after she left, with her composure returned, and immediately started nattering about the guy with the hairy chest again. After Carrie had told him about Henry Toivo, Mike didn’t have any better idea of how to handle Kirsten, but at least could understand some about why he couldn’t. That helped, but he couldn’t help but feeling sorry for her, too.

At his desk, he dug through the in-basket, looking for some short items among the throwaway stuff that could be used to fill out the page. It was slim pickings, but he didn’t need much. Some guy had nailed a near-record steelhead on the Little Spearfish River, and the release came from the state conservation club. It would do. There was another release on gun safety that would do, too. Under that, there was a hand-typed story about some guy scoring a hole in one at the West Turtle Lake Club.

Mike took a second look at that one, since, judging by the poor typing on the plain white paper, it had probably originated locally, rather than in some public relations shop.

“Whoa!” he thought. “I’m glad I caught this!” The golfer was Frank Matson, the guy at the bank, Carrie’s half-brother. He’d be proud of the ace, Mike knew just how singular an achievement that was. Leave it out, and he’d catch hell.

He stuck his nose back into the layout room, right behind the front office. “Carrie, I got a couple little things here. Could you set them, please?”

“I’m busy right now,” she said. “The machine’s set up to go. Why don’t you just go ahead and type them?”

“OK,” Mike said. Carrie had let him use the machine two or three times to get the feel of it; it was intimidating, but not that difficult, or not on straight copy, anyway. He just needed to be fairly careful typing the story.

It took Mike about six times as long as it would have taken Carrie to typeset the three short stories, but he managed to work his way through them. Feeling proud of himself, he ran off the leader, pulled the cassette out of the machine, and ran the copy through the processor, which didn’t eat it, more’s the wonder. In a minute, he had the copy drying on the dryer; while it was there, he proofread it. No mistakes that he noticed. Very good; he had reason to be proud of himself.

He took the copy back to the back room, waxed it and trimmed it. The pieces were just right to fill his hole; he took a blue pen and wrote headlines for the three little filler stories: “Near-Record Fish Caught”, “Gun Safety Urged”, and “Matson Sinks Hole in One”.

Webb came over as Mike finished up the page. “Looks good,” Webb said, looking it over. “It’s an art …”

All of a sudden, the scanner burbled with a piercing note. “Base, this is C-2” a strained voice said. “I need an EMT at the station.”

“That’s strange,” Webb said, absentmindedly initialing his approval on the page. “Why would Masterfield call base for an EMT? That’s not your normal medical emergency. Better slide over and check it out, Mike.”

Spearfish Lake Record-Herald, August 13, 1975

ASSISTANT FIRE CHIEF HOSPITALIZED

by Mike McMahon
Record-Herald Staff

Spearfish Lake Acting Fire Chief Harry Masterfield was taken by ambulance to the Spearfish Lake Hospital Tuesday afternoon, suffering with lower stomach pains.

Masterfield collapsed while at the fire station, and was able to call for medical assistance on his portable radio when he revived briefly. Emergency crews called to the fire station found him collapsed on the floor of the station.

A spokesman for the hospital said that Masterfield apparently had appendicitis, and his condition was reported as good.

Helga Matson was not a joiner; she stayed serenely above all the squabbles that went on around Spearfish Lake. She had been asked to join the anti-Donna Clark North Spearfish Lake Woman’s Club, but after attending a couple of meetings, she perceived that it would make the squabble worse, not better.

Besides, the North Spearfish Lake Women didn’t do much that interested her, anyway.

As would be expected, Helga became even closer friends with Ursula Mandenberg, and most of their energies were directed at healthy living and the West Turtle Lake Club.

Once in a while, though, Helga’s and Donna’s interests would coincide, and the community was amazed to see that the two could work together – quite cautiously, but at least work together.

They never worked together better than they did one night in the spring of 1955, when Harry Masterfield in his hot rod flathead ’48 Mercury passed Helga at something approaching the speed of sound as she was going up Catholic Hill on her way out to the West Turtle Lake Club He found himself facing the grillwork of a ’55 Buick.

Helga swerved to give the oncoming Buick room; the Buick swerved toward her, and Masterfield swerved to the left. Helga and the Buick managed to stay on the road, but the Mercury went into the ditch and flipped over.

Helga slammed on the brakes and hopped out of the car almost before it was stopped. “You goddamned fool,” she yelled.

The Buick had also stopped, and its driver emerged, yelling, “You stupid hot-rod punk!”

Helga looked at the wreck; there was no motion from within, but it looked as if smoke were pouring from the engine compartment. “It’s on fire,” she yelled to the other driver, only then noticing that it was Donna Clark. “We’ve got to get him out of there.”

Donna was already running for the wreck, but Helga, closer, and in much better physical shape, beat her easily. She slid to a stop on hands and knees beside the overturned car, she could see the driver inside, unconscious, hanging somehow from the steering wheel. Fortunately, the window was open, and, although the top was crushed down, there seemed to be room enough for her to wiggle inside. She was half into the car, trying to detach the young man from whatever was hanging him up by the time Donna arrived.

“How is he?” Donna yelled.

“He’s stuck,” Helga yelled back. “I cannot get him out! Let me see if I can get up in there.”

“I’ll see if I can reach him from the other side,” Donna said loudly, running around to the driver’s side of the car as Helga wiggled inside. It was dark and confusing, but Helga soon found that somehow, the driver’s belt was tangled up with the broken steering wheel.

“I cannot reach his belt buckle,” Helga told Donna. “If only I had a knife.”

Miraculously, Donna had held onto her purse. “I have a penknife,” she said. “You want me to cut his belt?”

“Yes, and quickly,” Helga yelled. “The smoke is getting very thick.”

Fortunately, it was the era of slim leather belts, and soon Donna had managed to cut through the leather strap. “Got it!” she yelled.

“Let’s get him out your side,” Helga said. “I will push him to you!”

The two ladies managed to push and tug until the driver’s head and shoulders were outside the window, and then, with Helga twisting him around, Donna could get to where she could get a clear pull. “Get out fast,” she yelled to Helga, “Then help me get him up away from the car.”

Helga was out the passenger window almost before Donna had the driver out of the other window. Running around the car, she grabbed an arm, and helped drag the young man away from the now visibly burning car, just as another driver pulled up. “Get the fire department and the ambulance, quick!” Donna yelled at the driver, who hadn’t even gotten out of the car yet. “Will do,” the driver yelled, and took off in a cloud of flying gravel.

At a safe distance, the two women came to a stop, and began to check the young man over. “He’s bleeding badly from this arm,” Helga reported.

Donna looked; the flow of blood was fast. “Put some pressure on the wound,” she ordered. “I’ll make a tourniquet out of my purse strap.”

Helga peeled off her light jacket, wrapped it around the young man’s arm, and pushed hard against the wound to stop it from bleeding. In the distance, they could hear the town fire siren going off.

“When he is better, I want to have a very harsh talk with this young man,” the bloodstained, smoke-stained Helga said.

“I’ll be there with you,” Donna agreed.

Several days later, the two women met in the lobby of the Spearfish Lake Hospital, and went up to Harry Masterfield’s room. “I know I was stupid,” he said, “and I don’t know how to repay you.”

“You owe us your life,” Helga said.

“And you will damn well repay it,” Donna agreed.

Masterfield looked confused. “How am I supposed to do that?” he asked.

“We saved you from a fire so you can try saving someone else.” Helga said.

“You might try the volunteer fire department,” Donna suggested.

Spearfish Lake Record-Herald, October 11, 1954

MASTERFIELD PUTS OUT FIRE WITH THREE TD’S

The Spearfish Lake Marlins had a bad first half against traditional rivals Coldwater Friday night, at least partly due to the absence of star running back Harry Masterfield.

The young halfback, who joined the Spearfish Lake Volunteer Fire Department over the summer, raced off during the pre-game warmup when the fire siren blew and helped the department extinguish a grass fire north of Spearfish Lake.

Despite tough defense, the Iceberg offense had put 12 points on the board, and with the Marlin offense shut down, only a goose-egg showed for Spearfish Lake.

Masterfield returned during halftime activities, still clad in fireman’s turnout gear, and quickly suited up in his Marlin uniform, to snare three big pass receptions from sophomore quarterback Frank Matson, all for touchdowns. A last-minute field goal by running back Medford “Bud” Ellsberg put the score out of reach, 21-12.

“A game is just a game,” Masterfield said afterward. “Important things come first.”

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