June, 2019

By Mary Ann Doyle

Smitty and Tiger the Bar Cat

After I moved to Harshaw it wasn’t long before I learned the bartending trade. 

It’s a handy skill to know in the Northwoods of Wisconsin and I’ve muddled Old Fashions in fancy supper clubs as well as poured cold ones in one-tapper dives. This side gig has benefited me immensely through the years, providing quick cash when unexpected bills arise, some unbelievable stories and the opportunity to be neighborly to bar owning friends who sometimes need a break from the grinding hours this profession demands.

Such was the case when Smitty hired me shortly after purchasing Idlewild Bar and Resort back in the early 1990s. He was about as old as the resort itself and had served this country proudly from 1944 to 1946 as an infantryman in WW II. He had dutifully completed a 40-year career at an automobile plant in Milwaukee when he bought Idlewild as a retirement venture, a fact that baffled me for years.

A Colorful Character

Smitty was a colorful character in many ways. By the time he became Idlewild’s proprietor he nurtured a shuffling pace and his frame was slightly bent. He had a curious tilt to his head and on the road I always knew he was coming at me by the silhouette of his noggin in the driver’s seat, like an expectant dog waiting on a treat. Most of the time his face bore a benign, closed-lip grin, creating an expression of unwavering simplicity.

He had an unusual fashion sense and while performing his resort chores often wore different colored socks under two completely different style shoes. Seersucker and Hawaiian fabrics were a favorite. Wild colored plaid shorts matched with wrinkly flowered shirts were his go-to in warm weather and flannel with blown elbow holes was a winter staple. These jackets were half buttoned over pilled, polyester pants when the cold winds blew.

He considered himself a lady’s man, but a frugal one, and took to self-dyeing his sparse locks with bewildering results. One side was often a deep, blackish brown while the other a mottled brindle. He varied this style by sometimes only capturing the top strands creating a skunk like streak while leaving the sides completely untouched.

Smitty’s real passion was gardening and in summer he diligently tended a fenced off area behind one of the cottages that included a massive raspberry patch. He was often observed plodding behind a wheelbarrow or toting water from the lake in a battered green can. This activity was much to the chagrin of his thirsty customers as they watched him from the bar while waiting for service.

He collected and saved anything he thought might come in handy down the road. One time he showed me an impressive stockpile of silk bowling shirts, circa 1950s and 60s, and even a dozen of the bowling balls he had thrown over the years. Cardboard boxes, newspapers, bent nails, rusty bolts, magazines, used straws, broken hardware, and anything he deemed non-trashable were kept in tumbling heaps throughout his living quarters.

The old resort wasn’t the most kept up establishment in town, but there was something about the rustic place that drew people in. The log-chinked lodge with its colorful Northwoods history overlooked the water and you could gaze out at the lake while enjoying a cold one. It was true that certain hygiene aspects were lacking, but Idlewild definitely had its charm and Smitty was part of that.

A Cat Adopts Smitty

Today animals are not allowed in most establishments up here (and in my opinion a sad fact) but at that time in Harshaw history every bar and resort had a resident canine or two sprawled under the barstools. Everybody brought their dogs to the bar at one time or another, including the tourists, and they were welcomed with plastic cups of water and cut up beef jerky strips. Dogs were considered family and were often asked after, and mourned with raised toasts long after they passed. 

Shortly after Smitty bought the resort, a cat decided to adopt him and Smitty being Smitty obliged. A ginger, battle-worn tom wandered into the bar one day just as Smitty was finishing up one of his fried smelt dinners. He threw a couple of the crispy bodies at the animal and that was all it took for the cat to ditch feral life. Smitty named him Tiger.

Tiger adapted to resort life splendidly and took reign of the place within 24 hours. Since Smitty lived in a small apartment attached to the bar, the rangy animal was often observed under the pool table grooming itself or nonchalantly lounging on a barstool. One of its favorite sleeping spots was on a counter against the tall picture windows where Smitty kept a double line up of liquor bottles. Their pointy pour spouts made a peaceful silhouette as bright light streamed in over the slumbering creature. In no time Tiger was part of Idlewild and became a familiar figure as he stalked behind his human around the resort grounds.

Pandemonium breaks out

One hot July evening I pulled in for my shift and coming up the hill from the cottages was a tourist being dragged by a pony-sized dog. At the end of a thin leash a wolf look-a-like lunged and zigzagged with exuberant leaps and huffed in slobbering excitement as a small woman clad in a bathing suit and flip-flops, skidded along behind it.

I followed the pair into the bar and it was immediately evident this slavering animal was a cat hater. One look at Tiger licking his paws under the pool table ramped up its manic enthusiasm into the explosive range and with a savage lunge it broke loose from the woman and made its move. Billiard balls clacked and rolled as the table lurched and Tiger, caught completely off guard, shot from under there in an orange blur.

His panicked plan of action was to claw up the legs of the end bar patron and proceed to leap frog across shoulders and heads as the dog charged behind, knocking customers into their mugs and even shoving a couple completely off their stools.    

When it came to the last head the cat turned and took a panther like leap onto the back counter where it skidded into the line up of liquor bottles, then fumble-pranced across the pointy tops as the dog dived after it. But the hairy beast missed its mark, hung half over the bar for a few scrambling seconds its legs clawing frantically for hold, then slid off, landing on its back with a floor shaking thud.

Smitty, who had been swatting bugs, was nearly knocked off his feet and watched stunned as the liquor bottle line up crashed and scattered in the cat’s wake. A few rolled to the floor landing in splintering explosions but most eased just to the edge, their contents chugging from the thin spouts in spastic jerks. At one point the cat catapulted into the four tap beer handles, opening the spouts full bore and they gushed white arcs of foam into the growing tide. And all the time the dog was lunging and clawing in between bar patrons, its eyes locked on the cat in determined fury.

Finally a gutsy customer caught the frantic cat mid-air and unceremoniously tossed it into Smitty’s living quarters, slamming the door behind it. The dog crashed after it with a boom and set up a thunderous bellowing as it repeatedly threw its body against the flimsy wood. The big animal was eventually dragged out but kept up its Gestapo type behavior all the way down the hill.

Appalling demolition

The destruction left behind was appalling and became even more evident as the aroma of whiskey, brandy, gin, rum, peppermint schnapps, beer and other various boozes wafted in the warm air. Everyone was in a stupor, (the entire incident had taken place in less than 30 seconds) and “what the hell” and many expletives were expressed as patrons brushed spilled beverages from their laps and picked up their hats and overturned stools.

Smitty slowly set his flyswatter down and it was the only time in all the years I knew him his head went completely vertical. For a few seconds his eyes popped then he shuffled to the back room and wheeled out a mop bucket sloshing over with black water. He limply wrung out the dirty mop fibers and set to languidly swirling it through the broken glass and wasted booze. 

One customer had thankfully jumped around the bar to right the chugging bottles and shut off the gushing taps but the damage was overwhelming and Smitty sloshing that dirty mop through the swill wasn’t doing anything to improve the situation. In all the years before or since, I have never started a bartending shift this way.

I told him to stop and go sit, got a broom and swept up the broken glass first, changed the water, cleaned the mop head, then sopped up the mess to various suggestions from the now jovial patrons who had something to watch besides the lake. Many did lament the fact that a lot of good liquor was wasted and remedied that by having another. 

The advantageous aspect about the entire fiasco was the floor behind the bar got a good cleaning and the counters gleamed once the liquor bottles were put back in their line up. And in the end Tiger, nor Smitty, were none the worse for wear.

Stories worth their weight in gold

It’s funny the experiences that stick in your head as the years pass. When they happen you think nothing of it, that they are just part of your everyday goofy life. And then in a blink they are fond reminisces, stories told over and over that weave you into the fabric of your neighborhood.

Smitty died last summer, and Tiger long before, but I was reminded of this pair, and that disastrous shift, just the other day as I drove past Smitty’s still flourishing raspberry patch. I could almost see him out there with his mismatched socks and shoes, wearing his polka dot seersucker, his blotchy hair blowing in the wind. And Tiger too, sitting upright supervising his human. 

Yes, bartending has been good to me over the years. But not necessarily because of the money. As time passes the stories, and memories, are far more worth their weight in gold.

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