No. 1 Hard

Square in the middle of North Dakota is a town called Heaton. At this point, though, it may be an exaggeration to call it a town. It’s more of a boneyard with town-like aspects. The main street has an abandoned bank and gift shop, both with broken-out windows. A piece of a “B” rests on an awning over an entrance, like an autumn leaf or a discarded toenail clipping. The sidewalks that are left have been splintered by fierce, brushy weeds. And the surrounding blocks of once-tidy houses stand vacant, leaning and creaking, their paint long gone, the weather having had its way with the wood. As seventy-three-year-old Myrtle Hawks, one of the few remaining residents of Heaton, will tell you, “It’s like living in the country, only it’s not.”

Hawks is the spokesperson and de facto mayor of Heaton. No election was necessary. Once a town of four hundred people, built along the Northern Pacific railroad, time has shrunk the place to near nothingness, just as the sun desiccates a puddle. Nobody happens by anymore. The trains have stopped rolling through. Most days, it’s just Myrtle, her daughter, her grandson, and his five kids. Hawks doesn’t seem to mind. “We can do our own thing,” she explained, matter-of-factly, her hands shoved deep into the pockets of her blue jeans. Hawks has an exceedingly direct manner, in the way of people who’ve seen a lot, maybe too much. Her stories usually end on tragicomic notes. “We can yell and scream all we want and we don’t have to worry about the neighbors complaining,” she said, letting out a dry laugh and brushing a lock of gray hair from her bright eyes. “And I can run around in my nightclothes if I want.” She lowered her voice: “Sometimes I wear my nightclothes all day long.”

Of course, there are downsides to living in a ghost town. Occasionally, strangers shack up in one of the abandoned buildings and Hawks has to run them off. It takes forever for the police to arrive. Around Heaton, it takes quite a while for anyone to get anywhere; the only decent grocery store requires more than an hour’s drive. “But that’s just North Dakota,” Hawks said, with a wave of her hand. By far, the most trying aspect of life in Heaton is the weather, the legendary broiling heat and the metal-shattering cold. “One winter seven or eight years ago,” Hawks began, “there was so much snow and ice that the van over there was covered except for the lights on top.” She pointed toward a blue 1970s conversion van. “We didn’t have power for more than one hundred hours. My husband was alive then. We used candles and cooked on a barbecue grill with briquettes. We melted snow for water and used that to flush the toilet. I told my grandkids, ‘Now you get a sample of how I lived when I was a kid.’” The children, she said, didn’t fully appreciate the history lesson.


Posted

in

by

Tags:

Comments

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.