Author Archives: Louis Galdieri

A Theme from Labor Day 1913

One hundred years ago today, in 1913, a crowd of almost 3000 people gathered in the sweltering heat at the municipal park in Hancock, Michigan for a Labor Day rally. It had been a difficult, violent summer, and there was no indication that the strike on the Copper Range was going to be settled anytime soon.

When George C. Bentley, a probate judge, addressed the crowd, it was to remind them that though they had every right to strike, they should remember that some kinds of persuasion were not permissible. He no doubt had in mind the taunting and beating of scabs in the street and the damage done to mining company property. Guy Miller, an organizer from the Western Federation of Miners, met this conciliatory gesture with a sharp rebuff. He rose and argued that “human rights were deserving of more consideration than property rights.”

Take some time to think about the theme and circumstances of Miller’s speech today. It seems to me a day dedicated to working people ought to be a day on which the basic human rights of all deserve more consideration than the property rights of the few.

Woody Guthrie dedicated one of the lesser-known verses of “This Land is Your Land” to the idea:

There was a big high wall there that tried to stop me;
Sign was painted, it said private property;
But on the back side it didn’t say nothing;
This land was made for you and me.

Women on the Verge of a Social Breakdown

womenmarchflagBy late August of 1913, authorities in Calumet were facing a problem that was “becoming more perplexing each day.” Women were mixing it up with strikebreakers, scabs, deputies and national guardsmen. “This development is perplexing,” read an article dated August 28th, “as the men are timid in resisting such attacks.” The women were “spitting in the faces of deputies and hurling curses and slurs upon the civil guards”; they “pummeled workmen returning to their homes from the mines,” and when one workman fought back, “this angered the dozen or more women in the crowd and a free-for-all melee followed.”

Brawling, spitting, cursing women — female furies loosed in the streets — came to stand for the social disorder that swept over Calumet in 1913. Local storyteller Jack Foster could think of no better way to communicate how bad things had gotten than to tell us, during the last interview we did with him, that in 1913 “you had women running around with brooms, dipped in the outhouses, slashing at you if you went to work. You can’t imagine what we went through here.” In Jack’s account, and in many popular accounts of the time, these women were something that ordinarily would be unimaginable.

But these were extraordinary times. The word often chosen to describe the problem these women in Calumet represented — perplexing — suggests a difficult entanglement of social logic. Things had gotten all mixed up, confounded. The women fighting in the streets were defying authority in all senses of the word: not just the deputized and enlisted forces of law and order, but also the social forces that ordinarily kept women in their place, or at least prevented them from roving in bands and taking over the streets.

First TV Broadcast of 1913 Massacre – Labor Day, 2013

We’re very happy to announce that 1913 Massacre will air on Twin Cities Public Television (tpt) over the 2013 Labor Day holiday.  This is the first television broadcast of the film.


On tpt Channel 2.1: Monday, September 2nd, at 11:00PM and Tuesday, September 3rd at 5:00AM.

On the Minnesota Channel (locally tptMN Channel 2.2): Monday at 12:00am, 6:00AM, 12:00PM, and 6:00PM

The online program listing is here.

If you are in the Minneapolis / St. Paul area, we hope you’ll tune in. And if you have friends or family in the area, please let them know!

Woody Guthrie, Mother Bloor and The New Marker at the Italian Hall Site

Here’s a recent local news story about the changing of the Michigan historical marker at the Italian Hall site in Calumet. The sign at the site no longer says that the doors of the Hall opened “inward,” as it did for years. As author Steve Lehto sees it, the story of the doors opening inward developed over time, to help people explain, and cope with, what seemed an inexplicable event.

Pete Seeger says in our film that Woody Guthrie took his version of events at the Hall from Mother Bloor’s autobiographical account of her years as a socialist organizer, We Are Many. Bloor had been working with Big Annie Clemenc and the ladies auxiliary to plan the party and she was there on Christmas Eve when the trouble started. She is careful to note in her account that “there were two doors to the box entry” of the Italian Hall, “both opening outward.” Here is the critical passsage from We Are Many.

What happened was this. In the panic a man with a child in his arms had fallen at the bottom of the stairs. There were two doors to the box entry, both opening outward. When the man fell, the child in his arms fell through one of the doors, out into the street. The deputies, who had been threatening to break up the entertainment, were standing outside of the door. They themselves had raised the cry of Fire! and knew what was happening. Someone, it was never known who, seeing the man sprawling on the threshold, quickly closed the door, and both doors were held shut from the outside, so that no one could get out.

Woody stayed pretty close to this account of the falling man and the doors held shut as he wrote his verse:

A few people rushed and it was only a few,
“It’s just the thugs and the scabs fooling you,”
A man grabbed his daughter and carried her down,
But the thugs held the door and he could not get out.

One important variation he made was to change Bloor’s passive — the doors were held shut — to the active: the thugs held the door.

Where Is Calumet?

It’s uncanny how this notice from a 1913 newspaper anticipates the opening scene of 1913 Massacre:

“Where is Calumet?”

That is a simple question, apparently. Almost anybody will say it is a thriving city up in the country where they blow open the earth with dynamite and wrest copper there from [sic] which makes some people rich and others strike.

“It is a city of about 35,000 people, with lots of hills and some mighty fine roads around about; roads made of trap rock, which is hard to crush either by a crusher or traffic; hence wears well.”

But the answer is not there. Calumet is a mirage city — it is here and it is not here. Calumet is the tomorrow of the country — it is always just ahead, yet it is not present. When you are in Calumet, you are in Red Jacket, but when you are in Red Jacket, you are not in Calumet. When you are in Calumet, you are in Laurium, but when you are in Laurium, you are not in Calumet.

How would you answer the question now?


Murder, Mother Jones and the Militia

By August of 1913, things in the Copper Country were really starting to heat up. The miners had been on strike since the end of July, and the strike was “gradually drifting,” in the words of the Calumet News, “towards its second stage, a period of guerilla warfare.”

The Michigan National Guard — over 2400 troops — were encamped near the Armory and in various locations. They conducted patrols, but were unable to keep the peace. Anyone carrying a dinner pail was likely to be attacked as a strikebreaker — spat upon, beaten, slapped around. There were shootings and somebody tried to dynamite the Red Jacket shaft. When a posse of deputy sheriffs arrived at a Hungarian boarding house near Wolverine, they were fired upon, doused with red pepper, scalded with hot water, and had to dodge a volley of household utensils, then surrounded by a crowd of angry miners. The deputies were able to escape when the militia men drove back the crowd with bayonets.


Mother Jones Arrives in Calumet – August 1913.

A thousand strikers and thousands more onlookers gathered at the train station to greet Mother Jones when she arrived in town on August 5th. “These strike movements,” she is reported to have declared after stepping off the Northwestern train, “are the greatest fun in the world.”

One week later, on August 11th, she was quoted in the local paper urging the strikers to stand firm until the mining company met “every concession” of the WFM, and denouncing judges and governors because they served “the interests of the money classes.”

The presence of the National Guard, Mother Jones argued, was more likely to incite than quell violence: “militia have no business in an industrial dispute; this is not a revolution.”  At the same time she pleaded with the men to steer clear of trouble with the militia, reprimanded them for their lack of organization, and urged them to see this as a defining moment for the country:

I want you to use your brains, not your hands…Your masters want you to use your hands. I see they have the militia up here to take good care of you. The militia loves you dearly. You make the guns and the bayonets and they’ve got to be used on you.

I’ve had experience with the militia. They’re not bad fellows. All there is about it, they put on dress uniforms and let you know they’ll clean hell out of you if you don’t do as they tell you. Washington and Lincoln didn’t want the militia. We didn’t have the militia in their days. We were Americans then.

What’s the matter with you fellows? Why don’t you elect the right men to public offices? You elect these men and most of you take a glass of beer — scab beer — for your votes and let it sink into your groggy, scab brains. You did that and you elected a scab governor to bring out the militia and camp on company ground and take care of company property. This ground belongs to you.

Don’t carry a gun or pistol. Let the other fellow do that. If he goes after you use your fists and black his two eyes and then he can’t see to shoot you.

You don’t need to have a fight here. Just be firm and peaceful. They can’t operate the mines without you….Just use your brains and wake up to the fact that you have the power.

The capitalists are organized, the doctors are organized, the lawyers are organized and the corporations are organized to skin you. Everyone’s been organized right along but you fellows.

Militarism is becoming an atmospheric disease in America and you see the girls, the poor little things, talking and laughing with the soldiers who come to shoot their fathers.

The stars and stripes shall float in Calumet and Michigan over free workingmen.

Firm and peaceful were not exactly bywords of the day. There would be a fight in Calumet — a big fight. The scuffle at the Hungarian boarding house in early August was just a token of of bigger trouble to come later in the month.

On August 14th, at the Putrich boarding house in Seeberville, where another armed posse had come to arrest another striking miner, Deputy Josh Cooper was struck in the head with a bowling tenpin. The posse opened fire on the men, women and children inside the house. Joseph Putrich and Alois Tijan were shot dead. John Stimac and Stanko Stepic were seriously wounded.

The killings at Seeberville “electrified the scattered mining communities from Painesdale to Mohawk,” writes Arthur Thurner in Rebels on the Range. By August 16th, the Miners Magazine could say, without exaggeration: “a reign of terror prevails throughout the district.”


100 years ago today, the Finnish language newspaper Työmies or The Worker announced:

This morning in Michigan’s Copper region, a miner’s strike broke out which, according to information received from various locations up to this point, has stopped work in all of the mines with few exceptions.

The strike that began in late July of 1913 would last through the winter of 1913-1914. It would meet with strong opposition — sometimes violent opposition — and leave deep scars.

The children’s party at the Italian Hall on Christmas Eve, 1913, was organized by women who supported the striking miners, and Woody Guthrie’s account of the Italian Hall disaster in “1913 Massacre” comes directly from one of those women: Mother Bloor.

The stories told in our film, the survivor’s accounts of Christmas Eve, 1913,  the tearing down of the Italian Hall in 1984 and the erection of the arch in 1989 , Woody’s discovery of the story in 1941, Arlo’s return to the place his father sang about —  all those stories begin 100 years ago today.

To mark the strike’s centennial, Daniel Schneider has published a beautiful letterpress edition of Työmies from the first day of the strike. The limited edition broadside includes the first-ever English translation of that text along with the original Finnish text.  Schneider notes that “socialist-unionist perspective” presented in Työmies “differed markedly from that of the English-language kept press,” which tended to do the bidding of the mining company, Calumet and Hecla.tyomies broadsides photo

If you are interested in learning more about this literary, historical and printing project, contact Schneider at tyomiesproject [at] He’s selling a limited edition of the broadsides for $40 each and plans to use the proceeds to support future Työmies translation work and the restoration of letterpress printing equipment.

And take a little time today to reflect on these headlines and the special perspective on the 1913 strike, the Italian Hall disaster and American history they offer.

Toshi Seeger, 1922-2013

Yesterday evening we read the news that Toshi-Aline Ohta Seeger, Pete Seeger’s wise, talented, strong and beautiful wife, passed away at the age of 91.  You can read about Toshi’s life and her work as a filmmaker, a mother, an activist and an organizer over at Sing Out!, where Mark D. Moss has written a tribute to her. Toshi was an extraordinary woman.

Toshi Cooking Soup

The write-up also features this photograph by Ed Renehan of Toshi cooking soup . She must be in her 80s. It brings us right back to the the day we spent with Toshi and Pete at their cabin in Beacon, NY.

It was a crisp fall day. Pete sat in front of the wood-burning stove (he’d been chopping wood outside when we arrived), rocked back and forth in his chair, and talked and sang and told stories and played banjo for hours. We had to work hard to keep up with him.

Ken and I were packing our gear when Toshi announced that it was time for lunch, and invited us to sit down to a big bowl of squash soup and some homemade bread.

So we sat down at the dining table in the modest mountainside cabin Pete and Toshi had built for themselves in the 1940s. We broke bread together and ate Toshi’s delicious soup. I can’t honestly say I remember  much of the conversation: I think it was just about ordinary, everyday things. I know we felt welcome, and cared for, and warm.

Juhannus: Summer is Here

Juhannus, a midsummer celebration held near Misery Bay on the Keweenaw Peninsula, was one of the highlights of our recent screening tour of the UP. We ran into old friends and made some new ones. Accompanied by percussionist Randy Seppala, who plays bones and spoons with Johnny Perona in our film, the band Toivo played traditional Finnish music. People danced the Schottische. The Turun Metsankavijat Wind Band, who a few days before had performed at the Italian Hall wreath-laying ceremony, added to the festive atmosphere. Down on the lakeshore, the everything had been made ready for the lighting of the big bonfire — the Juhannuskokko. Here are some scenes from that evening.

Summer is here.

Public Television and Public Life — A Note from the Road

We’ve just completed a short tour of the Upper Peninsula, taking 1913 Massacre from Houghton to Ontonagon to Marquette. After each screening of the film, we take questions and comments from the audience. All sorts of things come up in those conversations. People see themselves or their own town in the Calumet story. They make connections between the past and the present, between what happened in Calumet to what’s happening right now in the UP, in Michigan and all around the country. In Ontonagon, one audience member came away from the film thinking about garment factories in Bangladesh; in Marquette, we talked about courage, resilience and how long it takes communities to recover from social catastrophe, among other things. We learn something new with every conversation.

Though the questions, insights and topics may vary, the thing that most impresses me about all these Q&A sessions — no matter the size of the audience or the setting — is the most easily overlooked: the gathering of the audience and the shared experience of seeing the film, together, creates an opportunity for public conversation.

That’s why I’m always a little thrown when someone raises his hand in one of these public gatherings to ask whether we’ve approached PBS with our film or whether 1913 Massacre will air on public television. There are other versions of the same question. Will the film be at Sundance? Will it be on HBO? Wouldn’t it lend itself to feature film treatment? Have we approached Steven Speilberg or — name your favorite Hollywood mogul or celebrity. But the PBS question is the one we get most frequently.

The simple answer is, of course we approached PBS, Independent Lens, POV, and so on, repeatedly, for funding and grants while working on the film; and of course we are still making efforts to bring the film to wider audiences. PBS, or some part of the public broadcasting system, might offer an opportunity to do that.

That, at least, is an answer that gets us past talking about the movie business and the business prospects of our film and back to the film itself and the experience of the film we all just shared.

I realize that the PBS question and others like it show appreciation and support for the film: it’s a way of wishing us success, or a way of saying that other people, friends, family, lots of people, millions of PBS viewers should see our film. They should, with any luck they will, and it’s good to hear others hope they do.

At the same time it’s worth asking why the PBS question comes up so often, and more importantly why the question seems odd and entirely out of place at a public gathering and in a public forum. Would a PBS broadcast give our film a seal of approval it lacks? Would an Oscar? Would Steven Speilberg? Maybe, but why should any of that matter right now? We’re not approaching Speilberg: we’re approaching you. What do you say? What do others in the room have to say? Why look elsewhere? Why wait for permission? What about the approval 1913 Massacre already received, just now, right here in this room? What about the experience we all just shared? Surely we haven’t exhausted that — and surely that counts for something, for much more.

We’re here together, right now, in this room. Let’s appreciate and own it, and make the most of the opportunity we have. Let’s forget about the Corporation for Public Broadcasting and every other kind of corporate gatekeeper. Let’s not await a word from our sponsor or even admit them into the room. Let’s not diminish the present moment and our experience — a public experience, an experience of being together, in public. Let’s not look for validation or value beyond this room: we have it all, right here.

You see where this is heading. There are lessons in all this about the power people and communities have and the power we surrender, every day and for no good reason, to outside authorities, influencers and exploiters — to powerful institutions, brand names, celebrities, big money. These gatherings in small towns, in classrooms, halls and clubs, in local theaters and public libraries may look modest, but they give us a chance to exercise our habit for democracy.


People gather in the Community Room at the Peter White Library in Marquette for a screening of 1913 Massacre.

That’s why, in the end, television broadcast can’t hold a candle to public screenings like the ones we’ve had and will continue to have. Television is not just a poor substitute for community gatherings and public life. It pulls us away from those things and from each other. Watching television is a retreat from public gathering — a withdrawal into the privacy of one’s own. In this sense, “public television” is an oxymoron, a contradiction in terms.

There’s an aesthetic dimension to this as well. Our film, all film, plays best on a big screen, with a live audience. People laugh and cry together, some gasp, some cough (somebody always coughs), others sigh, shift in their seats. Applause brings everyone together at the end. (Booing and jeering would do the trick, too, but with 1913 Massacre we’ve so far been spared that experience.) These emotions, actions and reactions are an under-appreciated but essential part of the motion, or kinesis, of the cinematic experience. Films come alive — that’s the right word, alive — when people gather to see them; and when people share in public conversation what they’ve seen, they have a special chance to see each other, anew, on the other side of a new experience.

A woman in the audience in Houghton seemed to understand all this when she rose from her seat and exclaimed: “this film should be shown in every small town across the country!” If only we could make that happen.