The Story of the Hoodlum

By Doug Severt
Edited by Joyce Severt 

Born of a desire to have a mobile camp to use during hunting and fishing expeditions, the Hoodlum had it's beginning like so many things in Norm Severt’s life; created from depression era ingenuity! He used that ingenuity to build a mobile home from an old car frame and material that he obtained from the local area. It was the early 30s, times were rough and you didn’t throw anything away.

To build the Hoodlum, Norm’s first priority was to get the lumber. Between him and his brother Roy who was in the logging business, they went to a farmer near Bethel where there were a lot of windfall trees. With their dad’s horse, they went there and sawed the logs off to lengths that they could manage. After the logs were cut into 10 or 12-ft. lengths and all the rotten spots cut out, they loaded the logs onto a wagon. Usually, they could only carry three logs at a time. They hauled the timber down to the sawmill of Herman Miller in Arpin, who cut it up for a very reasonable price. Norm then reciprocated by delivering slabs to his customers for him. This timber would later become the frame of the Hoodlum. The siding would come from a neighbor who was replacing the siding on their house. The tin for the roof also came from a neighbor whose shed had blown over and was no longer usable. The interior walls and ceilings would be made from heavy cardboard that came from discarded shoring and bunker material that he removed from railway cars at a box factory in the Rapids. With plans to build the Hoodlum in his mind he brought all of these materials home on his railroad push car preparing for the day that he would have all the materials together to assemble. Norman was a very crafty and industrious builder who never missed an opportunity to utilize anything worthwhile that had been discarded for any of his numerous projects.

The Hoodlum is about 15 feet long by 6 feet wide. Large double bunk beds bought at an army surplus store for $1.50 each are on one end and a coal burning pot bellied stove that was originally in a caboose is to the left of the entrance. Other amenities included a drop down table, cabinets with counter tops on the wall opposite of the table and a closet to the right of the entrance.

The Hoodlum, when first brought to the Turtle Flambeau flowage in Northern Wisconsin, was parked at the dam site, where Emil (Norm’s brother) then lived. At that time, that was the main access point to the flowage and there were no other structures present. The Hoodlum called many lots home for a while as it only stayed in one place for a limited amount of time. After Emil began guiding for Art Schmidt, it was moved to his Resort where he lived while he was guiding. Later, it was moved nearer to the water and next to the cabin of John A. Blum. At this time the wheels were removed and the structure was placed on a skid, never to be roadworthy again. The time must have been around 1936, because that is the year of the last trailer license, which still remains on it to this day. The last move was to a site next to the cabin that Norman built. For that move, Joe Lavina a local farmer, used his tractor and drug it over on its skids. Norman cleared this property and built his cabin, boat house, tool shed and outhouse. Norman eventually sold this property to his brother Emil who in-turn sold it to Jimmy Blum, who is the present day owner.
 
About 1946 when the Hoodlum was at the Blum's cabin, a late afternoon storm struck. When the cyclone hit, John A. Blum was in the Hoodlum taking a nap. On this day, Norman saved John’s life, as he was the only one who knew where he took his afternoon naps. Norm got him out just in time as trees were coming down in every direction and the storm was making a loud roar. Trees were everywhere! Two fell on the Hoodlum, one fell on the corner of John’s cabin. It took them two days to clear the trees off the road with crosscut saws so they could get out. When the roof was repaired, the pitch of the roof was increased. It originally had a flat roof.

From my earliest recollections, the Hoodlum was primarily a place for the kids. I can remember only a few times when adults slept in it, but for the most part it was our private domain. A perfect gathering place out of sight and hearing of adults. We could stay up all night listening to Dick Bianti on radio station WLS out of Chicago and no one bothered us. Nighttime was the only time that we could receive the station and then the receptions was seldom very good, but it was our only source of the latest music.

The Hoodlum was the best place to sleep in, except for making the bed. That was cumbersome because it was wall-to-wall bed and you only had access from one side. In order to tuck in the opposite side you had to crawl on the bed and try to tuck it in, but by the time you got back off, it probably came out from all the movement on the bed because we didn't have fitted sheets. That was the only draw back, however. The Hoodlum was built is such a way that the end wall had two windows, one on top of the other. This afforded each of the bunked beds a window of their own and with them open, it was as if we were sleeping outside but we had the comfort and security of the Hoodlum. Any time was a perfect time to nap. When it rained one could hear the rain falling on the leaves and on the tin roof. When it was windy the wind rustling the leaves could always lull you to sleep. During the day you could always hear the distant drone of an outboard motor and could trace the movement of it on the lake in your mind from the sound and sometimes even identify who it was. On cold mornings, even the smallest fire would heat the building nicely.
 
How did it get its name? No one knows for sure. And really, no one cares. All we know is the sheer, unbounded joy that we experienced at this place that hailed from such meager beginnings.