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Reader's view: ‘Cousin Jacks’ helped make the Iron Range a mining giant

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A pox on thee, Joseph Legueri, for sullying the reputations of those Cousin Jacks who came from Cornwall and Wales, as you did in your June 8 column in the News Tribune, headlined, “Hey Jack, you’re the reason I can’t watch golf.”

The Cousin Jacks were the only ones who knew how to perform a C-section on Mother Earth, who then gave birth to those magnificent twins Hematite and Taconite. They in turn nurtured those European immigrants seeking a better life.

Yes, those blighters were rough and demanding; yet consider their workers. They were the toughest of the tough. A blacksmith with a hammer and anvil was needed to get the job done. Now a florist with a flute could hardly do the job, could he?

And so, without those stout souls who precipitated our Iron Range culture, there would be no Mariuccis, Mayasiches, Garmakers, Bus Andys, Bobby Aros, McHales, Pauluccis, Aholas, Perpiches, Ponikvars, Blatniks, Oberstars, Big Helen Drazenoviches or (and I almost omitted him) Bob Dylans. I’m sure you have heard of Bob Dylan.

Would Duluth be a fishing village? Being of the Irish, I know of the devastation wrecked upon my mother country by the Brits. We must, however, give the devil his due.

In regard to the talking heads of golf: Would you rather hear “Poi, dot vas a peutifull putt?”

John Dougherty

Hibbing

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