There’s an odd little house on Main Street. It’s partially hidden by a large oak, its unassuming sign is practically illegible from the street.
This is the home of the The Weary Club. Formally founded in the 1920s, the club had already been meeting in some form, as a casual place for men to smoke, whittle and swap stories. Admission is rumored to be granted only to those who can shave a cedar piece light enough to float.
The Weary Club has always been a place for the big wigs of Norway to relax. While women were definitely not encouraged until relatively recently, and drinking is still verboten, this small house organically became a place to gather around the potbellied stove, tell a tall tale, and maybe get a cribbage tournament going.
Although, to be clear, no games of chance for money! (I think they may have been Methodists from the sound of it…)
From this outpost, no telephones or technology is to ruin the calm; “Conversation was restricted to fishing, hunting and kindred subjects. Village gossip was permitted if soft pedaled and kept within bounds.”
Its simple slogan still stands: