Small Town Charm: With Internet

I read a warm, glowing account of life in small town America this week. It started with something like "Take a step back in time, to a simpler world without the cares and worries of today."

I don't know where that place is: but it's not like any small town I know. Sure, the buildings downtown are mostly around a hundred years old. That's partly because the town's grown out more than up. In our case, mostly toward the Interstate. Those old fashioned storefronts reappeared a few years ago, after City Hall realized that folks passing through liked the olde towne look.

What you see today is 'authentic:' but it's what we got after tearing off paneling set up in the fifties and sixties. It took a lot of sandblasting, paint, and elbow grease to get something like fifty years of cobwebs, bat droppings, and, in one case, smoke, removed.

Are we isolated? Some folks in Loonfoot Falls don't have a full telephone/cable/Internet hookup in their homes: but it's a matter of choice or economic necessity. The technology's there, ready to be connected.

Our Internet services use the newish cable that's been laid alongside the Interstate. Cable television comes in mostly from satellites. The lot behind Vidiconnections is covered with dish antennas, and so is the ground around another cable service's mast a few miles outside town.

It's good that folks think nice thoughts about small towns in America. I sort of like it here, myself. But let's get real.

Drying the House: Thanks, Everyone!

A week ago I heard my washing machine's rinse cycle in the small hours of the morning.

And later realized that I hadn't turned the washing machine on.

It's an old house, with uneven floors. That kept the water mostly in the kitchen and laundry room.

And the wall between them.

And the basement on that side of the house.

By the time I'd closed the main valve and was watching the fountain subside into a mere leak, it was about two in the morning. I called a plumber I've worked with before.

I didn't expect Jim Engelbrecht to answer the phone. I was leaving a message on his machine when he cut in. He was at my place about 20 minutes later.

Good news: the pipes were in generally good shape. But I should have replaced the flexible bit that connects to the washing machine a few years ago.

Live an learn.

Jim Engelbrecht told me about a place in Foggton that does cleanup work. They had a crew out here before dawn, pumped about an inch of water out of the basement and set up heavy-duty fans and dehumidifiers that sucked water out of the air. And, over several roaring days and nights, out of the floors and walls.

This could have been a lot worse.

I'd rather not have the bills for the cleanup: But that's better than having mold and rotting wood. And my hat's off to everybody who showed up that night, to help out.

Water Splashing Merrily: So, Why am I Not Smiling?

One of the nice things about owning your own house is that you don't have to depend on the landlord to get things fixed.

One of the drawbacks about owning your own house is that you can't depend on the landlord to get things fixed.

I own the house I live in, and generally like getting things done without having to go through a landlord. Last night, I'd have cheerfully called maintenance and walked away.

Actually, it was 'early this morning.' I'd been up later than usual, getting a 'due Friday morning' piece done. Around midnight I was diligently working at that piece, and heard the washing machine go into its rinse cycle. Nothing odd about that. I generally set it so that it starts using water after I've washed up.

Somewhat later I remembered that I didn't have laundry to do.

And I was still hearing the washing machine going through its rinse cycle.

Or, more accurately, I was still hearing water rushing through the pipes toward the washing machine.

Not "to:" "toward." About a foot short of the machine, the water was splashing merrily out the end of a broken pipe.

The washer and dryer are on the ground floor, off the kitchen. The water there was almost an inch deep. It's an old house, so most of the water stayed at one end of the kitchen before wending its way through the wall and into the basement.

I'll let you know how this turns out, next week.

Back to School: Waking and Sleeping

I wasn't one of those students who seem to live for exams and who react to pop quizzes like most of us react to snow days. On the other hand, by and large I enjoyed being a student.

By and large.

I went to college right after high school. It seemed like a good idea at the time: Maybe it was, maybe not.

The biggest change for me was the new set of routines. Or, rather, lack of routines. Like having huge blocks of time between classes - and being able to plan how I'd fit a job, classroom sessions, and homework around my free time. Or maybe it was the other way around. Learning about priorities took me a while.

I still get dreams about being in college. Generally, it's a day after the deadline for changing or dropping classes. I realize that I've forgotten about one of the classes I signed up for; it's too late to drop the class; I can't even remember which building it was in.

Or I can't find the instructor's office. That actually happened to me once.

Yes, there are worse fates than forgetting your locker combination.

Rambling on About Friday the 13th

Friday the 13th is supposed to be unlucky. Many skyscrapers have no 13th floor: and none of the buildings in downtown Loonfoot Falls have a 13th floor.

It's not that we're particularly superstitious. There aren't any buildings downtown with more than four floors.

There's even a 13th Avenue South on some old maps, south of the Grimm County Fairground. It doesn't actually exist: although there's still a stub at the end of Fairside Road, going about fifteen feet toward where South 13th would have been.

The street was part of the proposed Southside Addition: a residential zone between the fairground and the Interstate, along the Loonfoot River. Plans for the addition were going smoothly until the 1965 flood.

The Loonfoot River rose almost to the deck of the 12th Street bridge: and entirely covered what would have been the Southside Addition. The Southside Addition was on the council's agenda a week after the food's peak, rejected, and never brought up again.

I don't know that flood was "unlucky," though: if it had happened a couple years later, a lot of people would have lost their homes.

Then there's the Belvedere Union Grand's room 313. Haunted, maybe: unlucky? I'd say not.

There was that fateful Friday the 13th in 1908, when the Bijou Opera House burned down. Indirectly as a result of an anti-superstition club meeting. I've written about that before.

What's the point of all this? I'm obliged to provide 250 words for this column each week. Now I have.

Dust Bunnies are Not Lint!

Howard Leland found me in the Whistle Stop Cafe this week, and informed me that dust bunnies are not lint. And that this distinction is very important.

He also discussed his plans for the Loonfoot Falls Museum of Lint and Gum Wrappers. As I reported in April, his dream was to open a lint museum here in Loonfoot Falls. On consideration, he told me, he realized that as fascinating as lint is, it might prove challenging to provide a sufficiently varied array of displays on the subject.

Gum wrappers was an obvious choice, he explained, since those are often found mingled with lint when one empties one's pockets. Besides, there's a remarkable variety of gum wrappers.

The inner wrappings around individual sticks come in two basic varieties: single layers of paper or similar material; and double layers with paper inside and foil outside. The paper wrappers, of course, often are printed with the brand name: and occasionally are unmarked.

Remarkable.

Outer wrappings, enclosing several sticks, are what Howard Leland finds most interesting, though. He showed me a scrapbook he happened to have with him, where he has cataloged and categorized gum wrappers by brand, type, color, and historical period.

Inside the back cover of the scrapbook he had an envelope full of sketches of displays. His favorite was the interactive lint table. That was a large tray holding lint and lint cards: things that look like horse brushes. He figures folks will love playing with lint.

He may be right.

Crime Wave! Well, It Could be Worse

Several computers, television sets, and a video game set were stolen from three homes on the north side of Loonfoot Lake this week. You've probably read about it already, on the front page.

It's cold comfort to the folks whose property was stolen: but that sort of thing isn't all that common around here.

Loonfoot Falls isn't a crime-free zone. Each week the "Police Blotter" column records some number of traffic stops, loud parties, or other disturbances of the peace. But the theft of property totaling well into four figures is unusual.

What's really embarrassing is that the victims were folks who live in Loonfoot Falls on weekends, but have places in the Cities for weekday living. Which helps explains why it took a while for someone to notice the thefts. The weekend retreats being secluded didn't help either, I think. Still, I feel like we let neighbors down.

That crime cluster reminded me of something I ran across, about five years ago, about crime in rural America. The article made it sound like folks who took vacations in rural America were visiting a hotbed of crime. After a little checking, it turns out that the (comparatively) high-crime areas were around ski resorts.

A little more digging, and I found out that rural areas have less crime because we've got fewer people. No surprise there. Then, there's the per capita crime rate. Back in the mid-nineties, it was lower out here: less than half what it was in metropolitan areas.

It Seemed Like a Good Idea At the Time

Clearing brush from that boggy patch behind my friend's place seemed like a good idea at the time. He isn't one of those fussy property owners, who won't rest until their place looks like it came from a cover of one of those 'House Wonderful' magazines.

On the other hand, he figured that he'd mind the smell less, when the wind was from that direction, if the dark, dank, green growths started a bit farther back from the house.

So, last Friday I pulled in the driveway of a place that's between the Twin Cities and Duluth, more or less. This column will be a bit vague about names and locations, by request.

I figured I'd lend a hand until one or the other of us figured we'd done a day's work. The idea was that I'd spend Saturday and Sunday fishing around a lake about an hour's drive from there.

We made good progress, hacking our way through everything from some kind of low-growing vine to a stand of smallish trees or shrubs. Most of them were a bit taller than I am, with smooth gray bark. The leaves were pretty, with red stems.

I was ready to quit by sunset, but we kept going until we had a hard time seeing the trees.

Then, around midnight, my hands and arms started itching.

Those trees were poison sumac.

I'm okay, and so is my friend: but I'm still typing with very thick, soft gloves on.

More about poison sumac.

Zucchini, the Kitchen Garden's Overachiever

Zucchini: the vegetable kingdom's answer to bratwurst.

There's a reason why you don't see much zucchini in the grocery's produce section. Those green sausages don't keep very well: and one gardening enthusiast can keep an entire neighborhood supplied for the summer.

I found out more than I planned to, about zucchini, doing research for Heather Fisk. Most of us know zucchini as something that the neighbor brings in a basket. Along with an apologetic 'could you take some of these?'

Zucchini started out in Central and South America, was brought as an exotic food to Europe, and took root in Italy. Our zucchini is a descendant of those transplanted Italian plants.

Zucchini is called courgette in French: and so is some yellow thing that's sort of like zucchini. They're now part of French cuisine. Which is like food, only more expensive.

Perhaps mercifully, zucchini is a relatively delicate plant. Frost can kill it, although the survivors generally produce more of those long green things. A zucchini can be two feet long and six inches across. The smaller ones taste better, though.

Don't misunderstand me: I like zucchini. And, thanks to the generosity of my neighbors, I've had opportunities to try most of the hundreds of zucchini recipes. Like blueberry zucchini bread, zucchini relish and zucchini pumpkin bread.

Which reminds me. Zucchinis can be crossed with pumpkins. Stan Parks is growing what he assures me is a small crop of the things. I'll probably see the first in a couple months.

Loonfoot Falls Graduation Day: 2010 - and an Informal Poll

It's graduation day: Families of the graduating seniors have been stocking up on helium-filled Mylar balloons and plastic plates at the Valderrama, down by the Interstate; Graduates are renting or borrowing graduation gowns - and, in some cases, learning the school song; the school's custodial staff is lining up rows and columns of folding chairs; and everybody has Memorial Day weekend on their minds.

Last week I wrote about the unique method Loonfoot Falls High School has for determining the day of its graduation ceremony. I've wondered if part of the idea was to give the graduating seniors a three-day weekend to celebrate in.

But that's speculation.

Folks who aren't involved in the High School's graduation are getting their fishing tackle ready, making sure their boat is seaworthy (or, in our case lakeworthy), or getting a rummage sale ready.

Rummage sales are a fairly important part of the Loonfoot Falls cultural scene. I haven't read any serious study of them, but I've seen the social and economic value of the institution. Which is a fancy way of saying that Loonfoot Fallers enjoy getting together on someone's driveway, or in the garage, to talk and get a little shopping done.

By the way, there's been some debate over what people who live in Loonfoot Falls should be called. I've used "Loonfoot Fallers" most of my life: but we're called everything from Loonies to Loonfeet. The Loonfoot Falls Chronicle-Gazette is conducting an informal, unscientific, poll to determine which names are most popular.

Frost Advisory, Followed by Fire Weather: What, No Burning Hail?

There's an old gag: 'Minnesota doesn't have a climate, it has weather.'

There's something to that.

Recently, Loonfoot Falls had a frost advisory, and the next day the counties north of us dealt with a fire weather advisory.

That "fire weather advisory" didn't involve burning hail with occasional frog showers. Northern Minnesota had warm weather, and no rain to speak of. The snow cover had melted, and run off; and vegetation hadn't started sprouting yet: so quite a few counties were covered by kindling.

Then we started getting rain. Day-long drizzles a few degrees above freezing don't encourage outdoor activities, but it's put a stop to that “fire weather.”

Then it snowed. In May, just before Mother's Day Weekend. And the forecast says we should expect more. It doesn't stay on the ground: but our April showers brought May snow.

Oh. No. Mother's Day weekend. I'll be right back.

A brisk walk to Broadway Drug and Photo, punctuated by three distinct and separate sneezes, confirmed my worst fear: I've got a cold.

Mom, you were right. I should wear a jacket when I go out this time of year, even if I don't feel like it. I've been out several times over the last few weeks, convinced that it's 'shirtsleeve weather.' And now I've got a cold.

Friday's nearly over now. I've decided to take care of Mrs. Brunsvold's boy by staying in and living largely on chicken soup. Don't worry, Mom: I've got enough to last me a week.

Neglecting Hospitality

Moreau Centre was the first town in what's now Fox County. Pierre Moreau founded the town in 1838, when the Iowa Territory was organized. All that's left of it now is a small cemetery and a few foundations.

I asked a historian or two: and nobody seems to know a great deal about Pierre Moreau, the town's founder, and only a little more about Moreau Center. On the other hand, there are a few stories.

Moreau Centre was on one of the Red River Cart trails and grew. Slowly. Then, in 1858, Minnesota became a state, By 1860, it had a post office, a church, and a school. A few years later, the town almost became a center of trade and industry in the region.

One of those historians, David Schmidt, says this is one of those stories that everyone apparently heard from someone else. Still, I think it makes a good story:

It was well after sunset when a dapper clerk at the Moreau Centre Hotel heard dogs barking outside. Then a snow-caked man strode in the door and up to the desk. The aroma accompanying him identified him as the dogsled driver.

This disreputable-looking person wanted a night's lodging.

The clerk sniffed and informed this man that he might find accommodations in the stable, down the street.

Next year surveyors came through, marking the railroad's route. Well away from Moreau Centre.

That disreputable-looking person was James J. Hill, making a personal inspection of possible routes for his enterprise.

Under-Appreciated Lint

If you were one of the folks who signed that petition from the Society for the Prevention of Continental Drift, Howard Leland has another great cause you may want to support.

I ran into Howard this week, at the Whistle Stop Café. While I finished my coffee, he educated me on the subject of lint. You know? That stuff you find in your pocket and the clothes dryer filter.

Seems that many people think lint is useless: a nuisance at best, and sometimes a fire hazard.

That view, Howard told me, was very short-sighted and ill-informed. Then he generously shared his accumulated store of lint lore.

Take lint as a fire hazard, for example. Lint building up in your dryer filter can ignite and burn down your home. But lint makes good kindling when you want to start fires.

Need modeling clay? Take lint, flour and water: and you've got a sort of substitute for modeling clay. Lint, by itself, or stuck to construction paper, is a fair substitute for cotton balls: so a person could sculpt clouds and snowmen from the stuff. Families with school-age kids: take note.

Stuff lint in tube socks, and you've got a draft-stopper for the bottom of doors.

Lint makes decent compost: or you can use it to make homemade paper.

And, if you've got any lint left over after that, leave outside. Birds can use lint for nesting material.

Howard Leland's dream is to open a Museum of Lint here in Loonfoot Falls.

The Color T.V. Motel

Elton Baum told me that U Betcha's Fountain, his old-fashioned drug store and soda fountain, minus the pharmacy, is off to a good start. So he's got a new project: re-opening the Color T.V. Motel, out on the old highway.

The Color T.V. Motel was going to be "Johnson's Motel" back in the early fifties. Then Melvin Johnson's custom-made sign arrived. The words "COLOR T.V." and "MOTEL" were there, as specified.

"JOHNSON'S," though, wasn't on the sign. At all. The only place his name appeared in the shipment was on the invoice – and the bill.



He couldn't afford another sign, since the outfit he'd worked with wouldn't fix the problem, or refund what he'd already paid them. Then the company went out of business: leaving Mr. Johnson with a brand-new sign that wasn't what he'd ordered.

We have a saying in Minnesota: "It could be worse." Mr. Johnson applied this grim wisdom, re-named his motel to match the sign and opened in time for the tourist season.

Years later the Interstate came. Folks seldom used the old highway, except for local traffic. The Color T.V. Motel closed its doors.

The buildings have gone through several hands since then, being used mostly as rental housing. The property went up for sale again this year. Elton Baum bought the land and buildings, but says he doesn't plan to restore the motel right away.

"It'll be a huge job. Besides, I'd like to give the folks living there time to find new homes."

Daring Derik Dragon Returns?

You've probably already read about the statue that's been proposed for the school. Or maybe Railroad Park. Or the fairgrounds. Or someplace else.

Or Loonfoot Falls may not get its dragon at all. The City Council will talk about it, again, next week.

I hope it's built.

Loonfoot Falls is a bit remarkable for being a Minnesota town without its own oversize sculpture of a crow, otter, prairie chicken, walleye, lumberjack, bear, pike, or muskie. There's even one showing a grasshopper the size of a terrier, shishkabobbed on somebody's pitchfork. And yes: I know. Muskies are a kind of pike.

That punctured grasshopper, I understand, dates back to a gag made up in the fifties: and doesn't have much to do with the nineteenth century grasshopper plague. Which was no joke at all.

I've gotten off track. Back to that dragon statue.

Folks in town have been talking about building another Loonfoot Dragon, ever since Daring Derik Dragon burned down, back in 1986. Derik was made of fiberglass, steel, and cardboard. Quite a lot of cardboard, apparently.

It's been a sore point with some folks here that Frazee rebuilt their turkey statue: but we're still dragonless.

The statue Albert Graff showed the council this week is small enough to fit on a trailer: a design requirement since be on the road from time to time as a high school mascot, or appear in parades.



Mr. Graff assured the council that his Derik wouldn't have a shred of cardboard in him.

Springtime in Minnesota: Melting Snow, Rain, and Gloom at Noon

Part of my job is to provide 250 witty, bright, cheerful words each Friday. Or, failing that, somewhat interesting words.

It's been overcast all week. It's above freezing during the day, below at night. We've had rain off and on. Tuesday, it was on: all day.

Particularly around noon, when Loonfoot Falls' light-sensitive street lights turned themselves on, Tuesday was damp, depressing, depressive, dim, dingy, dismal, dispiriting, doleful, downcast, drab, dreary and dull.

Still, it could be worse. The Loonfoot River isn't threatening to flood. Not yet.

That song that goes "The flowers that bloom in the spring, tra la, breathe promise of merry sunshine"? From the Mikado? I'm pretty sure that Gilbert didn't have Minnesota's version of spring in mind when he wrote that.

We get blooming flowers here in Minnesota: along with mosquitoes, horse flies and leeches. But by then it's more 'early summer' than spring.

Despite their name, horse flies are only about an inch long. Then there are deer flies, stable flies and biting midges.

The Minnesota tourism folks may write me another letter about this, but the fact is that we share the state with an impressive roster of invertebrate blood suckers. Although technically, black flies lap up their meal.

If you're visiting here and someone talks about no-see-ums, that person may not be pulling your leg. That's another name around here for biting midges. They're about a tenth of an inch long, and can walk right through a window screen. And some tent material.

'When Does it Warm Up Around Here?'

Central Minnesota isn't for everyone. It's the weather, I think. Dr. Glenn DeLoach, at Foggton State University, told me about a new faculty member he'd been sent to meet at the airport. It was one of those beautiful late-fall days: cloudless sky; and temperature around 60. Fahrenheit, that is. It was so warm, Dr. DeLoach left his jacket in the car.

The first words the newcomer said to Dr. Deloach were, "when does it warm up around here?!"

He lasted, I'm told, about three months.

Life in a small town isn't for everyone, either. Particularly for folks who think of Foggton, home to around 50,000 people, as a "small town." I'll grant that it's not like Los Angeles, which can be a good thing or a bad one: depending on what you're looking at.

Then there are places with a bar, two or three churches, a grain elevator and a hundred people or so. Now that's a small town!

One thing I've heard about small towns is that they're cliquish. I suppose it's true: but then we're supposed to be too interested in each other's lives, too. I grew up here, so I'm used to living in a place where I know my neighbors, and am related one way or another to a good-sized fraction of the town.

Like I said, it's not like Los Angeles.

It's not like those "small town museums" you see, either. Those generally show the way small towns were like: maybe a hundred years ago.

Comments, Spam, and Having to Wait

I'm moderating comments on this blog from here on.

Sorry about that. I like to see the comments I make show up right away, and figure that you probably do, too.

On the other hand, I've been getting too much obscene spam: which I don't like to see, and figure you may not, either. Particularly if you understand the language it's written in.

I rambled on about this more, in another blog:

• "Lemming Tracks: Comments and Spam"
  Apathetic Lemming of the North (February 16, 2010)

Snow, Neighbors, and Jake's Snow Blower

You've heard the joke: 'It's a town so small, they don't have a town drunk, so they take turns.' Sometimes it's 'town idiot.'

We don't take turns being the town idiot, here in Loonfoot Falls. We have full-time colorful characters. But there's a little truth to the story: we do help each other out.

Along with everybody else in this part of the country, we got hit by a winter storm over the weekend. I dug through about two feet of snow Tuesday morning, just getting the garage door open. Jake Nordstrom, my neighbor up the street, had his sidewalk cleared by then and was working his way toward my place.

There's an ordinance about keeping you sidewalk clear, and some folks in the neighborhood aren't as young as Jake and I are. Besides, I think Jake likes using his snow blower.

I've read about the trouble folks in eastern cities, like Washington, are having with their snow. That's one reason I like living here in central Minnesota. With weather swinging back and forth between tropical and arctic, we expect to have trouble with snow, floods, drought, and the occasional tornado.

And have the equipment, crews, and budget to deal with what passes for “normal” in our part of the world.

Jake called me this afternoon: The plows were by again, leaving a rampart at the end of my driveway. He left his snow blower where I can get it: He'd do the job himself, except he's going ice fishing.

Snowmobiling Trails: Groomed and Otherwise

A page on the Minnesota Department of Natural Resources website says "Minnesota offers over 20,000 miles of groomed snowmobile trails. Over 18,000 miles are maintained by local snowmobile club volunteers."

We've got one of those groomed trails here, where the railroad used to be. In summer, the Blueberry Walleye Trail is a 10-foot-wide strip of asphalt used by walkers and cyclists. This time of year, it's snowmobile country.

Some trails are groomed. Others: well, you won't find them on the DNR maps, but we've got what I suppose you'd call ungroomed trails, too. Some of them are downright unkempt.

This winter's lavish snowfall made most ditches in central Minnesota snowmobile-ready. The more snowmobiles buzzed over the ditches, the harder the snow was packed. Sort of self-grooming?

Somebody's been putting little tiny "Stop" signs where roads and streets cut across the ditches: facing into the ditch.

They're a sort of reminder to snowmobilers that cars and trucks, besides being a whole lot bigger, have the right of way.

By the way: It's a really bad idea to see if your snowmobile can jump the road. It probably can, but people have died trying. Like I said: it's a bad idea.

Besides, there's enough excitement in racing across a frozen lake: wondering if that dark patch ahead is the shadow of a cloud, or open water.

Happily, folks who enjoy ice fishing and snowmobilers get along. Maybe snowmobilers have the good sense to steer clear of those little villages of fishing huts.