The Sudden Sortie of Mr. Frizz

One of Loonfoot Falls' bright spots is the municipal flower garden, at the north end of Railroad Park.

And, since last year, it's had Loonfoot Falls' dog park for a neighbor. Between a dividing hedge and leash laws, nobody was expecting trouble.

They hadn't counted on Frances Robinson's Mr. Frizz: an Affenpinscher that looks, and acts, as if he'd backed into an electrical outlet.

Frances Robinson took Mr. Frizz to the dog park on Wednesday: a fine late spring afternoon. A city works crew was in the garden, setting out seedlings. It's a little early, but there's a mandate to get flowers blooming early.

The crew puts "cloches" over the plants: a fancy word for plastic milk jugs with the bottoms cut out. In case of a late frost.

At about 2:45, something caught Mr. Frizz's attention. He bolted for the hedge, pulling Frances off her feet and breaking her hold on the leash. Mr. Frizz, and his leash, shot through the hedge.

Eight pounds of Affenpinscher burst out the other side of the hedge, along with several ounces of leaves and twigs. The path of Mr. Frizz's sortie through the garden wasn't hard to miss: an arc of mangled plants ended in a small tangle of milk jugs, rakes, a small tractor, and Mr. Frizz: all attached by the Affen's leash.

Mr. Frizz is okay: aside from being a bit over-stimulated. The flowers, I'm told, will be replaced, and there's talk of putting an Affen-proof fence beside the hedge.

Loonfoot Falls Cleaned Up Taft Campaign, 100 Years Ago Today

William Howard Taft's said his presidential campaign was "one of the most uncomfortable four months of my life."

I think his campaign train's stop in Loonfoot Falls may have been part of the reason.

On a Saturday morning, a century ago, Taft's campaign train, the Presidential Special, arrived in Loonfoot Falls. A large crowd, Loonfoot Falls' mayor, the town band, and a driving rain were there to greet him.

While Mr. Taft was addressing the people of Loonfoot Falls from the limited shelter of his observation car's overhang, the fireman was filling the locomotive tender's water tank from the water plug: a tank and spout contraption near the coaling tower.

The Loonfoot Chronicle, as the town's paper was called then, records that the rain was coming down even harder when Mr. Taft wound up his speech. As the Presidential Special began pulling out of the station, the band struck up "Anchors Aweigh." As the crowd cheered, Mr. Taft waved his hat in farewell. Ironically, he was wearing a straw boater.

As the observation car, with Mr. Taft inside, was passing the water plug, the plug swung free from it's mooring and struck the car's roof. At that point, hundreds of gallons of water from in the water plug's tank began pouring onto the observation car roof.

The Loonfoot Chronicle records that, after assuring everyone from the mayor to the band director that no one had been hurt, Mr. Taft thanked Loonfoot Falls for giving his car such a thorough washing.

Where's the Town Square?

I was up by the magazines in Broadway Drug and Photo, when somebody from out of town came in. He’d pulled up across the street, with a boat in tow and one of those streamlined boxes on top of his car.

"Hi," he said, walking up and getting about a pace closer than I’d have preferred. "Where’s the Town Square?" The way he said it, you knew that Town Square was capitalized.

Loonfoot Falls doesn’t have a Town Square, capitalized or otherwise. I told him so.

He wasn’t having any excuses. "Look, I just want to know where the Town Square is."

"You parked by Railroad Park. That’s the closest we have to a town square."

"No. You don’t understand. I'm looking for the Town. Square." He said the last two words nice and slowly, so I'd be sure to understand.

"Well, like I said," I started. Then I saw the way his nose was getting redder. He might have been on the road all day, and just about ready to pop. "...it's right there." I pointed to the other end of Railroad Park, down by Center Avenue. "Town Square. There it is."

I'm going to assume that the grunt he made was supposed to be "Thank you," but it sounded more like "finally."

I still haven't decided whether I did the right thing, letting him think the Center Avenue end of Railroad Park is Town Square. It's a lie, but I think right then he needed his Town Square.

Annual Duck Races Expected to Draw Hundreds

The 23rd Annual Memorial Day Loonfoot Falls Duck Race is a colorful tradition in this small Minnesota town. Dapper ducks, hand-picked from the banks of the Loonfoot River, will compete for nothing but the glory of their handlers, the love of sport, and a sincere desire to leave Railroad Park, near downtown Loonfoot Falls.

Why would anyone go to the trouble of catching a duck, just to release it in the middle of a chalk circle in Railroad Park? That's the question that people asked Arne Aagaard, whose brainchild the Duck Race is.

Aside from the honor of having one’s name put in the Duck Race Book of Fame, the handler of the fastest duck wins gift certificates worth a total of over $100, redeemable for valuable merchandise at Loonfoot Falls merchants for items including: Bag Balm®, collapsible tree stands; levamisole phosphate; snowmobile skid plates; Bert’s Best Buffalo Jerky; and hand-polished decoys from Dewey's Duck Deck.

For the more intellectually inclined, Loonfoot Falls Memorial Day celebrations include a Name That Loon contest. Identifying individual recorded loon calls is harder than it seems, as novice loon listeners soon learn.

"It's a hoot," said Arne Aagaard, asked what he thought of the race he started nearly a quarter-century ago. "The great thing is, everyone wins. The ducks get a free meal or two, and go back to Mosquito Flats. Anyone who enters a duck gets a certificate, someone gets that bunch of certificates, and stores in town get a little extra business."

- Jon Wolner, Loonfoot Falls Chronicle-Gazette