The School, a Skunk, the Woodpile, and Dynamite

Loonfoot Falls schools, like the small town they live in, are quite up-to-date. They've got motivational posters on the walls, and the ‘no guns allowed’ sign at the doors.

It wasn't always that way.

A few generations back, it wasn't unusual to see a hunting rifle or three sitting in the corner of classrooms. This is a rural area, and bringing a rifle in the morning saved time if they planned to hunt after school.

There wasn't any trouble with the guns.

Dynamite, though: That was a problem, once.

This was back when the school was heated with wood stoves, which meant having a wood pile outside, against the back wall.

A skunk had wandered into the grounds behind the school. Trying to shoo it away, they chased the skunk into the wood pile.

The kids weren't able to dislodge the critter.

One of the youngsters had an idea. His family had been removing stumps: So he ran home, returning with dynamite, blasting cap, and a fuse.

He alerted the other students, who withdrew to a sensible distance, set the charge, lit the fuse, and backed off.

Less than a minute later, the skunk was gone. As well as the wood pile and the paint from that side of the school. The student had slightly over-estimated the size of the charge needed.

Nobody was hurt, but the young demolitions expert and several other students were put to work, painting the back of the school. Which might violate today's child-labor laws.

Howard Leland and the Deliberate Bear

I don't like to contradict the Loonfoot Falls Chronicle-Gazette's news. But that bear was not "wandering." Not as far as I could tell, anyway.

You've read about it, probably: "Police Chase Bear" was on the bottom half of the front page this week. The article starts out by saying that police were told that a bear was "wandering around town," near south 10th Avenue and Cherry Street. The next location given for the bear was Broadway and south 10th Avenue: just a block west of where the bruin was first spotted.

The only other location given in the article was the corner of Jefferson Road and Jefferson Loop, near Jefferson Drive, in the Industrial Park. That's not due west of Broadway and south 10th, but it's more west than north of the other locations.

I did a little checking around the office: and sure enough, there was no evidence at all of the bear being sited anywhere else. Loonfoot Falls police had followed the bear after spotting it in the Industrial Park, all the way out of town. Where it was still headed in a westerly direction!

This bear: wandering? I ask you, since when could a steady movement in a single direction reasonably be called "wandering?"

We haven't heard the last of that bear: or, rather, Loonfoot Falls' policy regarding visiting bears. Howard Leland called me: he’s started another petition. This one demands that a provision against the harassment of bears be added to Loonfoot Falls' city charter.

Why Minnesota Doesn't have a Punxsutawney Phil

Punxsutawney Phil has a good job. For a groundhog. All he has to do is come out every February 2, and either see his shadow: or not. The job must agree with him. According to the Groundhog Day website, Phil's over 120 years old.

I'm not sure I believe that.

It's a good thing Punxsutawney Phil lives in Pennsylvania. If his home was in Minnesota, he'd never have gotten that reputation as a long-range weather forecaster: The climate here isn't boring.

There's quite a lot of truth in the old saying: that if you don't like the weather in Minnesota, wait a few minutes. It'll change. Here in central Minnesota, for every month of the year there's been a time when the temperature has been above freezing, and one when it's been below freezing.

There's some regularity, of course. January's generally the coldest month, and July the hottest: with August running a close second. And you can count on no snow falling from May through September. As a rule. Most years.

Rain? That's come in every month of the year. When it rains in winter, driving gets: interesting. If it hasn't frozen on the streets by sunset, it will soon after. And at night, patches of road with the traction of a skating rink look just like the rest of the pavement.

Then there was the time my father told me about, when National Guard arctic maneuvers were canceled, due to inclement weather.

Like I said, Minnesota's climate isn't boring.

Frankie and the Ferret Whisperer

First grader Jamie Johnson thought it'd be a fine idea to bring Frankie the Ferret to show and tell last week. Jamie's teacher, Frances Robinson, had brought her dog, Mr. Frizz, to class earlier in the year, and Jamie figured that if they liked an Affenpinscher, his classmates would love a ferret.

Jamie was right. About two dozen first-graders mobbed Frankie before Mrs. Robinson restored order.

And discovered that Frankie wasn't in his carrier.

And, apparently, wasn't in the classroom, either.

Mrs. Robinson, partly out of consideration for Jamie, and partly because the school had a zero-tolerance policy for unsupervised animals, called the office.

About two hours later a ferret whisperer arrived. By helicopter.

Actually, it was a wildlife specialist from the Minnesota DNR. He was under the impression that we had spotted a black-footed ferret.

I think I see how the false alarm happened. The DNR wanted, and got, a description of Frankie. Frankie's color pattern is the usual 'sable:' whitish muzzle, a sort of dark mask, and dark paws.

The black-footed ferret's an endangered species. Minnesota wasn't part of its old range. No wonder the DNR got excited.

And had asked that the school be evacuated. Which it was.

George Winters (he's the DNR ferret man) was a good sport about the false alarm, after he realized that they were looking for the sort of ferret you can get at a pet store.

He finally found Frankie: on Mrs. Robinson's desk, eating her corned beef on rye lunch.

Save the Ants!

Howard Leland, listening to All Things Considered last Wednesday, was appalled at what he heard. It was, in part, an account of how a respected scholar displayed blatant disregard for the safety of an ant.

Back in the fifties, I gather, a researcher named E. O. Wilson swabbed an innocent ant with oleic acid. That didn't hurt the ant directly. However, since oleic acid is what dead ants give off after a couple of days, other ants in the colony reacted to the very much living ant as though it were a little formican corpse.

For two hours, the swabbed ant endured the indignity, Mr. Leland explained to me, of being picked up, carried to the colony's 'graveyard' pile, and dumped there.

Howard Leland was never one to ignore a vital issue. In 2005, he was among the first in Loonfoot Falls to make his back yard a butterfly preserve. More recently, his stand against noise pollution led to a neighborhood discussion of noise: and a resolution to the leaf blower issue.

This week, Howard Leland has a new cause. He is determined to save the ants from uncaring researchers. He tells me that his letter to the Asclepias Society has not yet been answered.

"It's a long shot, anyway," Mr. Leland said, "the society's charter specifically limits its interests to monarch butterflies: but I felt I had to ask."

If you live in Loonfoot Falls, Howard Leland will probably ask you to join his cause. Just letting you know.

Moe Skeeto: Four-Foot Mosquito of Loonfoot Falls

Minnesotans sometimes brag about the size of this state's mosquitoes. Some even claim that the mosquito is, or should be, the Minnesota state bird. One town, Effie, has a six-foot metal mosquito on display.

Moe Skeeto isn't the biggest mosquito sculpture in Minnesota, but he's incredibly lifelike. Except for the size. Moe's wingspan is roughly four feet. That's a little big, even for Minnesota mosquitoes.

Moe took up residence last week in the building formerly occupied by Haskell's Corner Drug. He's the creation of Andrea Nelson, who mounted him on the store's ceiling last week. A native of Loonfoot Falls, she now owns an art studio in the metro.

Haskell's Corner Drug closed just over a year ago when Andrew Haskell decided that he'd rather be fishing, and sold the property to one of the Baum cousins, I figured that he'd tear the place down and put up something more contemporary.

Instead, waves of electricians, plumbers, glaziers and building inspectors washed over the place. Elton Baum had plans for that building: and for the store's original ice cream counter and pharmacy desk. They had been collecting dust in the basement since the 1950s.

Mr. Baum plans to open an 'old fashioned drug store' next spring. Complete with the corner drug's original ice cream counter. He thinks that vacationers will enjoy sitting down for a few minutes, having a malt, or ice cream, or coffee and a sandwich.

Some may come in just to see Moe Skeeto. Loonfoot Falls' four-foot mosquito.

Loonfoot Falls' Backyard Butterfly Preserves

There's very little grass in some Loonfoot Falls back yards. Colorful splatters of wildflowers and milkweed have replaced the neatly-trimmed lawns of over a dozen houses.

And that's just the way the owners want it.

They're members of the Asclepias Society, an organization dedicated to giving monarch butterflies a place to stay and raise a family at the summer end of their migration. The Asclepias Society was founded in 2000 by Samuel H. Robins, chief entomologist at the Minnesota Institute for Scientific Studies.

That was the year when the monarch butterfly became Minnesota's state butterfly.

The Asclepias Society gets its name from the scientific name for milkweed, a plant that young monarchs munch before turning into the orange-and-black adults.

A member of the Loonfoot Falls chapter, Howard Leland, said, "I thought it sounded crazy at first. You know: making your back yard into a butterfly preserve?" He decided to try planting wild flowers and milkweed in his back yard in 2005. After four summers with the Asclepias Society, the only part of his back yard not covered with flowers and milkweed is a path to the garage.

"It's great," Mr. Leland said. "Those wildflowers pretty much take care of themselves, and watching the butterflies beats most of what's on television."

This year's monarchs are either already on their way south, or soon will be. Mr. Leland and his fellow-Asclepiasans want to make sure that when another generation returns next year, they'll find plenty of butterfly-friendly back yards in Loonfoot Falls.

Protecting the Squirrely Way of Life in Loonfoot Falls

Once, squirrels in Loonfoot Falls were able to run from Mosquito Flats to the fairgrounds, from the Belvedere-Union-Grand Hotel to Oak Grove Park, without setting foot on the ground, or in a tree.



Those days are gone.

Like so many towns, Loonfoot Falls has been burying its utilities. Overhead telephone and power lines have, over the years, been replaced by underground cables. Loonfoot Falls' Utilities Department has pointed out the advantages: greater reliability and safety.

Safety for the human population, perhaps: but not for the squirrels. These furry citizens are now forced, in many neighborhoods, to cross streets by leaping from one tree's outermost branches to another, or risk life and pelt in a mad dash across the pavement.

Concerned citizens have banded together to form the Society for the Preservation of Overhead Squirrel Highways. Members of SPOSH are gathering petitions, in an effort to prevent Loonfoot Falls' remaining power and telephone poles, and the lines connecting them, from going the way of the steam railroad.

Anastasia Anderson, founder and president of SPOSH, hopes to have enough signatures to put a 'save the poles' referendum on the local election ballots, later this year.

"We aren't against underground cables: We just want to make sure that our squirrely neighbors have a safe way to cross the street," Anderson explained. "Under the SPOSH proposal, as overhead lines are replaced with underground cable, squirrel-friendly lines will be strung between poles, providing safe transit over the streets, and preserving a tradition of inter-species cooperation."