Getting to Roseau, MN...Place #2, Part 1

My grandmother’s funeral was on the Monday after Pioneer Days. As much as I felt at peace about not going to the funeral itself, I was feeling left out of the family reunion, the gathering together of loved ones I hadn’t seen in many years. I hadn’t quite realized this yet, not until Tuesday night when my mother called asking me to describe the stuffed animal I had said I wanted to inherit, one in which I had played with as a child. She loyally and patiently went through boxes and boxes while I was on the phone with her. She couldn’t find it. I asked about other things too, like Grandma’s drinking cups, the ugly ones she’s had since I was little, the ones I remembered always using and loving simply because they were hers. But I couldn’t express this to my mother. She told me they weren’t worth anything and they went into Good Will boxes. I was heartbroken about the ridiculous stuffed animal, and then I was upset about the cups. It sounds stupid, it does. I know. It sort of is, actually. But it’s these sort of stupid things that send you off when you’re already fragile. When I got off the phone with my mother, I succumbed to the finale of my grief. I wept, sobbed, and was still trying to tell myself that I was being ridiculous, that I needed to “buck up” and “get a grip”. I don’t know why crying is so shameful for me. I believe it to be necessary, and healthy, I do, but there’s a practical side to my brain that says, “Grief is so illogical”. The conflict is ever tormenting. The words, “you could have it so much worse than this” replays like a cracked record in my head whenever I have even the most remote feeling of sadness. I hear it even worse when I have a perfectly justified reason to be sad. And with sadness, comes anger. I don’t know why, exactly, but it does. I was very, very angry last week. It didn’t help that I had a challenging week at work. All sorts of injustices and “it’s not fairs!” were filing into my head like a swarm of bees through a pencil thin pipe. Self pity became the demon that took over me. I wasn’t feeling sorry for myself because my grandmother passed away. Truth be told, I was grateful that she didn’t live on in painful, suffering, pointless years. She lived her life. Dying at her age is natural. It wasn’t that at all. It was everything surrounding it. It was being alone. It was not getting the chance to be with my family. It was mourning over several other loved ones in my life that are going through hard times they don’t deserve to go through. Then it turned into more pathetic, self-centered things like, feeling sorry for myself because of where I’m at in my life. It was, feeling unappreciated. It was, feeling ugly, old, and worthless. It was being frustrated and heartbroken over the ungrateful children at work, the difficult ones that I spend so much heart on and sometimes suffer a great deal of backlash. It was feeling like I had been worn paper thin and there were too many expectations of me, and I was ashamed that I couldn’t meet up to those expectations. It was being exhausted from people, me having the complete incapacity to socialize properly on any level at all. It was mourning over every sad thing I could possibly think of. I couldn’t shake it. I tried. I did. But depression runs deep in my genetic history and sometimes the words, “you could have it so much worse than this” do absolutely nothing. When I get stuck in this mud hole it takes a lot of alone time, a lot of stupid tears, and a lot of sleepless nights of pep-talking myself out of it. It wasn’t until Wednesday that I remembered my Roseau trip was supposed to be coming up. I knew the Scandinavian Festival was in the middle of June, but couldn’t remember the dates. Grudgingly, I flipped through my “Hating Minnesota” notebook and saw to my great disappointment that it was the upcoming weekend. Right. Only a week after Pioneer Days. What was I thinking? So I promptly booked my hotel room knowing that if I booked it, I had no other choice but to go through with it. The week ended and even though I left work on Friday with smiles and the attitude of trying to convince myself that I was excited to make a six hour road trip, I was instead yearning for the luxury of just staying home and keeping myself quietly locked up in my room all weekend. However… As much as I am wearing my execrable self on my sleeves at the moment, I do want to take a little pride in disciplining myself to move forward. I have done differently in my past. I have wallowed unforgivingly, and have suffered the consequences. It is the unfortunate way of artists, as was my usual excuse. “We are far too into our heads to cope properly with our emotions.” How stupid! I realized it was time to utilize those emotions. After all, most artists boast of their best work in their darkest times. Even if those dark times are fifty per cent made-up in their heads… So, I decided to embrace. I hit the road at six ‘o clock in the morning. Saturday morning. Well, 6:10 to be exact. I was drab enough to jot that in my notebook. The morning was at first full of sun, but soon dark clouds had moved in across the sky. The interesting thing about flat lands is that you can always see the weather coming from miles and miles away. One horizon looks very different from the next. In its own way, it’s quite magnificent. The world looks so much grander, much more vast. I drove through the vastness, heading north, paying attention to interesting signs, fuming over the littering of billboards, and practically lamenting the fact that the most interesting things were rather ordinary. But ne’er have I allowed ordinary things to remain as such! Or so I try not to… I saw a sign for a pizza restaurant chain called, “Pizza Ranch”. The sign had a western, cartoonish picture of a covered wagon on it. I thought to myself, “I’m pretty sure the Italians didn’t introduce pizza in covered wagons…”. This was ridiculous to me, in a “I need to chuckle to myself about it right now because so far there isn’t anything else I’m seeing to write about on my blog.” So, I jotted, “Sign: Pizza Ranch w/ covered wagon” in my notebook right after “Hit the road @ 6am. More accurately – 6:10am…”. Clever. I was working hard, folks, I truly was. But then I entered Paul Bunyan country. Ah. I had forgotten about Paul and Babe, the very interesting folk tale legend about how Minnesota got their ten thousand lakes. I toddled into a rest area in Brainerd and took a snap shot of my first Paul Bunyan statue. Statue…sculpture… I’m not really sure what to call them, but Paul and Babe show up in numerous places up in the north country of Brainerd and Bemidji. I decided to take as many pictures as I could find of them that weren’t too far out of the way to get. My favorite, and the only one I found where Paul and Babe were actually together, was in front of “Paul Bunyan Bowl” in a Brainerd mini mall. Take a look at my photo album at the top of the post to find this particular picture… Paul is holding a bowling ball, and his hand positions make me laugh out loud. Babe has a bowling pin in her mouth. The hunt for Paul and Babe entertained me for a good two hours. So did all the billboards about getting help for meth addicts, gambling addicts, and high school drinkers. There were a lot of those. But then I began to drive through a sort of desolate wilderness where there were no speed limits, and it took a very long time and a great many vehicles to pass me at 75 miles an hour to realize that there were no speed limits. On the second stretch of 89, I drove for almost two hours before hitting a middle-of-nowhere town of three buildings called, Grygla (the worst name of a town I’ve ever heard of). I finally had somewhere to stop to go to the bathroom. My choices were between a decrepit, old gas station with a building the size of my bedroom, or a truck-stop looking bar and grill called, “Yo-Hawn’s”. I chose Yo-Hawn. The parking lot was made up entirely of pick-up trucks (see pictures). I was tickled by that. The rest of the trip was more middle-of-nowhere sight seeing. Nothing had really changed in the scenery. I have to be honest, I was disappointed for that. I was hoping to see some elk, a moose, maybe even a bear. But apparently I wasn’t in the right place at the right time for it. I was also hoping to see wild flower filled prairies. None of that either. Well, a few yellow fields, but that was it. I came into Roseau about two o’ clock. My heart sort of sank at the sight of it. I drove passed the Polaris factory and headquarters. Interesting. But not that much. Found the location of my hotel. Okay. Now go find the festival….can’t check in for another hour… (part II pending)

The 1st of the 12: Pioneer Days

Early Thursday morning before Pioneer Days weekend, my grandmother passed away. I had seen her only a month before, having not seen her in six years, knowing in my heart it was going to be the last time I saw her. What kind of granddaughter doesn’t see her grandma in six years? The kind that lives too far away. The hardest part about moving from New York to Minnesota were those hundreds of miles between family and blood. Years and years of holiday traditions, gatherings, and unity were, gone. There’s no use lamenting something lost so long ago, but my grandmother’s death was a sour reminder of that loss. Having seen her last month had reignited a familiarity with my roots, with my identity, that I had not been in touch with for a very long time. Now that she is gone, I feel like everything that was part of that identity is now left behind with pictures, inherited jewelry, and material mementos that keep that legacy alive. I am painfully, pitifully, and hopelessly sentimental, and I depend greatly on the idea that a loved one lives on in the things they leave behind, the things that remind us of who they were and who we are because of them. Inheriting a grandparent’s belongings, ones in which you remember associating with them as a child, is a most important part of healing from the grief. Due to circumstances, and to how I was feeling at the moment of making the decision, I did not go to the funeral. It turned out to be harder than I thought it would be. I woke up Saturday morning to grey, cold clouds and the promise of rain. I had no desire to spend a day in St. Francis trying to enjoy small town festivities and having to be observant enough to write about them. But I said to myself, “You made a commitment. Staying at home will do you no good.” So I left my hair “as is”, threw on some make-up as to keep myself from not looking too homely, and headed out. Driving in on Bridge Street, seeing people already perched on the curb for the parade that was yet to be for another two hours, I was feeling a great deal sorry for myself. “This is not what I want to be doing right now…” But then I drove past the coffee shop and to my great relief saw two familiar, friendly, loving faces sitting behind a banana-split stand trying to sell ice cream in the cold, damp air. My friends Nyki and Sara waved and smiled as I passed, and I was feeling most blessed that I would have some gentle company to relieve my grief. After getting a hot cup of chai from the coffee shop, Nyki and I had wandered across the street to bare witness to the firing of the Civil War cannon. Men donned in time period clothing were readying the weapon while Nyki was explaining to me how the blast is so loud that it sets off car alarms. This, I thought, was pretty exciting. I readied my camera to video setting so I could have some interesting footage to share with my readers. The soldiers had to practice, though, and with each practice (thinking it was the real thing) I was pushing “record” on and off. Finally, when the real deal was in play, I shot the whole event as beautifully as I could’ve hoped. Cannon loaded. Zoom in. Soldiers in place. Zoom out. Capture Nyki’s frightened face with her fingers in her ears. Soldier calls the fire. My hands are steady. BOOM! The camera shook. Smoke filled the park and whirled around the gazebo. I swung my lens around behind me to catch a woman running to her car which was whirring with its alarm. Push the button to stop the recording, and…. recording begins. Wait a minute… Fury with myself and in great disappointment, I realize that I hadn’t caught a single bit of the action. Perfect. But then again, writing about it is sort of the point anyway, right? So, it sort of was perfect. The fates on occasion know what they’re doing apparently. Not always. But sometimes. The cannon was the highlight of my day. Strange as it may be, it was. Watching the Civil War soldiers in the backdrop of the grand gazebo in this tiny little river town made me feel like I had my own little Stars Hallow, and I was rather grateful for it. Afterwards, the rain started in. The wind was cold. My friends were being kind and inviting, but anxiety was jumping in my skin, and I needed to get away. I needed to make a grocer run eventually in the day to get the things I needed for the barbeque later on, so I used that as an excuse to leave. So I ran to the store. Picked up my box of brownies to make, and a half dozen eggs, and tried to make my way back into town. The parade was beginning soon. I was clearly an idiot for giving up my parking spot to go to the store. But alas! I found myself at the end of a street where the parade was intersecting, so I sat in the middle of the road, in my warm, toasty car, and took pictures through my windshield. After awhile I started to feel a little ashamed myself for being so ridiculous. These pictures were not going to cut it. So I scoured, and low and behold I found a spot to park. Like I said, on occasion the fates know what they’re doing. I walked in the rain. ‘Took closer snap-shots of the parade. And then called it a day. This was enough, I thought. I came. I saw. I felt the love from friends, and that was all I needed to feel like I was part of a place that I could call home. Pulling into the driveway of my house I felt a sense of relief to be home but also felt a twisting churn in my guts knowing I was now going to have to get ready to go back out again to my friend’s annual barbeque. I had had enough company for one day. I wanted to crawl into a hole and be done with the day. I was feeling rather pathetic for it. I was also pep-talking myself into, “You’ll feel better when you get there…you don’t want to miss out…you need to be with friends…”. So I showered, did my hair up properly, baked the brownies, and headed out again. Surprises were to be had when I got there. Many. The most interesting being that one of our old co-workers had brought her boyfriend, who turned out to be an old high school friend of mine that I hadn’t seen in twelve years. The first thing he remembered about me was, “You were the girl from New York!”. I was surprised he remembered that. It was fun to see him again. The rest of the night was full of good times, of course, traditional craziness and the what-nots. The tent party was just as it always is, a full crowd of drunks, mullets, cowboys, townies, middle-aged women who think they’re twenty, and many, many, many white people who have very little rhythm. And us. That might sound like an offensive dig, but truth be told these are the people that make going to the tent party the most interesting. I honestly have a heart felt affection for them. I enjoyed myself profusely and was extremely satisfied that I had pulled myself together to go through with it. It was definitely worth it. Thank you Drunk Cowboy that I had to yell at and push away and herd you back into your pen. Thank you mullet guys for giving me awesome pictures. Thank you, Middle-Aged-Woman with glittery face-paint all over your face, you were most excellent to witness. And thank you, thank you, thank you white folk who can’t dance but dance anyway. My hat goes off to anyone who is willing to boogie down. The night ended late. Because our planned sober cab had accidentally answered her phone and then fell asleep without hanging it up, we didn’t have a ride back to my friend’s house. So we had to walk. Fortunatly, though, a sober friend of a friend had stopped by my friend’s house, and she came to pick all of us up. I crawled into my own bed at 3am. I woke up Sunday morning to yet another day of grey, cold clouds and the promise of rain. But I was okay with it. Now it was time to grieve properly. Now it was time to say good-bye to my grandmother. I did what I always do when I grieve a loss. I wrote a letter, reminiscing about what and who she was in my life, and telling her sorry for things I couldn’t say sorry for in person, and telling her things that I will miss, like hearing her voice over the phone on Christmas, or like getting cards with stickers on the envelopes, or… I then ceremoniously sent it to her. “Sent” it to her. How I “send” my letters is private. But the overall gesture helps to close the door a little. And that was the close of my first place on my list of twelve.

Saint Francis of Assisi

The town of St. Francis is a little river town that was settled in 1855. That, is not very interesting. Let’s be frank. Actually, forget Frank. Old Jonathan and Otona were the early names given to this little river town before a very important man christened it St. Francis. Father Luis Hennepin it was, a catholic priest and missionary of the Franciscan Recollect order, a man who can take credit for the exploration of much of North America. Interestingly enough he is credited for bringing the world’s attention to two great waterfalls in our country. First, Niagara Falls in New York. Second, Saint Anthony Falls in what is now Minneapolis, the only waterfall on the great Mississippi. Interesting. New York, Minnesota, New York, Minnesota, New York, Minnesota, New Yor…….. Saint Francis himself (yes, he was a real man), was one of seven children. A sacred number, but none the less, sibling rivalry must’ve been rather oppressive. Especially after he became a saint…. I can’t imagine what sort of competition is involved when one of your siblings becomes a saint. I think getting ma and pa’s attention after that is a little futile. Not to mention that in the 1100’s they probably didn’t have any therapists. At least not any with the drugs offered to us today. Anyway. Saint Francis was a man who at first found life to be about nothing more than selfish pleasures (parties and the sort), and spent a great deal of his young adulthood frolicking with his buddies and reeking havoc in the local town doings. At that time, I can only assume this entailed drinking an awful lot of Italian wine and, I don’t know, tying people’s donkey’s ears together or something. Tipping the meat carts. Tying their sandals together and throwing them up on clothes lines. Actually, it was probably more like drinking a lot of Italian wine and….drinking a lot of Italian wine. But then there was something quite significant that happened, and it transformed him and his entire life forever. It was a simple thing, really, but none the less it was still the moment he realized that he was meant for something greater than partying with his friends. He was in the street market selling his fairly wealthy father’s cloths and linens when an old beggar came asking for alms. Francis had denied the beggar anything until the very end of his business day; having sold everything he could he abandoned his left over merchandise to chase down the beggar. When he found him, he gave him everything in his pockets. Francis returned home and was not only taunted by his friends, but was horrendously reprimanded by his father. None the less, it begat a new life of poverty for Francis, one in which he chose willingly. He spent the rest of his life devoted to having a lack of material possessions, did charitable deeds such as nursing lepers, and found a calling to commune with nature and the like, doing what he knew he had to do to better God’s world. He claims to have had a vision of Jesus Christ saying to him, “Francis, Francis, go and repair my house which, as you can see, is falling into ruins.” Because of this, it seems, he was seen as a gifted advocate for bringing peace between man and nature, caring very much about the environment. And those who follow in the Franciscan ways believe in the same values, such as our before mentioned explorer, Father Hennepin. So, Saint Francis, both town and man, have a slightly stretched connection to my own self. I’m in no shape or form a saint, nor am I that religious. That is certainly not what I mean to say… But the Franciscan order seems to be something I find myself embracing in some shape or form now and again. I’ve been poor. Certainly not by choice, because frankly I’d rather be rich (this is why I’m not a saint….). And I care very much about the natural order of things, the environment, and the value of all life. All life, from the greatest pine to the smallest ant. And Father Hennepin, founder of Niagara and Saint Anthony, wanted to honor his Franciscan order by naming a town after this extraordinary saint. St. Francis, Old Jonathon, Otona. I’ve always believed that names, the christening of anything, is a spiritual and very important deed. This little town, not much more than a post office, an old inn and pub, a gazebo in a park, and a river that winds through it, has had more of a spiritual beginning than the current population probably even knows. And this is definitely something that I, as a rather spiritual person myself, can most certainly embrace. I invite anyone else to do the same.

Place Number One

This might seem like I’m cheating a little, but I can’t ignore the fact that my first choice of destination is just too fitting and perfect to pass up. The small town of St. Francis is not far from where I live. A ten minute drive, really. But St. Francis is rather unique and pleasant when you dissect its history a little, and it has a rather surprising charm to it. And really, it truly is the place where I first found a sense of belonging to Minnesota, something I had previously thought to be unfeasible. I have many close friends that live in this little town, and every June the sum of us gather together and enjoy the festivities of St. Francis’ grand summer event known as, “Pioneer Days”. Every year I’ve attended the Saturday night doings of this festival, enjoying the company of my friends and indulging in a just so slightly reckless digestion of beverages. And every year we dance the night away to a live band that plays nothing but a usually-loathed-by-me genre of country music. I may not particularly like country, but when the band plays live, and I’m with my friends, I’d be nothing less than a snob to ignore the opportunity to shake it up and have a good time. So, I do. Previous years have become interesting tales to recollect. “Remember when I hung my camera up in the port-a-jon and someone stole it?” Or, “Remember when that storm came and our flip-flops flipped up mud all over our clothes?” Or, “Remember when that guy tried to hook up with me and he forgot his own name?” (He was a super winner. He had apparently left his brains somewhere back in infancy.) None the less, despite these things, or rather because of these things, the party has always been the big event of the year that we all look forward to. And as it may seem that I am well experienced in it, and shouldn’t have it on my number one place to visit in Minnesota to break my prejudices, it has come to my attention that Pioneer Days has so much more to offer than just one, Saturday night. There’s more to enjoy, and plenty to write about. Tractor pulls, turtle races, and food, just to name a few. There’s a parade, carnival rides, and contests. I’m proud to say that I’m entering a photo in the amateur photo contest held by the local bank. How exciting! No? Not thrilling enough for you? I believe small towns have a very important place in our country, and I’ve chosen this one to embrace with not just an interest, but with my heart. My whole heart. This is going to be home, now, and it’s only proper that it’s first on my list. Certainly I’m in no place to judge a small town. My hometown in New York was the proud host of the annual summer Dairy Parade, which essentially entailed a lot of small town businesses, cows, Girl Scouts, local churches, cows, local farmers, cows, cows, and cows, and a few horses. ‘Giant wedges of cheese sitting on the back of a tractor and that sort of thing. So, deep in my heart I have an affection for small towns with seemingly little doings. This is the sort of place you want to raise children in. This is the sort of place where friends are close, and the smell of the barbeque is only a few blocks away. This is the sort of place I can see myself being a part of for, well, at least the time fate is preparing to allow. My future, I believe, is still full of uncanny surprises. But for now, this is where I’ll be for a time. And I’m okay with that. Pioneer Days begins June 11th to June 13th. I will try to attend as many events as possible, and will hopefully have a willing companion to go with me to take pictures and video of the stories I hope to gather and share. I feel I should also warn the locals a smidge: I may have an affection for small towns, but I also have a talent for making fun of them. Comedy will be induced where need be. It’s all in good fun, folks! In the meantime, I am writing up informative essays on St. Francis and will post them prior to my Pioneer Days experience. So, to the history nerd: I shall indulge you soon enough.