Visit to Roseau, part Deux

Roseau (pronounced: Row-zo) is named “the friendliest place in America.” Considering my lack of faith in a Minnesotan’s idea of what “friendly” is (referring to the before mentioned prejudices of mine), this was also a key reason I wanted to visit this wee little town. Striving for years to be proven wrong about my personal opinion of “Minnesota Nice”, I believe I may have finally achieved it… sort of.

I drove into town. My body drooped involuntarily at the sight of it. This, is it? I think I was expecting a giant banner robed from stoplight pole to stoplight pole blaring the words, “Scandinavian Festival!”, and seeing mobs of people mulling over which exciting event to go to next (I blame my over active imagination on my high expectations of things…). I saw no banner, and very little sign of life at all. I sucked in my bottom lip and said, “Hmm. I’m in the middle of nowhere. Like, the real middle of nowhere.”

I remembered from my notes that Highway 11, which runs directly through the middle of town, was part of the seventy five mile “wildflower corridor” which boasts of millions of the Showy Lady Slipper orchid (Minnesota’s state flower). Apparently you have to drive quite a ways before actually seeing any of the flowers because I gave it a good five miles before being sorely disappointed. It was nothing but the usual crop field and farm equipment. I didn’t have the time or the gas money to explore any further. So I drove back into town and eventually came to the Roseau River where there, in a large parking lot, was clearly the festival.

I parked. I walked across the bridge of the river and came upon an old, rusty somewhat yellow car that had “Scandinavian Festival” written on the side of it, and a few wispy looking balloons flying from the top. (The photo does it justice.) I thought this unique, and funny. I liked it.

The festival was an assortment of local entrepreneurs selling goods, much like the State Fair but in a much smaller version. The first tent I went into was selling homemade, organic household products. There was everything from laundry detergent to body soap. I wasn’t ready to spend any bucks yet, so I moved on. Next door was a pair of artisans who could’ve given Paul Bunyan a run for his money in terms of apparel. One in overalls that drooped like a cartoon, and the other with a great, bushy beard and wearing nothing but flannel and denim. They were selling beautifully crafted log-cabinish furniture; the sort of lamp that is made from a tree limb and animal hide, and the sort of coffee table that is made from a trunk and sticks. It was beautiful merchandise, but my wallet wasn’t fat enough to consider any of it. I moved on.

I then came to a spectacular layout of some of the most beautiful pottery pieces I’ve ever seen. I wish I had taken more pictures of the merchandise, but I was afraid it would be impolite. Silly, I suppose. But that’s how I felt. However, I did buy something from this spot (see giraffe pottery in photos) and was very happy to have done it. The woman I bought it from was extremely courteous and kind. We engaged in conversation, I telling her how much I love giraffes and her telling how much she loves to draw them. Artist to artist, we both agreed on how beautiful the lines are on a giraffe, and I felt connected. It was nice. The piece I bought was rather heavy, and after wrapping it up nice for me, the woman was concerned about me having to carry it off. She offered to carry it to my car for me. This, was quite impressive. She was rather earnest in the offer, it wasn’t just an empty gesture. It was this very moment, I’m humbled to say, that proved all of my prejudices to be, well, exactly what they are: prejudices. I declined her offer, but thanked her profusely. Her business is called “Black Horse Pottery and Tile”. Her website should be up and running now: www.Bhorsepottery.com but if it’s not, this is her business email: Nathan011@centurytel.net. Her name is Karen. I’m not positive, but I believe it was she who told me that she takes her merchandise to the Minnesota State Fair. If she does, keep an eye out for her. Her pieces are well worth spending the buck.

“Black Horse Pottery” was my last stop of the day (I had rounded back to it to make my final purchase). The other tents had interesting things to sell as well, and I enjoyed perusing. I bought a table “candy dish” (for a lack of a better description of it…) that was made out of two, melted, folded up records. I bought a Swedish dishcloth with the Swedish red horse stitched into the corner, for my Swedish mother. Then I made way to the local baker. I was quite tempted to buy one of his pies, but was running out of dough (no pun intended….). I saw a strange looking package labeled, “lefsa”. It looked like a tortilla folded a bunch of times into a thick triangle. The baker was an elderly gentleman with very few teeth, and very kind eyes. I asked him, “What is this? What is ‘lefsa’?” He looked at me, and laughed. He said, “What?” as if I was asking him what bread was. I said, “I’ve never heard of this, what exactly is it?” He still looked baffled and answered saying, “It’s made with potato…I don’t know how to describe it! It’s… lefsa!” A woman came up to the table to pay for something, and it was obvious that the two of them had known each other for many years. He asked her, “How would you describe lefsa? She doesn’t know what it is…” The woman launched immediately into explaining all the ingredients, and then filled in the holes with a lot of, “Um”s, and then finally said, “You unroll it, put some sugar and cinnamon on it, and eat it.” I decided to buy it. It’s still sitting in my fridge, and I’m not sure if it’s gone bad or not. I’m sort of afraid to eat it.

As I was readying to leave my shopping and go check in before the 3:30pm raising of the May Pole, there was strange music coming from the stage tent. It was long after two minutes of the song playing until it had finally caught me out of my deep thoughts. Some woman, who was not the most gifted with a singing voice, was singing about a man named Ole to a Swedish polka jig. I was able to get a smidge of video of it, but don’t want to put it up on my blog without the woman’s permission to do so. I wish I could though… It was… the essence of Minnesota’s entire culture. A good thing. I’m not poking fun. It put good feelings into my soul.

I left from shopping the festival feeling a sense of accomplishment. I felt satisfied. I felt, proven wrong. I felt proven wrong in a good way. The people were indefinitely friendly, there’s no debate about that. Saying they’re the friendliest people in the whole country? That, is up to the eye of the beholder I suppose. But it was comforting to see a small town that was in no shape or form uncomfortable around an outsider. I was clearly from the outside. That was plain as day. Not only was it because I was wearing a black “I HEART NY” shirt, but it was also because I was there by myself. I was there by myself walking around taking random pictures. I was there by myself amongst a mass of people who clearly all knew each other, and from what I could tell, have known each other since birth. But they were nice to me. They were kind to me. They smiled and everyone I passed by said, “Hello”. You don’t get that kind of friendliness in this neck of the woods. It was refreshing. It was comforting.

I checked into my hotel, the AmericInn. It was a nice little hotel, a clean entry sitting room that was warm colored and cozy. Good first impression. I had no complaints about the services, but in all plainness of truth, I’ve stayed in much nicer places for the same rate.

I made myself at home in my room, and then debated on whether or not I really needed to go see the May Pole. I decided on, “You just drove six hours to get here... You didn’t do that just to do two hours of craft shopping…” So, I bucked up and went back out again. I was very glad I did…