Minnesota Prairie Roots

Ramsey Falls

You would never expect this terrain of steep hillsides and crowded woods and a winding river smack dab in the middle of the flat prairie.

As a child growing up among acres of corn and soybeans with only the occasional grove to break the endless vista of sky and fields, I felt like a foreigner here.

The trees were too close, the roads too curvy and narrow, the heights too frightening.

Yet, I grew to love this spot, this “Little Yellowstone of Minnesota,” Alexander Ramsey Park in Redwood Falls.

Last weekend, while driving through Redwood on the way to a family reunion in Vesta 20 miles farther west, we stopped at this largest of Minnesota’s municipal parks (at 219 acres), located several blocks off Minnesota Highway 19.

First stop, the zoo. I remember the days of monkeys and bears, and buffalo so close you could nearly grab them by the horns. I must settle now for viewing the buffalo from a safe distance through two layers of chain link fence. Oddly, I miss the fear I experienced as a child standing so near these massive beasts.

My favorite, the mischievous monkeys that were occasionally turned loose by equally mischievous pranksters, are long gone. So are the bears.

Instead, a peacock and goats and prairie dogs and ducks and deer occupy the zoo pens.

A stone’s throw away from the riverside zoo, I admire the work of Works Progress Administration Project workers who constructed the stone swayback bridge in 1938. I have always wondered why the bridge was built this way, dipping down, tempting the river to rise up and spill across the roadway. I still wonder.

I note the low water depth and the unpleasant smell of the muddy Redwood River that flows under the bridge and winds through the park.

Later we drive over that swooping bridge, twisting through the park along the narrow paved road that always leaves me hoping we won’t meet another vehicle, especially on the blind 10 mph hairpin curve.

We exit to the falls, the main attraction in this scenic park. Already, I can feel my pulse quickening at the thought of standing at the overlook, peering far below to Ramsey Creek gushing over the rocks.

Camera in hand, I edge inch-by-inch toward the look-out. I back away, move forward again until, finally, I can stand there long enough to compose and shoot several pictures of the falls. The roar of rushing water, and of fear, fills my ears.

And then, a short walk away, a swinging bridge to conquer. The boards rattle and sway beneath my feet. I prefer solid ground, my feet touching the earth.

But still, despite my preference for flat land uninterrupted by trees, I appreciate the beauty of this place, this “Little Yellowstone of Minnesota,” right here, in the heart of the prairie.

Swinging bridge near Ramsey Falls

1938 WPA bridge

The Redwood River

Zoo deer

Playful zoo goats

Franklin Catfish Derby Days water fight

Saturday afternoon and we are westbound on Minnesota Highway 19, slowing for the tiny town of Franklin. I look to the south. And there, across the ball field, I glimpse a fire truck and the arc of spraying water.

“We have to stop,” I immediately tell my husband. “They’re having a water fight.”

Indeed.

Decades have passed since I’ve watched this form of small town festival entertainment and I am determined now to see it.

We turn off the highway, drive past the blockaded streets and find a parking spot only a half block from the park-side residential street where volunteers from four communities—Franklin, Morton, Litchfield and Danube—are competing in a Fire Department Water Ball Fight during Franklin’s annual Catfish Derby Days.

They are aiming their water hoses at a bright red beer keg suspended high in the air on a cable, trying to push the barrel to the other end. Spectator bleachers remain mostly empty as folks have unfolded lawn chairs farther from the action, avoiding the water that showers the area in this afternoon of fierce wind.

Some of the kids, though, frolic in the spray, splashing through the water that runs along the curb.

From the sidelines, firefighters shout encouragement at their trios of team members as the keg wobbles and sways. Finally, when it is over, they knuckle each other, slap each other on the back, swig another taste of beer.

I hope there’s no fire in the Franklin area today, I think.

Then we are heading back to our car and before us walk three boys whom I saw earlier, huddled beside a tree watching the water ball fight. One of them is wrapped in the warmth of a Mickey Mouse towel. A woman walks beside them, a stash of towels tucked under her arm.

The scene makes me smile. So does the sight of three other boys dumping their bikes on a street corner before racing toward the park.

I imagine for a moment that this is the stuff of Norman Rockwell paintings, even though I know in reality no such idyllic place exists.

As we drive west out of town and back toward the highway, I am searching for a fiberglass catfish statue. I see none. But that seems somehow OK for a small Minnesota town which, later Saturday evening, will host a “Kiss the Catfish” contest.

From the sidelines, cheering on the teams.

Two Litchfield firemen aim to win.

Walking home after watching the water fights.

I’m standing on the edge of the park, looking to the northwest, across the soybean field at a sky tinged pink by the fading sun. I have missed the best of a prairie sunset. I know that.

But yet, I savor these moments, breathing in the cool night air on a summer evening as perfect as I’ve ever seen in southwestern Minnesota. This is a day made even better by its ending, here in the Vesta Park, gathered with family for a weekend reunion.

Already we have sipped homemade wine, toasted super giant marshmallows over the camp fire, belted out Johnny Cash’s Ring of Fire, swapped stories of teenage antics.

As the evening progresses, we reminisce about Chinese jump rope made from recycled underwear elastic and about Old Maid. And running around dark farm yards playing Starlight, Moonlight, Hope to See the Ghost Tonight.

Laughter slices through the darkness.

Flames flare in the camp fire as more wood is added. Later, we draw our lawn chairs closer to the fire, absorbing its warmth.

Above us, stars emerge, filling the sky. Later, my son and niece will tell me they saw six shooting stars while lying on the basketball court with a cluster of star gazing kids.

“Twinkle, twinkle little star…” the kids sing. I tip my head, spot the Big Dipper, and take in the vastness of this prairie sky, the sky I knew so well as a child.

I am back here now, for this weekend, to be with the family that I love—the aunts, the uncles, the cousins, some of my siblings and their families, my mom—reconnecting, remembering, celebrating and making new memories.

Already, we are planning to return next year on Saturday, to extend our family reunion beyond the typical Sunday afternoon potluck. We’ve chosen a theme, recruited volunteers, come up with a list of games

And we’ve vowed to learn all of the words to Ring of Fire.

“It’s not 88 degrees.”

No way.

The billboard with the red electronic double eights flashing at me from the side of Interstate 35 south of the Twin Cities was absolutely, undeniably wrong. The outdoor temperature read closer to 70 degrees.

Laughter jumbled inside the car like rough stones tumbling inside a rock polisher.

“That’s not the temperature,” he said, he being my husband. “That’s the room rate.”

“Oh,” I answered.

Now it all made sense. Mystic Lake Casino and Hotel was advertising room rates, not providing a friendly service by flashing the current temperature.

“Why then” I wondered aloud, “do they have a sign like that? Do they raise the rates on weekends, lower them during the week?”

“Maybe,” he said.

Sometimes the rocks inside my head require a bit of polishing. But other times I like them just the way they are—unique, imperfect and rough around the edges.

My son's mouse pad & childhood toys

Tuesday night, and we are standing on our driveway, looking up the hill to the northwest.

I am the first to spot it, the dot of bright light that is more than a star, different than a planet and most definitely not an airplane.

“I think I see it,” I point. “Is that it, there between the trees?”

We move a bit to our left and again, I see it, this brilliant spot gliding in a straight course across the sky. The bright blip disappears behind the canopy of trees, hidden from our view.

But then the light emerges, this time sailing across the clear expanse of inky sky.

We—my husband, son and I—have just seen the International Space Station.

Although I’m not much of a space person, this sighting seems rather cool even to me.

So the next night, a half hour later, just minutes before 10:00, we are staked out in our driveway again. My 15-year-old space enthusiast son has coaxed my husband and me off our comfy spots on the recliner and couch. I consider just ignoring his invitation to view the space station. I am tired. But then I realize that if a teen wants his parents beside him, sharing his interest, then I best stand beside him.

Wednesday evening we are cranking our necks to the sky almost directly above our house. This view is as good as we will ever get of the space station, which travels some 220 miles above the earth, making nearly 16 orbits daily, moving at an average speed of 17,227 mph.

This is impressive stuff.

As we watch, we wonder. Can those aboard already see New York? And has the toilet, which wasn’t working last week, been fixed?

I learn, too, that we can see the space station because it reflects off the sun. “Oh my gosh, Mom, didn’t you know that?” I hear.

No.

My space knowledge is limited, simply because the subject doesn’t interest me. Unless you count Lost in Space, the science fiction television show that aired in the mid to late 1960s. That interested me. But even then, I think I was more intrigued by the cute Major Don West and in hating the villainous Dr. Zachary Smith than the space aspect of the show.

And just for the record, when my baby brother was born in August 1967, my sister and I lobbied for our Mom to name him Don, after our sci-fi sweetheart. She named him Bradley.

I think, too, how very impressed my 15-year-old would have been, sitting before a television screen watching Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin step onto the moon 40 years ago on July 20, 1969.

All of these thoughts flash through my mind as I gawk at the sky, at the International Space Station on a clear and cool Minnesota night.

SHOPPING A FARMERS’ market encompasses more than shopping. Here there are people to meet and stories to hear in an outdoor marketplace that embraces the senses. This is an experience. Accompany me on a recent Saturday morning as I talk to some of the vendors at the Faribault Farmers’ Market.

Lois' jellies and pickled beans

Lois is here with her 91-year-old mother, Mary, eager to talk about the jelly she’s made with huckleberries imported from a friend in Whitefish, Montana. In exchange for the huckleberries, Lois and her husband, Ed, ship raspberries west. Lois worked seven hours to make the nine jars of huckleberry jelly she’s selling for $6.50 a jar.

Across the sidewalk, Dennis pushes his “chocolet covered jalapenos,” his “pickeled eggs,” his breads. He’s “Mr. Betty Crocker,” Lois says.

Virgil's lily

Nearby, Virgil showcases sprigs of lilies, buttery yellow and burnt orange, and stalks of gladiolus, unfurling in pale pinks and purples and orange, the colors of a sunset. He has gathered these from his Wetaota Gardens along Cedar Lake. Wetaota, he tells me, means “the lake with many islands.” As I photograph his flowers, Virgil shares that his florals have just garnered more than a dozen ribbons at the Rice County Fair, including grand champion for an Asiatic lily called Virgil. The judges were right; his flowers sing poetic in their beauty.

Paulette's clothespin bags

Around the corner, crafter Paulette sits in a lawn chair reading a mystery by Mary Higgins Clark. I stop, run my hands across the soft flannel pillow cases Paulette sews, admire the straight, even stitches on the clothespin bags she’s made, dress-style cotton bags so flowery and dainty and pretty I think they should be dresses for little girls.

Jewelry at Rhonda's table

Then, I circle Rhonda’s tables, loaded with merchandise—homemade shampoos, lotions, soaps, scrubbies, dish cloths, rugs, jewelry, knit purses and more—crafted by her and two friends.

Chuck's maple syrup

Jirik's maple syrup

Further down, at neighboring tables, Chuck and siblings Erin and Billy, with their mom, peddle maple syrup. “Where is Hill City?” I ask Chuck, who is selling his “Pure Maple Syrup from Uncle Tom’s Cabin, Hill City, MN.” South of Grand Rapids 15 miles, he tells me. His brother Tom has a cabin there and he helps him make the maple syrup. They chose the syrup’s name, he says, for its marketability.

Erin and Billy push their maple syrup, made by dad, Jim. Billy points to a one-pint plastic jug, says he’s missing from the artwork that shows four kids and a dog in a winter scene. He’s the youngest in a family of five siblings and will turn seven on Kolacky Days weekend.

Margaret's kolacky

Margaret, a full-blooded Czech, offers an array of foods that include kolacky in flavors like prune, poppy seed and raspberry. She’s sold all but one of the 35 packages of Czech pastries she’s brought to the market along with cookies, popcorn, jams and honey. I admire the red and white enamel ware pan that holds the last of her oatmeal chocolate chip cookies.

Kathy & Connie's cookies

On my final pass past the stands, I stop to chat with Kathy. She and her friend Connie are seasoned vendors here. They’ve carted dozens and dozens of their homemade cookies (today 13 varieties like oatmeal raisin, peanut butter chocolate chip and molasses), breads and bars to the park. Kathy makes no apology for offering baked goods in a marketplace that brims with healthy, garden fresh produce.

“Chocolate is a vegetable,” she says. And then she laughs.

Sweet 100 tomatoes

The first of my Sweet 100 cherry tomatoes are ripening, morphing from green to yellow to red-orange.

Already, I have popped several into my mouth, straight from the vine, warm from the sun.

As I reach through the wire tomato cage for more, my hand brushes against the rough, hairy plant stems. I pluck several red orbs, toss them into my mouth.

They taste of sky, of sunshine, of summer days in Minnesota.

These tomatoes pack flavor in each juicy burst.

Then I lift my hand to my face, breathe in the strong scent of tomato vine that clings to my skin, the smell that I will later wash away with soap and water.

But for now I allow the pungent odor to linger, reminding me of summer’s bounty, of these sun-ripened tomatoes that, through a lengthy and cold Minnesota winter, I’ve longed to eat.

Faribault Farmers' Market

The arrow on the battered yellow sign at the corner of Second Avenue Northwest and Sixth Street Northwest points west, directing traffic on this Saturday morning toward the Faribault Farmers’ Market in Central Park. Here vendors have unfolded the legs of card tables and banquet tables and spread the bounties of the land and of their handiwork in this temporary marketplace.

I have arrived here late this morning because I slept in. But the choices remain plentiful.

Piles of prolific pale summer squash and zucchini.  Bundles of beets. Hefty heads of purple and green cabbage. Ruby red jams and jellies. Raspberries. Slender pickled beans crammed inside glass jars. Onions, stripped of their papery skins. Baby potatoes. And more.

Amber-colored maple syrup and golden honey.

Packages of cookies and kolacky. Apple and zucchini breads. Seven layer bars.

A jumble of beaded bling splayed on a silver tray. Knit caps in vibrant hues. Woven rugs. Homemade clothespin bags swaying in the gentle breeze. Birdhouses.

They have come here, these crafters and bakers and tenders of the earth, to sell that which they’ve reaped, that which they’ve created.

(The Faribault Farmers’ Market is open seasonally from 1:30 p.m. – 5 p.m. on Wednesdays and from 7 a.m. – noon on Saturdays at Central Park. Watch for a follow-up blog featuring individual vendors.)

Cabbage

Caps

Onions

Rugs

Chocolate covered jalapenos

“Chocolet covered jalapenos” the sign attached to the side of the cooler reads. Dennis flips open the lid, pulls out a tray of chocolet covered jalapeno peppers and places them on the table before me.

“You spelled chocolate wrong,” I blurt, explaining that I am an English minor and I can’t overlook the misspelling.

“It’s French. Choc-o-LET,” emphasizes Lois, who’s stepped across the sidewalk to see what all the fuss is about at Dennis’ table.

We laugh. I don’t bother to correct Dennis on the spelling of the “Pickeled eggs” he’s selling for a quarter at the Faribault Farmers’ Market. He’s more interested in getting me to try an egg after my refusal to try a chocolet jalapeno. I love chocolate but…

Dennis dips into the wide-mouth container he stores inside another cooler and fishes out a hard-boiled egg the color of pale mustard. The pungent sting of vinegar nips at my nostrils. I’m not so sure about this, especially when an audience awaits my reaction. I cautiously bite into the cold, slippery egg.

“It’s OK.” I pause. “It’s different. How Minnesotan is that?”

Again, laughter. I ask Dennis how he came up with chocolet covered jalapenos. He saw them on a television food show.

“It’s kind of a buzz down here, what I’m doing,” Dennis says, explaining how he strives to offer unusual foods to customers. He also peddles horseradish. And this Saturday morning, he’s sold 27 loaves of apple and zucchini bread he’s baked.

As for those jalapenos, I suppose some brave souls will plunk down two bits for one of Dennis’ chocolet sensations.

I, however, prefer my chocolate without jalapenos, please. And my jalapenos without chocolet.

(Check back for more blogs about the Faribault Farmers’ Market this week. This Central Park market proved a hotbed for photos and stories.)

Once every few years, I go to a movie because that’s how often I feel one worthy of viewing on the big screen.

So on Saturday, an unseasonably cold and cloudy day here in southeastern Minnesota, I propose to my husband, Randy, that we meet our three-year movie quota. We should see The Proposal, I suggest, while our teenaged son, Caleb, attends the latest Harry Potter flick.

I check the daily newspaper ad for show times, which are within a half hour of each other. This will work.

Fast forward a few hours and we are pulling into the parking lot of the Faribo West Mall Cinema Six.

“Are you sure The Proposal is showing?” Caleb asks as we approach the theater entrance. “I didn’t see it on the sign.”

“Yes, it was in the ad,” I assure him.

We are nearly to the door. I stop. My mouth drops open in disbelief as I read: “The Proposal is no longer showing. We apologize for the inconvenience.”

“What? The one time I want to see a movie!” I am mad.

Our son laughs.

I may have heard my husband chuckle too. Or maybe he was heaving a sigh of relief that he didn’t have to sit through a “girl movie” with his wife.

We return to the car, drive across the highway and down the service road to HyVee. Randy goes inside the grocery store to purchase softener salt.

Caleb and I wait in the car. I am still stewing. I suggest bowling.

“Come on, bowling, Mom. I want to go to the Harry Potter movie.”

Thirty minutes later, when we drop our son off at the theater, he is still snickering.