Minnesota Prairie Roots

Rice County Fair

Lilas struggles to get out the words, her voice raspy and fading, barely audible above the deafening roar of souped-up tractors and trucks competing in the grandstand near the old church.

She concedes momentary defeat, then continues. In this church, she was baptized and confirmed, she says, and married, 65 years ago yesterday. I can see the sadness in this aged widow’s eyes.

But she is proud of this place, this historic 1869 Holy Innocents Episcopal Church that her great grandfather helped build in Cannon City. Today the building stands on the Rice County Fairgrounds. I am here this Thursday night of the county fair listening to Lilas talk about the separated floor boards that allowed heat to rise into the sanctuary, about the stained glass window given in memory of a young girl who died. Lilas recites by rote. She’s shared these stories so many times.

This fair holds chapters of interesting stories.

Standing outside a booth brimming with bling, I overhear another.

“You don’t want my dog. You don’t want my stuff. I’m outta here,” the vendor spews into her cell phone, repeating her tragic tale to a friend.

A peace sign pendant dangles inches away from her on a silver chain. She doesn’t even notice me, oblivious to the fact that I am there with my camera snapping pictures of Bazooka bubble gum flip flops.

On the opposite side of the fairgrounds, I pause before a pink Visi-Matic washing machine in a Rice County Historical Society building. There is no one here to tell the stories this machine has washed away.

A free admission sign draws me into the Reptile and Amphibian Discovery Zoo tent. I recoil at the curled up pythons, coo at the cute leopard gecko. Rounding the corner, I spot another python rising up against the plexi-glass, tongue flicking in and out. I am a bit freaked out by the silent, slender tongue that seems to taunt, without words, without stories.

A circle of mini-trampolines, the kind I’ve seen floating in a lake, catch my attention. Attendants, dressed in safari garb, tether and secure kids in harnesses. Soon these fearless acrobats bounce high, under the watchful eyes of parents. I can only imagine the exaggerated stories retold to friends of great heights jumped.

And what, I wonder, will the young man sitting hunched in the tattoo trailer tell his son some day? Will he tell him the truth, that he got his tattoo at the fair, needles piercing ink into his skin while kids walked by stuffing tufts of cotton candy into their mouths?

Special thanks to Caleb Helbling for using his extraordinary technological skills to take my vision for this blog from paper to reality.

For years now, I’ve tried to tame my backyard hillside, an open area edged by woods, leading to a nearby park.

Trees once grew here until we cut them down, fearing that someday, during a strong storm, the precariously leaning box elders would crash on to our garage and house.

Phlox

Now, I think, the earth is rebelling, revolting against this onslaught of humanity upon nature.

I tried to tame this land with plantings of hostas, purple coneflowers, black-eyed susans, daisies and whatever other plants I might pick up at a local greenhouse. And for awhile, my efforts worked.

But then, slowly, the wild orange daylilies began creeping back, subtly gaining ground.

Then the raspberry bushes bullied their way in, and I found I kind of liked them.

And, most recently, wild phlox marched onto the hill, setting up camp, marking the land with their, admittedly, beautiful purple flags.

I have surrendered to all but the invading buckthorn, the charging sumac and the warring weeds.

Let the lilies linger, the raspberries reign, the phlox pilfer.

This once wooded land was meant to be theirs, not mine.

Southwestern Minnesota prairie

After 18 months of blogging for Minnesota Moments magazine, my personal blog debuts.

You won’t see any changes here in writing style and topics.

I will continue to write from my heart—about everyday life, about places I visit, things I do, observations I make about the world around me.

My writing reflects my down-to-earth personality and my appreciation for the simple things in life.

I’m the woman who hangs clothes on a clothesline, relishes a good book, shops garage sales,  savors the tart tang of rhubarb crisp, breathes in the intoxicating scent of freshly-cut alfalfa and appreciates Minnesota, the place I call home.

So, in choosing my blog name, I turned to my roots, which reach deep into the southwestern Minnesota prairie. I haven’t lived there for decades, but this place of big skies, wide open spaces and unceasing wind shaped the person I became and the writer who evolved.

Today I write from southeastern Minnesota, my work still influenced by my native prairie. There, in stark surroundings, I learned to not just hear, but listen to, the land, for it truly does speak.

It made me a better writer.

So, welcome to my blog, Minnesota Prairie Roots.

Return often.

Share your thoughts.

But mostly, learn to appreciate your world.  All of it.