Love this art of my granddaughter on my eldest daughter and son-in-law’s fridge.(Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo February 2022)
IF YOU’RE LIKE ME, your refrigerator functions as more than a food storage unit. Mine also functions as an art gallery, a photo gallery, a place to post notices and information.
One of several poems I’ve crafted with magnetic words on my refrigerator. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
On my fridge door, you’ll currently see six family photos, an inspirational quote, a clipped poem from my mom’s collection and two short poems I crafted from magnetic words.
Looking for clues in the “Gangster’s Gold” Mailbox Mystery now available (along with other mysteries) on Etsy at Orange Guy Games. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo November 2021)
Shift to the not-so-publicly-visible side and you’ll find an assortment of newspaper clippings (including my pastor’s column about mental health), the “We Remember Them” poem, a recycling calendar, two certificates for completing the Cannon Falls Library Mailbox Mysteries, an email about details for staying at the lake cabin…
And then, clipped under a sheaf of papers is a City of Faribault newsletter, Snow Season—HELPFUL TIPS & INFORMATION. Nine snow/winter-related stories fill both sides of the standard sheet of paper. Yes, there’s a lot to remember when you live in a state of winter for perhaps six months (or more, depending).
The articles are titled:
Parking Restrictions & Snow Emergencies
Pushing Snow into Streets is Prohibited
Help Keep Fire Hydrants Cleared from Snow
Clear Sidewalks of Snow and Ice
Avoid Frozen Water Pipes
Proper Mailbox Installation will Help Keep it Upright this Winter
Shoveling Driveway Openings
Children Stay Clear of the Street
Keep Trash & Recycling Bins Out of the Street
Best to keep vehicles off streets during or after a snowfall or risk a ticket and/or towing. ((Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo October 2020)
So basically keep your vehicles (during snow emergencies), garbage cans, snow and kids off streets.
Clear fire hydrants near your home because, you know, if firefighters need to dig out a hydrant, your house could burn down.
Remove snow and ice from sidewalks so pedestrians (especially letter carriers) don’t slip and fall and break a bone. And as long as we’re talking mailboxes, shovel the snow away from them. If a snowplow hits your curbside mailbox (note, you must have it properly installed), call the city.
Don’t blame the city if your water pipes freeze. They’ve advised you to insulate them and take other precautions to prevent freezing.
As any Minnesotan knows, the worst thing is to have the driveway all cleared and then the snowplow plows the end shut with a ridge of snow. Here Randy waits for the plow to finish clearing the street. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo February 2020)
Also, do not blame city snowplow drivers for plowing snow across the end of your driveway within minutes of your having opened your driveway. That one’s really tough to take. Too many times the plow arrives shortly after all snow has been removed from driveway’s end. Then it’s back to shoveling or blowing, mean-spirited words unheard over the scrape of plow blade upon asphalt.
I’m grateful for the City of Faribault drivers who clear our streets in winter. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo October 2020)
The city is, after all, grateful for your cooperation as noted in this sentence of gratitude:
Thank you very much for your assistance and patience in getting through another Minnesota winter and plowing season.
You’re welcome, City of Faribault. My words, not theirs.
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TELL ME: What’s on your fridge? Anything snow/winter-related?
Vintage valentines from my mom’s collection. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo 2019)
AT THE RISK of sounding old, which, by the way, I sort of am, I remember Valentine’s Day back-in-the-day, meaning the 1960s.
I remember bringing a shoebox to Vesta Elementary School, covering the box with white paper, cutting a slit in the lid (the teacher helped) and then pasting red construction paper hearts onto the wrapped box. Whew, that was one long sentence. If I didn’t have a shoebox, I crafted a mega envelope from white paper, decorated it with paper hearts and then taped the valentine holder onto the edge of my desk. Either way, I had a vessel to hold valentines.
I carefully picked the valentines I gave to each classmate. This is from my mom’s collection. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo 2019)
On the day of our Valentine’s party, I arrived at school with cards carefully chosen for each classmate. These were not Disney-themed valentines pulled from a box, but rather generic, often flowery, cards punched from an over-sized book. It took effort to remove those cards. But it took even more effort to choose just the right one for each classmate.
An “I love you” valentine heart crafted for me by one of my children (I think my son) in elementary school. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
Words mattered to me even back then. I didn’t want anyone, especially the boys, to misinterpret messages printed on a valentine. That applied to those chalky candy conversation hearts also. There would be no “Be mine” or “True love” for boys I found disgusting. And, no, I did not gift an entire box of those hearts to anyone. I came from a poor farm family. Several candy hearts tucked inside an envelope or a single stick of Juicy Fruit gum taped to a card was the treat limit.
Stencils and colored paper for crafting cards. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo February 2022)
Those sweet memories of Valentine’s days past remain. But now I’m making new memories. With my grandchildren. On a recent Saturday morning I baked carrot cupcakes, mixed up a batch of cream cheese frosting, gathered construction paper, stencils and foam hearts, and checked valentine-themed books out from the library. Randy and I were headed to see the grandkids and I had projects planned.
Isaac in non-stop motion racing his truck. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo February 2022)
But first we played, the kids racing over-sized vehicles across the floor, round and round the table and through the house with the expectation that Grandma would do the same and I did for awhile with a toy airplane, which conveniently took flight. But then I needed a break. A break meant decorating those healthy cupcakes I baked, the healthy being the 1 ½ cups of shredded carrots (never mind the cup of sugar in the batter and then an additional cup in the homemade frosting).
Isaac with one of the cupcakes he frosted and sprinkled.(Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo February 2022)
Heart-shaped toppings for the cupcakes from my daughter’s stash. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo February 2022)
The cupcake in the center is minus about half the sugar Isaac dumped onto it. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo February 2022)
Wiping crumbs and frosting from Isaac’s face. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo February 2022)
Frosting and decorating cupcakes hold universal appeal for kids. Grandpa and I tag teamed with him assigned to 3-year-old Isaac and me to 5-year-old Isabelle. All went seemingly well with the usual admonition not to lick the knife, then wash the knife and repeat. But then I handed a slim bottle of sparkly pink sugar to Isaac, who tipped the bottle, and, well, you can guess what happened. He dumped enough sugar atop that single cupcake to decorate a dozen. What could we do except laugh, dump most of the sugar off and continue on. Eventually the cupcakes were all decorated and one each eaten.
We played with Owlette and Catboy from the Disney Junior show “PJ Masks.” I had no clue who these characters were prior to playtime. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo February 2022)
We took a break for more play, this time climbing up Mystery Mountain (stairs) to the Splat Volcano (Isaac’s room), where I got my feet stuck in splat, not to be confused with lava. The kids pulled me free. Good thing because there were valentines to craft. Except we never got to the valentines. I thought it more important for the siblings to create birthday cards for their mom, whose birthday is shortly before Valentine’s Day.
I brought a bag plumped with foam heart stickers for the grandkids to use in creating cards. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo February 2022)
Again, I supervised Izzy while Randy helped Isaac. I got the easy job as Isabelle is a kindergartner, meaning she can sit quietly and create, managing a pencil and markers and stencils just fine, thank you. She finished her mom’s birthday card long before her brother. Isaac was quite taken with the foam heart stickers I brought. Hearts in hues of pink and purple. He’d stick one on the orange construction paper folded into a card and then stick on another. And another. And another. No valentines were ever made. But if foam hearts can convey love, then my daughter Amber ought to know her son loves her lots.
Stickers galore decorate the birthday card Isaac made for his mom. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo February 2022)
So these are my latest Valentine’s Day memories. Not of candy conversation hearts or heart-covered shoeboxes or fixating on valentine choices, but rather memories of time with my beloved grandchildren. Such sweetness in those love-filled moments…
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TELL ME: I’d like to hear your Valentine’s Day stories, past and/or present.
A winter storm creates near white-out conditions along Minnesota State Highway 19 north of my hometown of Vesta in southwestern Minnesota in January 2013.(Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo January 2013)
LOSS STORMS INTO THIS WINTER of 2022 like an old-fashioned Minnesota blizzard. The snow just keeps falling. The wind keeps whipping. Powdery snow blows into rock hard drifts that edge roadways, fill ditches, encircle homes. Visibility is limited. Travel conditions poor. Bitter cold settles in and I feel as if this storm will never end.
Wind chimes from my friend Beth Ann in North Carolina honor my mom. Beth Ann lost her mom just over a year ago and has been a great support to me. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo February 2022)
Just like a winter storm, we must all deal with loss and grief. (Minnesota Prairie Roots file photo of Randy snowblowing our driveway)
It’s a lot at once—this loss, this grief.
Ruth, a friend from Pittsburgh, knit this beautiful prayer/comfort shawl from the softest acrylic yarnfittingly labeled CELESTIAL STRIPES. These are in hues my mom would have liked. Each time I wrap this shawl around my shoulders, I feel Ruth’s love in the warmth and texture. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo February 2022)
Anyone who’s experienced a Minnesota blizzard understands the analogy. Yet, blizzards always end. We shovel and snow-blow our way out of snow-clogged driveways. We clear the walks and steps. And we get on with life, despite the storm. Yet, we remember.
My friend Mandy colored this beautiful faith-based art for me. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo February 2022)
I am digging myself out of a blizzard now, working through the drifts of grief. But I’ve never felt alone in this storm. First, as a woman of faith, I’ve felt God’s presence, his strong hand upon the snow shovel. I’ve heard his encouraging voice in the comforting words of pastors shared at these recent funerals (my mom’s attended in-person, the others virtually).
I’ve appreciated the nearly 60 sympathy cards which have landed in my mailbox. I’ve read and reread the encouraging words and notes. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo February 2022)
Assorted shovels used in clearing snow from our property. (Minnesota Prairie Roots file photo December 2021)
I feel incredibly loved, as if an entire neighborhood has showed up with shovels and snowblowers to unclog the driveway, to clear the walk and steps. To help me dig out from this blizzard of loss.
My friend Kathleen from Idaho crafted this beautiful mini altered book honoring my mom and her life. I will share more soon about this book, a comfort to me as I remember my mother. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo February 2022)
There will be days when I feel like hunkering down inside, watching the wind-driven snow pile up, sheltering within my grief. Just like during a blizzard, when going outdoors proves risky.
Inspirational garden art from my sister-in-law Cheryl and family uplifts. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo February 2022)
But winter storms are not forever. Rock hard drifts melt, replaced by the greening earth, new life. The wind calms, stirring peace in summertime breezes. Visibility clears to the window of memories. Roads take us back to places once shared with those we’ve lost. And the bitter cold of death lessens as time passes, as love endures.
Randy follows the trail along the Cannon River in North Alexander Park, Faribault. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo February 2022)
BEFORE TUESDAY TEMPS ROSE to around 40 here in southern Minnesota, there was the cold. Brutal cold. Mornings of minus below zero. Strong winds making the outdoors feel even colder.
Late Sunday morning, when the temperature hovered in the 20s with a brisk wind, Randy and I followed the paved trail bordering the Cannon River in North Alexander Park. It’s a favorite Faribault walking path.
River (left), tree and trail. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo February 2022)
The river draws me here. I find waterways soothing, calming, quieting to the spirit, even when frozen.
I also appreciate how this particular path wends around trees and along the river. The curving trail invites a leisurely, poetic pace, a time for reflection, a time to slow down and delight in the natural world without distractions.
Little distracted us, except the trumpeting of two Trumpeter Swans gracefully flying high overhead as we exited the van to begin our walk. Absent were the usual crowds of waterfowl frequenting the river in Minnesota’s other seasons.
Biking the riverside trail on a fat tire bike. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo February 2022)
We encountered only one other person—a biker zooming on a fat tire bike.
A spot of color at the basketball court. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo February 2022)
It was the winter landscape which focused my attention. The whiteness of it all. The absence of color in a mostly grey and black-and-white world. Only the bold orange outlines on basketball rims and backboards jolted color into the scene. In the summer, young people cram these courts, dribbling and jumping and dunking and scoring points. Raucous play among youth, wonderful to witness.
A riverside picnic table remains, even in winter. In the background is the Faribault Woolen Mill, across the Cannon River. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo February 2022)
On this February morning, summer lingers in memories of those pick-up basketball games, riverside picnics and following this trail in flip flops under leafy canopies of green.
I find bared branches particularly beautiful. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo February 2022)
Today the branches bare themselves to winter. Naked, exposed, vulnerable.
Details in boot print, tire track and oak leaf. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo February 2022)
I notice in the snow, next to the imprint of a boot and a bike tire track, a lone oak leaf. In any other season, I might miss this. But not now. Not in the depth of winter.
Finger drifts creep onto trail’s edge. In the distance to the right sits the Faribault Woolen Mill. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo February 2022)
I notice, too, finger drifts along trail’s edge. Creeping. Stretching. Wind-blown fingers of snow that may be perceived as threatening. Or artsy. I choose artsy.
Randy heads back toward the van, along the riverside trail, the woolen mill in distant view across the Cannon River. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo February 2022)
Across the river, I see the Faribault Woolen Mill, weaver of wool (and wool blend) blankets, throws, scarves and much more since 1865. The mill is widely-admired, respected for its quality products. Craftsmanship at its finest. As Randy and I retrace our steps, this time leaning into a strong wind, I would welcome a locally-woven wool scarf wrapped around my neck for warmth.
Soon we reach the van, climb inside the wind-sheltered space and head toward the park exit. It is then Randy spots a large bird overhead, following the river. An eagle, we determine, based on wing span, flight and river route. It’s too high for our aging eyes to fully verify identity. But we’ve seen eagles here before and that is enough. Enough to end our Sunday morning winter walk with the wonderment we always feel in watching this majestic bird tracing the Cannon River.
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TELL ME: If you live in a cold climate state, do you bundle up and head outdoors for recreational activities? Where do you go? What do you do?
THE EARLY DAYS of February hold a special place in our family. On subsequent days years apart, I birthed my eldest daughter and then, the day before her eighth birthday, my son. What are the odds? My second daughter was born in mid-November.
Amber, age six months.
Time has a way of slipping by. It seems only yesterday that Amber arrived via emergency C-section following a labor so ridiculously long that I don’t even want to remember it. Eventually, my doctor determined she was frank breech. I’ll always remember the joy I felt in seeing my first-born. All 9 lbs., 7 oz. of her. A darling girl turned woman who has always possessed a loving, caring and giving spirit. And a dose of humor inherited from her father.
Often, Randy and I told young Amber that we loved her more than pizza. She observed, in blooming tulips, that “the flowers are opening their mouths.” And once, on a lengthy trip to Mandan/Bismarck for a Helbling family reunion, she refused to nap because she said she might miss something. She declared, then, too, that everyone lived in hotels (given the lack of farm and town sightings). I was pregnant with her brother. It proved a long trip with frequent bathroom stops.
For his eighth birthday, Caleb’s sisters created a PEEF cake for their brother. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
When Caleb was born, the bond between brother and sisters proved almost instantaneous. Both girls eagerly cuddled their 10 lb, 12-ounce baby brother, giving me much-needed time to prepare meals, for example. They later taught him numbers and letters and once created a PEEF birthday cake for him. They remain bonded not only by genetics and memories, but by a genuine familial love and care for one another. Sure, they sometimes got under each others’ skin while growing up. That passed.
Caleb at 1 1/2 days old. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
My first memory of Caleb post C-section birth was watching as a nurse brought him to me, near enough to kiss his warm baby soft cheek. Oh, love beyond love. If only I could have taken my chunky son with the head of thick reddish hair into my arms. But the surgeon had yet to perform inguinal hernia surgery.
Post surgery I experienced an excruciating spinal headache that left me nauseated, in pain and unable to hold Caleb for any length of time. Nothing, and I mean nothing, worked and I left the hospital days later still feeling awful. I shall forever feel grateful to the OB nurses who loved on Caleb when I couldn’t.
Love. When I became a mother all those decades ago, then expanding my mother’s love twice more, I understood what it meant to love selflessly. I will always always always be there for my daughters and son. To encourage. To support. To celebrate.
Caleb and Amber. (Minnesota Prairie Roots file photo August 2017)
This week I celebrate the birthdays of two amazing individuals. Amber, a full-time mom to my two darling grandchildren. I love watching her as a mother; she’s patient, loving, kind, encouraging… Caleb, back in college as a full-time PhD student, whose strength I admire. I miss him and think of him every day, as I do my second daughter living in eastern Wisconsin.
Yet, despite our geographical separation (Caleb lives in Indiana), nothing can distance us from the years we all lived under the same roof. Years of love and memories that bond us as family. Our love endures and so does that we’re-always-here-for-one-another attitude.
Happy birthday, Amber and Caleb, with love from Mom!
WHEN I STOPPED at Buckham Memorial Library on Saturday morning to pick up Valentine’s Day-themed books for a visit with the grandchildren, I left with a more important book. I discovered When We Say Black Lives Matter, written and illustrated by Maxine Beneba Clarke, among the new children’s picture books.
The award-winning Australian writer, poet and artist has crafted a story from the perspective of a Black child’s parents explaining why Black Lives Matter. It’s a powerful telling written in words kids can understand, yet with a depth that touches the adults who read this book. The illustrations in watercolor pencil and collage enhance/complement the text in ways that strengthen the message, as all book art should.
The love-filled words reflect on past and present injustices, on strength and song, on Black voices that matter. Just like Black Lives Matter.
I encourage you to read this picture book. The insights it offers are important. Especially now, as protests continue in Minnesota over yet another fatal shooting of a young Black man by police. Simultaneously, the federal trial of three former Minneapolis police officers charged with violating the rights of George Floyd during his May 2020 arrest (and subsequent death) continues. February also marks Black History Month.
Another must-read book.
I encourage you to read a second book, which I also found at my library. I’m about a third of the way into We Are Each Other’s Harvest—Celebrating African American Farmers, Land, and Legacy. It’s a collection of stories by Natalie Baszile, author of award-winning Queen Sugar (which I now must read). The book is exactly as its title states, about Black farmers, their past and present connection to the land and the challenges they face. I’m learning a lot. As someone who grew up in rural southwestern Minnesota surrounded only by other White people, I need to read books like these to broaden my understanding about the challenges of being Black in America. Past and present. Because I grew up with a strong connection to the land, these stories really resonate.
It’s refreshing to see signs like this in small town Minnesota. I photographed this in October 2020 in Kenyon, MN. (Minnesota Prairie Roots file photo)
Although I never got around to reading Clarke’s picture book to my grandchildren (we ran out of time), I will tell you that Isabelle and Isaac are growing up in a diverse neighborhood. Izzy’s kindergarten class also includes classmates of assorted skin tones and backgrounds. Not just White, Lutheran/Catholic, German/Scandinavian like her maternal grandparents. I appreciate that diversity in the lives of these little people whom I love beyond measure. When they see their classmates and/or playmates, they don’t see color. They see friends.
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TELL ME: Have you read either of these books? What similar books do you recommend I read? I’d love to hear.
Sunset as seen on the hillside behind my Faribault home. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo January 2022)
WINTER HOLDS STARK BEAUTY not seen in any other season. Sometimes seeing that takes extra effort, though, when thoughts center on Minnesota’s brutal cold and snow and ice.
(Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo January 2022)
Yet, many days—often in the morning and as the day closes—winter paints loveliness into the landscape. Upon the sky.
(Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo January 2022)
I live in the valley with a view to the east. When the sun rises, hues of golden yellow and rosy pink sometimes brush upon the heavens. Beautiful to behold. Occasionally Randy will text after arriving at work and alert me to the morning’s artistic arrival. I appreciate his thoughtfulness.
(Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo January 2022)
In late afternoon, pressing toward evening when I am preparing supper, I find myself drawn to the south kitchen window. There I shift my eyes slightly right to the tree-covered hillside behind our home. There I behold bare black branches against a backdrop pink sky. The loveliness of it all, the contrast of dark and light, delights me. Oh, how lovely the dusk of day.
(Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo January 2022)
Yes, even in the deep of winter, nature shows her creative side. Coloring the sky. Reminding me that in every single day beauty exists, even when it sometimes seems elusive.
(Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo January 2022)
TELL ME: What brings beauty into your natural world in February?
THIS IS A COVID-RELATED public service announcement for residents of Faribault and then of broader Rice County. But, even if you don’t live here, read on.
From the front page of the Faribault Daily News. (Minnesota Prairie Roots file photo April 2020)
In a county with a population of about 67,000 we have lost 163 of our friends/family/neighbors to this awful virus. And, yes, I’ve known some of those who died. My heart hurts.
Early on in the pandemic, there was no vaccine to protect against serious illness or death. Much was unknown. That has changed. We have vaccines now and approved options to treat those with COVID. And, yes, the vaccine is less effective against the omicron variant with many break-through cases. Yet, those who are vaccinated/fully-boostered are much less likely to become seriously ill or die than the unvaccinated.
Our vaccination rate in Rice County seems stalled at around 64 percent. We can do better.
Free, from the national government stockpile, N95 masks which Randy and I recently got from Hy-Vee. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo January 2022)
And we can do a heckuva a lot better at wearing face masks in indoor public settings. The omicron variant is highly-contagious and it’s our responsibility as members of this community to do our best to protect ourselves and others. Underline others. This is not solely about me, myself and I. This is about community, the common good. Our friends. Our neighbors. Our families. Our co-workers. Masking is one way to prevent the spread of this virus. There are people in our communities/families/circles who are especially vulnerable to complications from COVID because of age and/or health issues. Wearing face masks is one simple way to show we care about the health of others by helping prevent spread of the virus.
N99 masks are now available for free locally through the City of Faribault and Rice County.
Now our local government officials have made finding protective face masks a whole lot easier by offering free N99 masks to the public. The City of Faribault received a shipment. Residents can pick up masks at city hall, the fire station, the police department, the community center and the library, while limited supplies last.
And, yes, the tighter, snug-fitting filter masks (N99, N95, KN95) are necessary to effectively protect against the highly-transmissible omicron variant. Cloth masks, gaiters, etc. are not nearly as effective against omicron as the earlier delta variant. Still, anything is better than nothing. But let’s opt for the now available N99, N95 or KN95.
The best protection is still vaccination, which includes the booster shot.
I remain concerned about our overtaxed healthcare system with overworked staff, delays in care due to staff and ICU shortages, and more. I’m not talking just COVID here. I’m talking healthcare for every single one of us who may need it. Stuff happens. Heart attacks. Motor vehicle accidents. Cancer. This list goes on and on. Again, this is about all of us, not me, myself and I.
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NOTE: I moderate all comments and will not publish anti-mask and anti-vaccine views or misinformation on this, my personal blog. Thank you for doing your part to keep our communities healthy.
Portraits of the deceased musicians inside the Surf Ballroom. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo May 2015)
SIXTY-THREE YEARS AGO TODAY, the music died. On February 3, 1959, three musicians—Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens and J.P. “The Big Bopper” Richardson—and a pilot died in a plane crash near Clear Lake, Iowa. It was, and remains, a monumental moment in American music history.
A broad view of this massive ballroom which seats 2,100. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo May 2015)
Today the Surf Ballroom in Clear Lake still hosts a Winter Dance Party honoring the musicians who performed their final concert there on February 2, 1959. Early the next morning en route to Moorhead, Minnesota, the charter flight carrying the rock-n-roll musicians crashed in a field near Clear Lake in northern Iowa.
This display references “American Pie.” (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo May 2015)
In 2015, Randy and I traveled an hour and 15 minutes south of Faribault along Interstate 35 to Clear Lake, where we toured the Surf. We were mere preschoolers when Holly and the others died. But the story of this tragedy imprinted upon us as teens, when Don McLean released his hit, “American Pie,” in 1971. How well I remember that tribute, the lyrics, the length of the nearly 8.5-minute song.
The ballroom stage. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo May 2015)
While in Clear Lake on that May day seven years ago, we didn’t visit the crash site. Rain kept us away. But we certainly enjoyed our tour of the historic ballroom, site to many concerts from greats such as Duke Ellington, Lawrence Welk, the Beach Boys, the Doobie Brothers… The posters and photos, the aged booths, the stage and dance floor, all pay homage to the past, when ballrooms centered entertainment. The Surf, on the National Register of Historic Places and a designated National Historic Landmark, represents another time, another era, not simply a concert venue.
This sign summarizes the importance of the Surf. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo May 2015)
Today I celebrate music and those who create it, past and present. Music enriches our lives beyond entertainment. Music, in many ways, writes like poetry into our hearts, souls and memories. And this February day, I honor the memories of Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens and J.P. Richardson, as I consider “the day the music died.”
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TELL ME: Have you toured the Surf Ballroom or the crash site? Or do you have music memories of Holly, Valens and Richardson that you’d like to share?
Squiggles in the morning sky. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo January 2022)
SEVERAL WEEKS AGO, on a brutally cold Minnesota winter morning when tires on roadways sound like boots crunching glass, when breathing in outdoor air almost hurts, when brilliant sunshine deceives, I noticed a strange sight in the sky. An endless skinny squiggle.
Alarmed, I wondered at the contrail resembling the attempts of a preschooler free-styling the letter “S.” Was this thin white line revealing an out-of-control aircraft about to crash? It’s interesting where the mind wanders when knowledge lacks. I will be the first to admit I don’t understand much about airplanes. I still don’t understand the physics of flight, not that I’ve even tried to educate myself. It simply does not interest me.
An edited version of the original photo to better show the squiggles. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo January 2022)
With questions racing through my mind, I grabbed my camera to document the scene through my front picture window. Yes, utility wires and dirty glass distracted, but I held no desire to step into the frigid cold to take photos.
Upon discussing the skinny squiggles with Randy many hours later, he suggested the cold, stillness and other “just right” atmospheric weather conditions caused those skinny contrail squiggles. Right? Wrong? What do you think (or know)? I’m listening.
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