Photos by wildlife photographer Dave Angell, exhibited previously at the Paradise Center for the Arts, Faribault. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo March 2023)
MARCH ROARED INTO MINNESOTA like a lion this past weekend. Louder in some parts of our state, like in Minneapolis northward. And quieter in other parts, like here in Faribault.
Snow falls under grey skies Sunday afternoon in my backyard. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo March 2024)
We got only a few inches of snow in my community. I think. It’s difficult to measure in a spring storm that mixes heavy snow, light snow, wet snow, sleet and rain. Yes, it’s been quite a mix of precip. But I can assuredly tell you that the once barren landscape is layered in fresh snow under grey, drippy skies.
Snow falls, layering patio lights, fence and evergreens Sunday afternoon. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo March 2024)
The Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport recorded 8.2 inches of snow, the biggest snowfall of the season. They can have it, although I’m sure Minnesotans attempting to fly out for warm spring break destinations did not appreciate all the flight delays and cancellations on Sunday.
Snow creates an interesting black-and-white grid on my patio bricks. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo March 2024)
Other than attending church services early Sunday morning and stepping onto the back stoop to take a few photos, I stayed inside all day. It was an ideal “sprinter” day (as my friend Gretchen aptly terms this season) to settle in with a good book. I’m reading The Violin Conspiracy, a novel by Brendan Slocumb centering on a gifted Black violinist. It’s a riveting, emotional read. Sometimes I wanted to roar like a lion at the unfairness, the prejudice, the challenges that thread through this book. I’m half-way through the novel.
A few more lions, but mostly lambs, have been added to this March calendar at Buckham Memorial Library since I photographed it on March 16. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo March 2024)
Lion. Lamb. That applies to life, to books, to the month of March.
(Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo July 2016 from Shepherd’s Way Farm, rural Nerstrand)
If I have a choice, I’ll choose a gentle lamb. I dislike conflict. I dislike sprinter storms that create travel woes, that require snow removal. But often we have no choice. Weather and life roar in like a lion and we face the challenges. Sometimes with fear. Sometimes with bravery. However we react, we are the stronger for having faced the lion. More empathetic. More compassionate. Less afraid. And that is the lesson of March.
This abandoned farmhouse once stood along Minnesota State Highway 19 east of my hometown of Vesta on the southwestern Minnesota prairie. It’s no longer there. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo 2013)
A TIME EXISTED when I loved winter. The snow more than the cold. During my growing up years on a southwestern Minnesota farm, I could not wait for the first snowfall, which then piled snow upon snow upon snow for months.
This huge, hard-as-rock towering snowdrift blocked my childhood farm driveway in March 1965. (Photo credit: Elvern Kletscher)
Fierce prairie winds swept snow around outbuildings, sculpting rock-hard drifts, an ideal landscape for Canadian Mounties. Snow pushed into piles by the loader of Dad’s John Deere tractor became mountains, rugged terrain to conquer. And pristine snow presented the perfect canvas for a game of Fox and Goose.
Our southwestern Minnesota farmyard is buried in snowdrifts in this March 1965 image. (Photo credit: Elvern Kletscher)
I remember, too, the crisp winter evenings of walking from barn to house after finishing chores. Packed snow crunched beneath my buckle overshoes. Frigid air bit at my nose, my mouth streaming billows of vapor. Overhead a billion stars pricked light into the immense black sky. Ahead of me, windows glowed in our tiny wood-frame farmhouse.
Those are the good memories I choose to remember. Not the near-frozen fingers. Not the pot on the porch because we had no bathroom. Not the house foundation wrapped in brown paper to seal out the cold. Not the central oil-burning stove that never kept the house warm enough.
Today I have it so much better. A warm house with a bathroom. No cows or calves to feed or straw bales to shake or manure to scoop. No dealing with cracked, chapped, bleeding hands. I have every reason today to embrace winter minus many of the hardships of yesteryear. But I find I don’t.
I’m working, though, on shifting my attitude back to that of appreciating a season which is often harsh here in Minnesota, although not in this unseasonably mild and nearly snow-less winter of 2023-2024. Last winter, now that was a record snowfall winter which tested many a life-long Minnesotan. Except perhaps my friend Jackie of Rochester, who loves winter.
The vintage winter photo gracing the cover of Mischke’s book is from the archives of the Minnesota Historical Society. (Minnesota Prairie Roots photo)
Writer, musician, podcaster and former radio talk show host TD Mischke also loves winter (most of the time) as evidenced in his book Winter’s Song—A Hymn to the North, published in 2023 by Skywater Publishing Cooperative. I happened upon his collection of winter writing at my brother-in-law and sister-in-law’s house north of the metro. Jon is about as avid an outdoorsman as they come. Hunting. Fishing. And in the dead of winter, spearfishing on the frozen lake. This seemed a book written just for him.
Recognizing the Mischke name, I immediately inquired whether the writer, TD Mischke, was any relation to Sy Mischke, friend of my late father-in-law. Sy, a “character” by my definition, was TD’s uncle. TD Mischke certainly writes about characters in Winter’s Song.
Clearing snow is a sometimes endless task during a Minnesota winter. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
His collection of short stories, essays and three poems honors Midwest winters. Not in a fully nostalgic way, but with a mix of reality. Winters are, admittedly, brutal. But also brimming blessings. The word “hymn” in the book title fits.
A lovely winter scene photographed in 2019 north of Faribault. It portrays the beauty of winter. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo 2019)
As I read through the short chapters, I found myself liking winter more and more. And that’s thanks to Mischke’s storytelling skills, his attention to detail, his introspective writing, his humor, his honest portrayal of winter in Minnesota. Not everyone is meant to live here. That Mischke acknowledges. But he also acknowledges the toughness, stamina, strength and endurance of those who call the North home. I agree that it takes a bit of fortitude to manage some six months of winter. I felt in that moment a sense of pride as a life-long Minnesotan.
Spring erupts in budding trees at Falls Creek Park, rural Faribault. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo May 2019)
That brings me to the second to last chapter of Winter’s Song—“Lessons of March.” It seemed only fitting that I was reading this chapter near the end of March on a day of predicted snow. I’ve never liked March much. But Mischke reminded me that this often grey month, which can throw in surprise snowstorms, should be appreciated for the simple reason that it makes us appreciate April even more. The arrival of spring. He’s right. Winter is often about perspective. After finishing Winter’s Song, I feel my thoughts shifting toward a renewed appreciation for this longest of seasons here in Minnesota.
Crocuses blooming on March 12. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo March 2024)
DAYS AFTER I BRUSHED aside leaf mulch, my crocuses are in full bloom under the bold sunlight of March here in southern Minnesota.
Veins run through the cupped purple petals popping with golden centers. They are beautiful to behold. Vibrant in a landscape of brown.
Due to the unseasonably mild Minnesota winter, these crocuses are blooming weeks earlier than usual. Had I not uncovered the perennials several days ago to find a lone blossom leaning, I would have missed this explosion of color in my front yard flowerbed.
I admire crocuses, daffodils and tulips, the first brave flowers of spring. That they even survive in this harsh climate seems a miracle in itself. Crocuses store food in corms, their underground stem system.
And so I want to take a moment to celebrate this clutch of crocuses, to recognize the importance of noticing that which is right before our eyes. All too often we hurry through our days without pausing to appreciate the little things. The flush of blossoms. The bright flash of a cardinal. The scurrying of a squirrel. Today may you stop, look and see, really see, the beauty within this day.
TELL ME: What little thing are you seeing today that bring you joy?
Under a layer of leaves, I found this blooming crocus. Already, in early March. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo March 2024)
IN TRULY UN-MINNESOTAN fashion, I have penned very little this winter about the weather. That is atypical of a life-long resident. We are, if anything, obsessed about weather in Minnesota. We take pride in our cold weather, our snow, in managing to persevere in an often harsh climate. Weather affects our lives on a daily basis.
But this winter season, our image as the Bold Cold North has significantly changed. These past four months have been primarily snow-less and unseasonably warm. Sure, we’ve had a bit of snow and some cold snaps with sub-zero temperatures. Yet nothing like we’ve come to expect.
As I write, I look out my office window to a scene devoid of snow. The temperature is 46 degrees. At 9:51 a.m. on an early March morning. Laundry is drying on the clothesline. And the sun blazes bright upon the monotone landscape.
Daffodils, too, are emerging early. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo March 2024)
If I look closely, I see signs of spring come too soon. I need only examine my perennial flowerbeds to find spring flowers emerging from the soil. Under a layer of dried leaf mulch, I uncover a single crocus tipped on its side. I push more leaves aside revealing tender shoots of crocuses and daffodils. They need sunlight to thrive.
Tulips on the south-facing side of my house started popping weeks ago. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo March 2024)
Tulips and irises are up, too. Too soon. Not yet blooming. I noticed tulip bulbs popping greenery already in February.
All of this is an anomaly. We should be experiencing snowstorms and school closures, hearing the scrape of snowplows, the roar of snowblowers. Kids should be skating and sledding. As much as I appreciate the lack of icy roads and sidewalks, no snow to clear and no worry about winter weather, it just doesn’t feel right.
I’ve realized that I really do like the diversity of distinct seasons in Minnesota. There’s something to be said about anticipating spring after a long hard winter, like we experienced last year with record snowfall…
WEEKS OUT FROM THE SPRING EQUINOX,The Little DQ of Faribault opened for the season with its usual opening weekend special of Peanut Buster Parfaits.
Randy and I, if we remember, stop by for ours each February. We not only like the ice cream treat layered with peanuts and hot fudge, but we also celebrate unshuttering of the small walk-up/drive-up Dairy Queen as the unofficial start of spring in our southern Minnesota community of some 24,400.
We also appreciate a bargain, the parfaits discounted to $2.49 this past weekend as they are for the DQ’s October closing. Last autumn we missed out on final weekend parfaits by two vehicles. At the drive-up window, after we’d patiently waited in line, the DQ employee told us they’d just run out of ice cream. Argh. The early bird gets the worm. Or, in this case, the ice cream.
But on Sunday afternoon, there was ice cream aplenty at the DQ along Faribault’s Lyndale Avenue. And only two vehicles crept ahead of our van to the drive-up window. We would get our pre-spring equinox parfaits.
Just as we placed our treats in cup holders, the sun broke through a previously mostly cloudy day. We considered momentarily sitting outside at a DQ patio table to eat our treats. But the noisy location at the intersection of two busy state highways is not particularly enjoyable. So we headed to a park near our house, settling onto a picnic table next to the playground and soccer field.
Picnic tabletop message. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo February 2024)
Before I even sat, I noticed words printed upon the tabletop: You all are Beautiful. Now I don’t condone graffiti, but I do value positive and uplifting messages in public places. Those words tasted as sweet as my ice cream treat.
As I settled in, the sun warming my back, a slight breeze cooled the afternoon temp of 49 degrees. I reminded myself this was only February 25 and atypical weather in Minnesota. We have had an unusually warm and nearly snow-less winter here. Despite a bit of a chill, it was a beautiful day to be outdoors, under the blue sky.
River Bend offers a diverse landscape of woods and prairie. As a prairie native, I especially love the dried prairie grasses, like this singular stem photographed two years ago. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo March 2022)
Prior to picking up our parfaits, Randy and I hiked at River Bend Nature Center to offset the calories we were about to consume. Or so we told ourselves. Now here we were, spooning way too many calories and too much sodium into our bodies. But sometimes you gotta forget the 710-calorie count, the too much sugar and salt, and indulge. We did.
As Randy held his parfait cup with his winter-gloved hand, I braved the cold against my skin and then worked through an ice cream headache. The faint beat of drums and of music carried across the park, presumably from a gathering down and across the street. We’d watched party-goers arrive and I momentarily considered crashing the house party of these acquaintances.
But I had my Peanut Buster Parfait. I had blue sky. I had sunshine. I had Randy beside me. I had people to watch. Young families arrived to play on the playground and soccer field. Ball and bike. And smiles to match that message: You all are Beautiful.
Beautiful. That word fit the moment on a beautiful February Sunday afternoon in southern Minnesota when I tasted, savored, almost-spring.
The unshoveled sidewalk in front of my house stretches before me mid-morning Thursday. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo February 2024)
VALENTINE’S DAY BROUGHT our first measurable snowfall since Halloween in this unusual snow-drought winter here in Minnesota. I haven’t missed snow, especially after last winter’s exceptional record snowfall that caused even the hardiest of Minnesotans to wonder if the snow would ever end.
A winter with minimal snow makes life all-around easier. I doubt anyone living in our state would deny that. It’s easier to navigate without snow-packed roads and sidewalks. Randy’s commute to work on icy roads Thursday morning took 50 minutes rather than the typical 32. And no snow also means less work as in no snow to blow, blade or shovel.
I used my new Snow Trax for the first time Thursday morning. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo January 2024)
Thursday morning I had about three inches of snow to clear, not much really by Minnesota standards. I bundled up, starting by pulling long johns on under jeans. Then I layered a fleece-lined sweatshirt over a tee and flannel shirt topped by a lightweight jacket. I clamped Snow Trax onto snow boots. A stocking cap and mittens completed the ensemble.
I headed out the back door into the garage to grab the scoop shovel and the wide-bladed plastic snow shovel. I knew it would take both to effectively clear snow.
Snow layers my neighbor’s evergreens. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo February 2024)
It was a beautiful morning with a white landscape set against a backdrop bold blue sky. Snow outlined branches, layered evergreen boughs and seedheads. And the sun glittered diamonds across the snow. Anytime the sun shines in winter, I feel better. There’s something about sunshine that offsets even the coldest temperatures, the deepest snow, causing spirits to soar.
My distorted shadow on the snow-covered lawn. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo February 2024)
As I pushed and scooped the snow from the sidewalk and driveway, I felt my stomach, leg and back muscles tightening. I worked at a steady pace, not pushing myself. Soon I found myself overheated. I unzipped my jacket, then the sweatshirt. I felt like I was sweating, even with a temp below 20 degrees. Shoveling snow, even if only a few inches, is a work out.
Scrape. Click. Scrape. Click. Scrape. Click. Melding with the scrape of the shovel and the click of studs on my Snow Trax was the splash of tires on the wet roadway. In February, the sun is strong enough to melt remaining ice and snow from hard surfaces cleared of initial snow. I wanted to get the snow off the sidewalk and driveway so the sun could melt the thin layer of ice and snow I couldn’t completely shovel away.
Remnants of a floral bouquet I received three weeks ago lie atop the snow. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo February 2024)
I labored an hour shoveling snow, finishing on the south-facing patio. Randy grills year-round, so our patio always needs to be free of snow. As I pushed snow, I remembered the bouquet of mostly dead flowers I’d tossed out two days earlier. I pulled them from under the snow, laid them atop a patio table. The purples, pinks and greens contrasted against the virgin white snow, visually pleasing me.
On this Thursday, this day after Valentine’s Day, I didn’t mind the snow all that much. It felt, in a way, like the first snowfall of the season. Magical. Beautiful. And definitively more like Minnesota ought to appear in mid-February.
A winter scene photographed from Interstate 35 north of Faribault in 2019. Today’s landscape looks similar. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo 2019)
“THERE, I LOCKED the cold outside,” he said upon securing the kitchen door before bedtime. My husband possesses a unique sense of humor. And on a brutally cold January evening with wind chills plummeting into the minus 30-degree range, humor is welcome, perhaps even necessary.
Fresh snow blown by strong winds created blizzard conditions in rural areas of Minnesota over the weekend, similar to this photographed in Rice County in January 2020. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo January 2020)
This is the winter some Minnesotans have awaited in a winter that has proven primarily warm and snow-less up until now. Then winter roared into Minnesota last weekend with blizzard warnings in the western part of the state, winter weather advisories and warnings elsewhere, and a much-touted snow event that didn’t quite deliver in my area. Strong winds and sub-zero temps followed.
I use these shovels to clear snow from the driveway and sidewalk. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo December 2021)
I felt thankful for the minimal snowfall of some four inches since I am currently the resident snow remover, a task typically handled by Randy. He is on physical restrictions for five weeks following a surgical excision on his lower back. So, by default, I must shovel snow.
Randy blows snow with our aged snowblower following a 2019 winter storm. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo February 2019)
“I should have taught you how to use the snowblower,” Randy said as I slipped on a parka, boots, warm stocking cap and mittens (with hand warmers tucked inside), and wrapped a scarf across my face. I laughed. Our snowblower is massive, aged and not a machine I feel comfortable or capable of handling or maneuvering.
My warm winter boots. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
Admittedly, I whined a bit. Not because of the shoveling, but rather the biting cold and bitter wind. As I pushed and tossed snow from the driveway and then the sidewalk, I felt my thumbs numbing. Soon I pulled them next to my fingers, clenching my hands into fists around the hand warmers.
As I worked, I determined I best change my attitude. Right then and there I re-framed my thoughts into one of gratitude that I could physically do this work. Not everyone my age can. Not everyone can due to other limitations. And not everyone has a partner who encourages with humor, even if I don’t always laugh.
Weather warnings like this one have popped up on phones around Minnesota in recent days. This warning was sent to my phone in February 2021. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo February 2021)
Monday morning dawned bright with sun dogs, a temp of minus 10 degrees and a wind chill I didn’t even want to know. I wanted to stay snug inside my warm house. But Randy and I pushed ourselves to get out and drive across town to the Shattuck-St. Mary’s soccer dome for a morning walk. On the way there, Randy noted the crunch of our van tires, a phenomena that happens in subzero temps like this. It’s a sure indication that it’s dang cold outside as are those columns of light flanking the sun.
Pulling into the parking lot, I saw a lot of vehicles. After several days of really cold weather, cabin fever becomes a real feeling. The need to get out and move, just not outdoors, becomes a priority. We looped the soccer field six times, still wearing caps and gloves. It may be warm inside the dome, but not that warm.
I usually drink coffee in my Minnesota Moments mug. I freelanced for this magazine, no longer in publication. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo January 2018)
Back home, I made coffee, loaded laundry in the wash, did some online tasks and texted friends before moving on to writing. I took a break later to empty the washing machine and carry the basket of clothes from the basement to the living room where I’d strategically positioned drying racks in front of heat vents.
“You’re not going to hang the laundry outside?” Randy joked from his comfy spot on the couch.
“Ha ha, very funny,” I replied. Not even I, a diehard of hanging laundry on the line (sometimes even in January), would attempt to do so when the temp is seven degrees below zero. I would risk instant frostbite while the wet clothes froze stiff in my hands. The brilliant sun shining bright upon the snow could almost fool me into believing, though, that enough solar power shone to sun-dry laundry. Yet, the truth of winter in Minnesota—real winter—is this: A sunshine-filled day can be an illusion. It is the temperature, the wind chill, the crunch of tires on snow, the locking of the door against the cold, which reveals reality.
Flowers were covered to protect them from frost Monday morning at The River Church, Faribault. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo October 2023)
FROST LAYEREDWINDOWS of the neighbor’s 1970s Ford Gran Torino Monday morning. Frost also skimmed roofs, spotted lawns, nipped uncovered plants.
October 9 marked the first light frost in Faribault, a clear indication of winter’s impending arrival.
There was a time when I would have raced around the evening before a predicted frost, covering plants with old sheets. The desire ran strong to extend autumn by keeping outdoor flowers and other plants alive. No more. I no longer plant flowers in pots like I once did given the cost and work. Rather, I rely on primarily perennials to splash color and greenery into my yard.
Cyclamen. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo October 2023)
Only the oregano, rosemary and cyclamen, which I winter over, needed protection from Monday’s below freezing temps. So Randy carried those pots into the garage in the dark of Sunday evening.
Monday morning we arose to that first frost, turned on the furnace for the first time this fall, then slipped on our jackets, stocking caps and gloves and headed to Central Park for our morning walk. City employees were already there, shortly after 8 am, loading picnic tables and park benches onto a trailer and pick-up truck bed for winter storage.
Across the street, a lawn service company edged the sidewalk of grass at an apartment complex, making for easier snow removal come winter.
Across the street from the apartments, blankets and tarps draped flowers and plants at The River Church.
In the brilliant sunshine of this cold October morning, we walked away from and around Central Park, pausing to chat briefly with a Korean War veteran shoving his walker along the sidewalk. It’s part of his morning routine. He was an engineer in the war, tasked once with building a bridge in Korea. His brothers also served in various wars. All came home.
Home. On this day this veteran shared how he misses his lake home, how his children convinced him to move into cooperative senior living housing by the park. He shouldn’t have listened to his kids, he said, sadness tinging his voice.
Enjoying a summer concert at Central Park. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo July 2020)
Change. It can be tough. Randy and I continued on in the inevitable change of seasons. Past the band shell, where seniors and others once settled onto park benches, picnic tables and lawn chairs for summer concerts. And then back to the van for the drive home in the bright sunshine.
The backyard maple, still mostly green in early October. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo October 2023)
Back home I pulled laundry from the washing machine, carted the basket up the basement stairs, opened the door to the boldness of October, to the backyard maple still mostly green. It’s been an odd autumn of up and down temps which messed with fall colors.
I unwound the clothesline, then began clipping laundry on the line. Methodically. Placing heavier items like bluejeans in the full sun. Soon my fingertips felt the cold—from the cold morning and the dampness of the cold clothes.
And then, when I finished, I stepped inside the garage, carried out the pots of oregano, rosemary and cyclamen into the balminess of 40-degree temps.
The river bottom revealed, weeds and flowers growing where once water flowed in the Straight River at Faribault’s Teepee Tonka Park. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2023)
CAUTIOUSLY I SIDLED down the silty river bank, hand clasping Randy’s to steady myself. “This isn’t one of the smartest things we’ve done recently,” I said. I held no desire to slip on the unstable ground, to tumble and break a bone. I’ve twice done that. The doctor who recently diagnosed me with osteopenia likely would remind me of my bone density scan results and of my age, which is much closer to 70 than sixty.
But risk outweighed fear. I wanted to reach the dry river bottom, to stand upon the rocky bed, soles touching a place where water once flowed strong and steady.
In this summer of abnormally high temps and little rainfall, the water level in the Straight River, like so many other waterways in Minnesota, is low. The Minnesota Department of Natural Resources, which monitors river depths, terms the level of the Straight near Faribault as “scrapable.” Defined, that’s “so low that paddlers may have to get out of their watercraft to avoid rocks.” At the Straight River West Bridge Street location in Owatonna, the river level measures only slightly better at “low.” The Cannon River, into which the Straight flows, rates as “scrapable” in Morristown, near Faribault, in Northfield and in Welch.
The effects of the ongoing statewide drought are evident. My county of Rice, like 39 percent of Minnesota, is in a severe drought. And much of southeastern Minnesota, including more than half of Steele County to the south through which the Straight River twists and turns, is in an extreme drought.
Stagnant water ponds near the bridge leading into Teepee Tonka Park with the viaduct in the distance. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2023)
It’s no wonder that on this afternoon in mid-September, I can walk upon a rocky river bottom where water once flowed, even flooded this spring into Teepee Tonka Park near Faribault’s historic viaduct. Earlier this summer, a Faribault teen discovered a cephalopod fossil in an area of a local river typically under water. He refused to identify the specific waterway, but I guessed, perhaps incorrectly, that it was the Straight.
A fossil along a trail near the Straight River overlook in Faribault’s River Bend Nature Center, which connects to Teepee Tonka Park. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
That fossil discovery was also part of my reason for descending the river bank near the east-side Faribault park entrance. I had great uncles who were rock hounds, inspiring in me a childhood fascination with agates and shells and interesting finds revealed only at ground level. That’s carried through into adulthood.
Wildflowers bend toward the narrowed river of exposed river bottom and rocks. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2023)
But on this day I found nothing of interest, only weeds and wildflowers sprouting between stones aside the drought-narrowed river. Correction: I spotted a bra atop a rock, just out of reach in the river, and wondered about the story behind that.
Outdoor enthusiasts intending to paddle the Straight or Cannon rivers now would assuredly have their own disappointing stories to tell about abandoned plans. I observed ankle deep water in parts of the Straight, making water recreation impossible, any recreational outings scrapable.
Around this bend in the river, to the right, the water deepens a bit and flows freely. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2023)
Only a pair of hunting dogs let loose by their owner in Teepee Tonka Park enjoyed the low river level on the day I eased down the river bank. They scrambled down the bank, surefooted, racing along river’s edge, shallow water splashing. Then back up they dashed, sprinting along the grassy bank before returning to the river. I delighted in their antics while simultaneously concerned they might come near me. I never quite trust strange dogs not under the control of their owner. A large muddy-pawed dog once jumped on me while I walked at a city park.
Mud. We’ve seen little of that in most parts of Minnesota this summer. There are exceptions, of course, including flash floods in Duluth on Monday, not something any of us want. Light rain fell in Faribault early on this week, enough to dampen the pavement. But I yearn to hear the steady thrum of rain upon the earth. Rain that will ease this drought, replenish our rivers, revive our waterways, restore the land.
Faribo Frosty’s smile has turned to a frown. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo April 2023)
FARIBO FROSTY ISN’T RUNNING away with promises to return next winter. Instead, he’s melting in place, his once broad smile replaced by a frown.
But Faribault’s ginormous snowman, crafted by the Andy Hoisington family, may be the only one saddened by the 50 and 60-degree temps forecast for southern Minnesota beginning on Friday. I’m smiling and I expect many others are, too. It’s been an incredibly snowy winter with our seasonal snowfall total in the top three for Minnesota. This has been a forever winter.
In late February, Faribo Frosty was still smiling and making so many people smile. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo February 2023)
And even though it saddens me to see rotund, 17-foot tall Faribo Frosty slimming down and eventually melting into a puddle, I expect he really will be back. The Hoisingtons have built and maintained an over-sized snowman for 18 years, their gift to the community and a reason to smile.
Snow and blowing snow defined areas of Minnesota earlier this week. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo January 2020 used for illustration only)
I am smiling wide these days as the snow pack dwindles, revealing dormant grass. Everywhere I look, lawns are visible. Yes, snow still covers shaded areas and snow piles remain. But mostly, it’s beginning to look like spring here, which if you go by the calendar, it is. Tell that to the good Minnesotans who found themselves in yet another blizzard earlier this week.
Along the foundation on the south side of my house, tulips poked through decaying leaves even as snow fell. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo March 2019)
Here in southern Minnesota, rain, rather than snow, fell. Temps, though, stubbornly continue in the 30s with a raw wind. So winter coats are still the dress code of the day.
These tulips, a gift from blogger friend Paula (a native Minnesotan) in the Netherlands, popped color into my life in 2020. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo May 2020)
But winter is loosening its hold under pressure from the sun. Tulips and other spring perennials are popping through the soil in my yard. A few more weeks and they will blaze bold hues. And if I rooted around, I expect I would find crocuses emerging under a layer of leaf mulch.
(Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo used for illustration only)
Another sure sign of spring are spring openers for the Minnesota Twins and the St. Paul Saints. The major and minor league baseball teams rescheduled their openers this week because of weather. No one really wants to sit in a stadium and watch baseball in 30-degree temps coupled with strong winds. But by the time the ball hits the glove late this afternoon (Saints) and on Friday (Twins), conditions should be comfortable, if not balmy by early April in Minnesota standards.
Crocuses emerge from leaf mulch. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo March 2021)
So, yes, I think we’ve turned the corner. Faribo Frosty will need to accept that and graciously exit while promising to return again some day…long after the crocuses are done blooming.
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