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Great northern news

Formerly our neck of the woods
​starring the unique people, businesses and entertainment in the lakes area and beyond

The Joys of a Corn-Fed Class Reunion

3/27/2017

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​By Jim Barker and his twin, Ron Barker

    Many will testify, along with a rich domain of social scientists, that  "coming of age" in a small cohesive agrarian community (Midwest and Northern Midwest harvesting the highest per capita electoral vote), presents boundless opportunities for personal growth and civic participation.  John Deere, Minneapolis Moline, and Big Smith as "Gibraltor icons,” small towns with a homogenous economy offer fertile ground for maximum personal inclusion and strong group and cultural identity. These demographics serve to foster solid values and self-reliance. Heck, even "real farmers and outdoor folk" might eat rutabagas and quiche!
    As transplants from Oregon, twin brother Ron and I discovered our introduction to Iowa Jr. High and High School to be a "Cossack" mix of ruggedness and friendliness. From tackle football (co-ed) on snowy frozen playgrounds, to group joy and caramel apples at class academic and extracurricular activities, school became a complete experience! Numerically, our class stood at about 160 with minimal influx or outflux in a town of twelve thousand population. We all knew each other for “better or worse,” and all were beholden to the same rules and norms in our academic environment.
    Our class was loosely stratified into several categories. Like a classic Clint Eastwood Western, there were the “Super Elite,” the “Good,” the “Regulars,” and the "Socially Challenged." An additional category was the "College Prep" group, where the precocious, and often socially and physically clumsy flourished, and helped ensure the local library shelves were dust-free!  A unique feature in our town was the presence of the VA government hospital. This offered a group of us from family backgrounds of extensive higher education with the expectation we would follow that tradition.
Following graduation, some of us were to stray from Wonder Bread and local fence rows, and those beautiful beckoning perennial verdant waving fields of corn --to seek adventure and service on a national front and distant shores. The "homecoming lure" was deeply implanted and powerful, so in subsequent years the return to class reunions was inevitable!
Being faithful and supportive attendees to several reunions, certain themes and experiences have stood out. Here are a few of them.
 
Name Tags May Be Required
It was our first reunion; it was a Sunday picnic as my girlfriend Helga from Bavaria, Germany and I, bringing two jugs of apple cider strode up to my classmates.  As my appearance was nature-bleached long wavy hair like a San Francisco "flower child,"  I could perceive they looked confused, so politely announced my name. Then stunned silence erupted into hand-pumping fellowship. Presently, I found myself talking with a very pleasant classmate that I frankly couldn't identify. Finally, eureka!  Those eyes imbedded in a visage now the size of a Hoosier pumpkin was Henry! Other classmates were recognizable, however many had undergone horizontal expansion!


Saturday Night Calories
The banquet was held at a converted sale barn. If osmosis works, one could almost detect some lingering fragrance and history of the prior inhabitants! We were served a voluminous meal. Besides the iconic corn, 3/4 of a chicken appeared on our plates. I murmured to Ron, as I scouted for extra napkins, "this is enough to last us a week!"  That meal, with most talking and moving progressively slower, may have at least satisfied the appetite of any testy Norseman!


The Ultimate Accolade
It was the night before the 10 Year Class Reunion. I had put on my training shoes and was enjoying a leisurely and deja 'vu run through the streets of my old hometown. In time, I was joined by a very friendly and accomplished runner, who after a mile stated he was visiting from Ohio. He then asked me what high school I ran for.. Someone, please, say the "Time Machine" is true!!


The Ugly Duckling Is Real:
During her high school years Naomi was quite comely and rather ungainly, somewhat reserved, but a very sweet person. Her Dutch heritage seemed to be accented in her pallid and anorexic appearance. However, in 15th Reunion, this beautiful and cultured creature appeared, to everyone's delight. Her wardrobe was even captivating. Talk and wonderment occurred long after she left, mainly among the ladies of course!!


Reconciliation and Restored Ego:
Years hence, there was a dance for our 7th Grade held in the Junior High Gymnasium. The guys and gals were nervously seated on those black folding chairs  on separate sides of the dance floor. as the music picked up, my confidence grew, as my wavy hair looked right and Dad had presented the surprise of a new sport coat. After a few slow dances, which did not require 'Fred Astaire' finesse, I spied Ruby looking more bashful and cuter than ever, adorned in a beautiful dark blue dress. I walked up and asked her for a dance. She then giggled, and replied "no."  Stunned, I smiled and moved away. (Actually, I considered vainly I was doing her a favor to dance together). Around the 20th Reunion, it was great to see Ruby as a strong class event facilitator. I couldn't hold back while we were sharing Mexican food at the only such restaurant in town with class leaders. "Do you remember the 7th Grade Dance? And what was it about your refusing to dance with me that exciting evening?”  She religiously confessed the reality:  " I came to the dance to be with my friends, but since I am a Seventh Day Adventist, I am not allowed to dance."  So I retorted in mirth, and nearby friends likewise; "forty years of rejection now completely healed!" We hugged, and went on to higher subjects!


Recall of Crushes
Upon review of high school teachers, some of us came to the admission that we tended to blush and stammer around a few certain teachers, and tended to have attention lapses while in impossible fantasies about those lovely creatures! As a senior, I walked a specific route returning home from school. This junior named Paula had a magic quality and design, and would emit the sweetest 'hello' as we passed. Somehow, my system got into meltdown, as each time we passed, and the best I could muster was a muted "hi." I felt to be a living example of the English duo, Peter and Gordon, with their hit song, "I get so shaky and can't hold my feet, every time my baby passes by."  If these feminine mystics only knew the planets they moved!


Enduring Companionship
At the 25 Year Reunion,  one very likeable classmate who was known to miss more answers on tests than most, proudly introduced her husband at the main banquet: "He's all ah got, but ah think all keep him after all,"  while leading him around by the neck like a prize bull at the Iowa State Fair. As the years tumble forward, it is observed that many of the classmates with their long-term marriages seem to look, talk and ambulate the same. As Twin Ron concludes:  "The years seem to make for similarities and differences among classmates in general. There is a downhome friendliness to a Midwest gathering."


Universal Truths
Psychologists say the core personality steadfastly remains the same through the years. Our class exemplified that point--the hearty laughers still bellowed out a broadside or ten, the complainers still complained, and the moody bluers were still meandering in melancholia.  "The humanness of it all in our small hometown makes it all the more colorful and delightful."


A Sage Summary: Ten Reassuring Commandments for Mitigating Midwest Reunion Jitters

* Not necessary to have an extra pail of university degrees.
* Not necessary to get a new job.
* Not necessary to drop that extra tonnage.
* Not necessary to have a facelift or radical new hairstyle.
* Not necessary to acquire companionship (if single) that rivals Kim Kardashian or George Clooney. (A facsimilie of Elvira or Mickey Rooney will suffice!)
* Not necessary to arrive at the main banquet in a limo from a converted hearse.
* Not necessary to show up with a pot-bellied bullfrog or gay gecko!
* Not necessary to display a real estate dossier of more condos on Kodiak Island.

* Just the transparent authentic you is good enough.
* We are valued for who we are.

 Yours,
 Jim and Ron Barker
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So You Think You're a Local in the Northwoods?

3/20/2017

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By John Wetrosky
Many have moved to the North Country in the past decade or two. They seek the calm, silent woods, the sound of waves gently lapping at a rocky shoreline, the sound of a loon echoing across a pristine lake. They come here from all parts of the country, and some even come from lands across the ocean. They’re all seeking that idyllic place where they can live unburdened by the stress of the big city or the pressure of high paying corporate jobs. They come here to the North Country.

After a time, these folks begin to imagine that they are a part of the fabric of their environment. That would be wrong. They must first prove themselves to be worthy of being called a "local." Some of them never achieve that goal. Some of them become somewhat enmeshed in the local system. Some of them are embraced. Some of them flounder.

I moved to the North Country at the early age of twenty-two. I was bred and born on the plains of western Iowa. Cornfields and hay fields were my playpens. The wildest wildlife I experienced in those years was a rogue cow that tried to escape through a barn's window. Most wild critters in that part of the country had been poisoned or shot long before I came on the scene.

Moving to northern Minnesota was a change of gears. We moved on March 1, the day that most people moved if they had sold the farm the previous year. Our family hired a local livestock trucker to haul our belongings up to our new abode on Pelican Lake. Snow lay three feet deep in the driveway when we pulled in to unload. At first glance, it was beautiful. That was until we toted the piano off the truck, through the three foot deep snowdrifts and into the house. That night the temp dropped to minus forty degrees. My Dad frostbit his ears hauling wood into the cook stove. He was not yet a local.

I learned then that it takes a certain type of character to live and like it in the North Country. And to be considered a true "local" by the existing residents, the following goals must be attained.

1. Regardless of how low the thermometer gets, you make it into town for coffee. It matters not if your car tires are flat on one side, if your car battery needs a "jump" or if your garage door is welded to the floor with ice, you get into town. Your arrival at the coffee shop shows you can "make it."

2. To be considered a "local" you never run out of wood for the furnace. Only those with bad planning need to restore their woodpile in the middle of February. Not having enough wood means you didn't plan correctly and when you run out you are thought of as not knowing how to survive. Most northern people in the past had woodpiles larger than their house. That was before dual fuel, but having enough wood would qualify you in some cases to be considered a "local."

3. North Country "locals" know the hot fishing spots but never admit they've even had a nibble. Those who blab out where they caught a bunch of sunfish or crappies are looked on with disdain. The locals know that once a spot is divulged, you will no longer fish alone. It's like bees to honey. If you are to be considered a true "local", keep your secret honey holes to yourself or pay the price.

4. The same rule above pertains to those hunting blueberries or morel mushrooms or wild cranberries. Even the best of friends will send you on a wild goose chase to protect their cache. They will lie to you and I have proof. A friend of mine, who has since passed this life, sent me seven miles east to a cranberry bog when he went seven miles west to a cranberry bog. I returned with a dozen berries rattling in the bottom of my five gallon bucket while he returned with two five gallon buckets full of the prize. Enough said about friendship. But, I didn't complain. I knew that was part of being considered a "local."

5. My wife is one of the few people I know who was actually born here. She has attained her "local" status not by anything she has done, but just for the fact that she entered the world here. People confide in her things they would never confide in me because she is a part of the original fabric. I'm but a dangling thread that may be lopped off at any time. I have accepted my fate in that respect.

6. If you now live in Minnesota and want to be considered a local, you are going to be judged if you can list at least three songs written by Bob Dylan. You know, the Nobel Prize winner for literature? He was born in Minnesota and you get extra points for knowing he was born in Duluth, but moved to Hibbing. Bob is a true local, although some in the Gopher State tend to ignore this fact.

6. Taking on the cape of North Country "local-ism" takes time. You must drink countless cups of coffee, attend uncountable basketball games, eat lutefisk and learn to like it, buy your firewood from your neighbor, root for the Vikings no matter how painful that is, shoot and dress out a deer yourself, pound down at least one shallow well point and trap enough beaver to make a full length coat. Do those things and you may at some time be thought of as a North Country “local.”

I don't know if I'll ever be considered a true North Country "local" even though I've done most of the things mentioned previously over my 40 year stint. But, I'll tell you that I've learned to appreciate the tough, do-it-yourself, can-do attitudes of those who have crossed my path here where the North Star sits directly overhead.

So, pile your wood high, check your beaver traps, hide your blueberry patch and eat your lutefisk. You could have a chance at some far off time to be considered a real Minnesota "local." Just keep in mind that one other way thought to qualify is to have at least two people buried in the local cemetery.

Life as a "local" is not an easy path.
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Chris Wohler: The Sharpest Tool in the Shed!

3/13/2017

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​By Kate Perkins
Editor

Inside Chris Wohlers’ Breezy Point shop are more than 30 different grinders used for sharpening just about any kind of blade- from saw blades for cabinet shops, to household scissors, to restaurant chefs’ cooking knives.

“It’s easier to count the things I don’t sharpen,” Wohlers said. He’s the owner of Chris’s Ideal Sharpening. He jokes that about the only thing he won’t sharpen is a disposable razor. Ever heard of a sickle bar mower? Ideal Sharpening  has a device for sharpening their blades. The business sharpens router bits, chainsaw chains, drill bits, scissors, lawnmower blades, ice auger blades, and, more than anything else, carbide saw blades.

He estimates that in the last 8.5 years that he’s been full-time in the sharpening business, Ideal Sharpening has sharpened more than 10,000 carbide saw blades. While diamond is the hardest natural substance on Earth, carbide comes in a close second. It’s what does the cutting on carbide saw blades. Over time, though, the carbide tips become dull, or sometimes chip or break. Rather than buying a whole new blade, which can cost well over $100, commercial companies of all kinds turn to Ideal Sharpening.

Ideal Sharpening uses its machinery to replace broken tips and sharpen each one so the blade is back to its maximum potential. The company welds new tips onto the blade, and then uses machinery to ensure that the blade is as close to perfectly round as possible. In fact, Wohlers grinds each tip to within two to three thousandths of an inch of each other. To put that into perspective, a sheet of paper is four thousandths of an inch thick. A special gauge helps him ensure accuracy. He then sharpens each carbide tip with a grinding disk, which uses tiny industrial diamonds to achieve a razor edge.

Every Tuesday, Ideal Sharpening hits the road on a 200-mile route around the area, making more than 40 stops at clients. Ideal Sharpening drops off sharpened blades, which are dipped in plastic to protect the edges, and picks up blades to be sharpened, which are fastened to wood carrying boards for safe handling. Wohlers and Ideal Sharpening are the go-to sharpener in a radius of at least 30 miles of Breezy Point.

Before he bought his sharpening business, Wohlers was a certified contractor for 20 years. Back in high school, Wohlers, his brother and their friends added four advanced placement shop classes to the curriculum, just so they could get more time in the school’s shop.

He attended votech on machine trades and has been building and fixing ever since. After years as a contractor, Wholers changed directions in his career as the economy took a downturn, and he’s found it’s been a good fit. He enjoys working in his wood-heated Breezy Point shop, and enjoys the diversity of the work he does. Each job requires different tools and a different set of skills and experience. Wohlers never knows what he’ll pick up week to week, or who will come to his door.

While restaurant chefs are often picky about their knives, Wohlers has found that if a chef will let Ideal Sharpening sharpen one knife, he’s soon being asked to sharpen the entire set. He prides himself on his ability to put a factory edge blade back on a knife.

Some of the equipment in the Ideal Sharpening shop is so unique that the parts aren’t made anymore. But, because those tools have served him so well, Wohlers has been able to make or find parts in the Ideal Sharpening shop to keep his equipment running its best. He’s had special tools and parts made at local manufacturers so that he can achieve better sharpening results on a wider variety of items.

In addition to sharpening blades, Ideal Sharpening also sells chainsaw chains and repairs small engines, such as chainsaws, lawn mowers, or other small household machines.

Whether it’s drill bits, router bits, hand held saws, mower blades, axes, knives, paper cutters, scissors, saw blades, rotary mowers, joiner blades, planer blades, Forstner bits, or, well, you get the idea, Ideal Sharpening is the go-to. Many of Ideal Sharpening’s customers are cabinetmakers or woodworkers, so some might say that customers come out of the woodwork. Others might say that Ideal Sharpening splits hairs to get the sharpest cutting edge possible- so that if they want to, customers can split hairs.

Chris’s Ideal Sharpening can be reached at 218-562-4107.

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The Local 218 Plans to Enhance Brainerd’s Culinary Scene

3/6/2017

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Picture
By Chris Haugene

With a culinary career that reaches back across three decades, Chef PJ Severson has brought his experience, training and expertise to plant some roots in northeast Brainerd. This neighborhood is one of the oldest in town, and it grew up around the railroad. You’d be hard pressed to find any longtime locals that didn’t have a connection to the railyard at some point in time. Over the years a slow change has drifted across northeast, however. Local retailers have succumbed to larger businesses bringing in dozens of jobs, and a local school has been converted into a small business emporium after a new school facility opened in Baxter. Small shifts like these have altered the surface-area of the neighborhood while the psyche has remained blue-collared over the years, and Severson connects the two quite well. The Local is both paying homage to the earthy working-class roots of the neighborhood while at the same time elevating the typical northeast dining experience without pretension.
As you walk in, the ambiance of this new restaurant follows Severson’s professional past and conjures the industrial east coast, where he was trained at L’Academie de Cuisine. While he studied he worked at La Miche, in Bethesda, Maryland. Black and white photos adorn the walls paying homage to everything from the building’s past as a grocer; ‘50s and ‘60s era pics of old downtown Brainerd; and a beautiful picture of his parents on their wedding day, as well as an old friend that had recently passed away: Riley, the family dog.
This new restaurant’s decor also summons subtle psychic winks at the rust-belt’s industrial city-scape, invoking Severson’s experiences in Detroit working at The Whitney. The Whitney, a late nineteenth century mansion turned fine dining standard, was where Severson honed his craft out of culinary school, expanding his real-world expertise.
The inflections of the restaurant’s experiential foundation are rife with subtle comfort and warmth, enveloping you as you sit and absorb your surroundings. Soft illumination replaces bright intrusive lighting of restaurants of the past, opening a laid-back atmosphere which details another haunt of the owner’s previous experience from when he worked in southern California. Rainwaters restaurant, regarded among the city’s business elite as the place to go for that special business meeting, was yet another fine dining lens from his experience that could be connected to his new space. Not every nuance reveals itself immediately, however. Like a good book or an encapsulating painting, it needs to be experienced more than once to harness the full understanding. This is not the case, however, with the immaculate bathrooms, but those you’ll have to see for yourself.  
While beckoning a southern Californian insouciance with a rustic industrial edge, Severson built his restaurant to fit the vision of a “Home Town Stomping Ground” – his tagline for the space. At the same time, he introduces a couple of menu items that could bring the locals a bit out of their comfort zone – that some would say has turned into more of a rut on the Brainerd culinary scene.
“Being a restaurateur has been a lifelong goal for me,” said Severson. “I am so very fortunate to have a shot at it. Not many people get to touch their dream. This is mine, and I am treating it with respect every single day. There will be a lot to come from The Local menu, hopefully a patio, and always the best food in town. I would like to take a part in changing the face of Brainerd’s food scene and bring it up to speed with the culinary trends of the world.”
While comfortable, calm and inviting may be the unspoken mantra emanating from the physical experience, the menu brings you in even closer to the plate and his vision for deeply flavored classics and a couple dishes that gently move you from the same old items that have been plaguing other local menus for years.
The classics: The local burger, buffalo chicken sandwich, and French dip may seem like classics, and they most certainly are, but they are created from the best local ingredients that make them stand strong against any in the area. Other classics include the Reuben, chicken wings and a spinach artichoke dip that all outshine the greasy spoons of old. These items do two things: They remember, and they envision. They bring you back to an experience from before, while their quality makes you look forward to the possibilities for the future of the food scene in the Brainerd Lakes Area that Severson is creating in real time.
On the other side of the coin, his menu does bring in selections that gently push the ways of old into a new time, but in a very approachable way. No foams or mullet roe here. The more forward looking items also play two ways. The adult grilled cheese with cheddar, swiss, tomato, and basil harkens back with a new style bravado. The seafood po’ boy and the pasta carbonara join the same category with the scallops and seared tuna as items found on menus of the past but treated in such a way as to invoke the future through small flavorful changes. These are just a few of the gems you’ll find on the food menu at The Local, while the bar anchors the center of the room in its place with favorites of old and new offerings such as a local brew, a roundhouse porter, and some specialty cocktails such as the blue warrior, an homage to Severson’s days on the local football team, and a family cocktail called The Golden Gopher.   
As with any new venture there will be pangs of growth as well as a time of adjustment while the inevitable bugs are worked from a system with several moving parts. His menu has been molded to have the plates at the table at the perfect times. A lot of items take a similar time to create and thus find themselves at the table at the right temperature. This is no easy task when it comes to prep-time, cook time, and the server staff’s time from taking food orders, placing them, taking drink orders, placing them, and making sure everything comes together at the table at the right time, to the correct people - all of it done in a matter of minutes. It has been described as a juggling match of sorts, but Severson has the equation dead to rights. He’s got everything in place and timed to a point at which the experience is more akin to a dance than a math equation. Not every step is perfect all the time, and sometimes toes get stepped on during a dance, but when it’s busy and things come together the place hits on all cylinders.
Sitting down to a nice meal in a relaxing establishment is something we have come to mostly ignore, if not take for granted in our collective past. However, with the rise of the culinary world hitting television and now exploding onto the internet, a shift in knowledge and a shift in expectation has been more the rule than the exception. In a complicated business with ever expanding ideals surrounding the product, the plate, and the space, we are seeing more trends toward the simple ingredient taking the lead and the Local brings it home.
You might come in a stranger, but the feeling you get when pulling out of the parking lot will leave you feeling like a Local.
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Legend of the Skull

2/27/2017

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​By Jerry Mevissen
Author, That Reminds Me
    Pre-historic Bison Remains Found in U.S. 71 Extension- Menahga Messenger headline, July 1950
    A portion of a human skull was found by persons canoeing on the Crow Wing River near Cottingham Park. They reported their discovery to the Sheriff’s Department, and deputies recovered the remains. Test results determined that the skull was between 600 and 700 years old. - Sebeka Menahga Review Messenger, September 2002
    Before the sun opened, the sky was a rubble of clouds the color of summer flowers and autumn maples. A crow announced the birth of day. Young coyotes yelped from faraway woods. Another pack answered. Then it was quiet, still.
    Dew-dampened grass quieted a crouching band of hunters. They advanced, one by one, in an arc, each carrying two sapling poles. On the end of the poles, a thong held brilliant feathers and scraps of fur. The hunting party was large – all the men of the village.
    Within the arc of hunters, a bull buffalo stood sleeping, his shaggy head drooping to the ground, his horns catching the glint of early morning sun. Cows and calves lay sleeping. The hunting party arced from a creek bed to encircle the sleeping herd. When the arc was complete, the lead hunter Big Bear sprang from the grass. All the hunters stood, waving their poles, running toward the herd, whooping, shrieking, chanting. The buffalo stumbled and scrambled away from the encircling hunters into the creek bed. The mud slowed their advance. The bull, biggest and heaviest, propelled by his speed lunged forward and churned the mud in an attempt to rise. A cow followed. Her calf, lighter and buoyed by clumps of cattails, advanced toward the stream, tripped, and lay tangled and trembling.
    The hunters charged the struggling prey, dropped their poles, and brandished flint lances and knives. Big Bear hopped, hummock to hummock, to the bull, straddled him, and drove a knife into his neck.
The bull bolted and bucked, twisting his massive head in a frenzied arc. He forced a front leg forward, kicked with the rear. Big Bear felt the bull’s struggle for survival, felt the bull’s hot muscled body through his leggings, smelled his musky sweat. He grabbed a massive horn in one hand and forced the knife deeper, deeper. His hand was red with the heady intoxicating odor of blood. The bull bucked with his last burst of strength, then lowered his head and trembled his final quakes.
Big Bear twisted the bull’s head and met his dying gaze. He inhaled the final snorts of hot breath, then lay silent, still astraddle the bull. He pulled the bloodied knife from the bull’s neck, raised his bloodied arms and hands, and released the bull’s spirit into the morning sky.
Calves scrambled toward the water and belly-crawled through reeds. Younger hunters followed, hopping from earth clod to clod. Young Bear Paw reached a calf, jumped on his back, and brought him to his belly in mud. Bear Paw arced his knife as his father had instructed and felt the calf surrender. He lifted the calf’s head out of muck as it struggled and gasped, then crawled forward until his head was over the dying animal’s nostrils to breathe its dying breath.
Butchering was quiet and efficient. Hunters dragged the buffaloes from mud to dry ground, skinned and gutted them, and divided the carcasses into transportable-sized chunks. Other men laced the sapling poles together into travois. The hides and flesh were divided among the hunters, and the horns and a shock of hair were cut from the skulls. By the time the sun was high, the hunters formed a procession home, along the creek bed to where it joined the Cat River and along the river to where the Cat joined the larger river known as Raven’s Wing.
Bear Paw and his father assembled a harness of dried buffalo skins, knotted it to the travois, and slipped the straps over their shoulders. One moon and another sun would appear before they returned to the village. They pulled as equals, in lock step, over the path of flattened reeds and grass toward the woods where the sun rose. The procession of hunters was quiet. Their steps, quick and strong; their eyes rotated from the path ahead to the perilous woods. They plodded along the creek bed, the sun at their backs until they arrived at a site where they would camp for the night.
The hunting party set up camp in a circle, carcasses in the center. Renegade tribes of stragglers who had been ousted from their villages prowled the area and wreaked revenge by ambushing a lone hunter and robbing him of his game, or kidnapping a young berry picker who strayed beyond her mother’s view.
When the hunters had built a fire near the heap of carcasses, they impaled strips of buffalo meat on sharpened sticks and roasted them in the flames. While they ate, they talked in low monotones about the leap onto the mired buffalo’s back, the deftness of the swing of the knife, the labored final breath as the spirit escaped the body.
After they ate, the men huddled by the fire in the clear cold night. They filled their pipes with tobacco and smoked. Bear Paw sat behind his father, behind the ring of senior hunters. Big Bear motioned him into the circle and handed him the pipe. Trails of sparks spiraled up to the sky and returned to earth in the form of snowflakes.
In the morning, the ground was white. When Bear Paw peered from under his sleeping robe, other young men fed the fire. The party ate scraps from last night’s meal and broke camp for the final day’s trek to the village. The hunting party became a winding ribbon of men and travois, skirting the Cat River banks. Snow fell and covered the sun. Wind blew from the direction of the setting sun and propelled them toward the village.
When the sun was at its highest point, they stopped. Bear Paw retrieved a handful of dried cranberries from a bag tied to his leggings. He scooped drinking water from the river in a trough of birch bark. The wind blew colder, and ice formed along the shore. From upstream, scattered floes of ice scraped against the shore like flint chipping against flint.
When the sun lowered behind them, they trudged through banks of fresh snow. At intervals, the leaders of the procession would step to the side and pass the chore of breaking fresh snow to the second travois. The party would be at the mouth of the Cat River before the sun disappeared behind the pines. The wind roared and snow blew in circles. The village was a short trek ahead, where the river turned and flowed toward the Bright Star, then rounded a bend and flowed toward the Big River.
Big Bear and Bear Paw finished their rotation at the head of the procession and rested beneath an uprooted pine. The roots lifted the earth and created a shelter for small animals. Fresh rabbit tracks dotted the snow. Bear Paw thought of catching a rabbit and presenting the soft hide to his betrothed as a wedding gift. He told his plan to his father who assented. The profusion of rabbit tracks promised a quick and easy catch. Bear Paw fashioned a snare from strings of raw hide, and placed it where the tracks disappeared in the roots. He climbed atop the root clump and waited.
The hunting party continued the final leg of the trek without them, toward the smell of smoke from the huts and the riverside clearing. Mothers and children would welcome the hunting party. Tonight the aroma of fresh buffalo roasting in the huts would permeate the village. Heroic legends would be created and told for generations – the slaughter of the bull, the young buck’s first kill. Women would unwrap the bulky hides and marvel at the size and warmth they would provide.
Bear Paw and his father waited at the uplifted root. The wind blew and daylight escaped the sky. Big Bear smoked his pipe and felt his son’s eagerness to present a gift to his bride – tanned rabbit skin, large enough to sew for mittens or slippers. The snow dampened all sound except the wind. Bear Paw concentrated on the snare and cocked his arm, awaiting the victim.
A sharp rock whistled over Big Bear and struck Bear Paw on the brow. He fell toward his father and collapsed on the fresh snow. Blood gushed from the wound and dyed the snow a brilliant red, even in fading light. Big Bear lifted his son’s shoulders and dragged him between two fallen logs. A party of three renegades, distracted by the cache of buffalo meat and folded hide bound to the travois, quarreled over the spoils. Big Bear carried his son from the cove of logs toward the river. Snow fell in clumps and softened the ridges of his footprints.
Big Bear knew the custom of renegade bands scalping their victims and brandishing the spoils to gain stature. He knew he could not outfight three men. He knew his son’s body was relaxed and lifeless. He crept blindly through the snow, along the river in the direction of the village. He reached a point on the shore that abutted an island and stepped into the icy water. On the island, he lowered his son’s body in the reeds and righted the broken cattails in his path.
The snow fell. No moon shone. Big Bear heard a dry branch snap. The renegade band had begun the search for their victim. Big Bear could escape their attention and return to the village alone, but he couldn’t carry his lifeless son. He heard another twig snap further down the bank. The renegades were circling and returning.
Big Bear leaned over his son, inhaled his spirit and breathed his blessing into the lifeless body. He dragged his son to open water on the far side of the island and eased him into the stream. The body hesitated, then began a slow float away, gliding with ice floes. Before it disappeared, it was covered with snow, at one with the river making its way to the fast current, past the village where the river turns toward the Bright Star, past the bend, flowing, forever flowing to his grave.

This essay is one of many appearing in Mevissen’s latest book, That Reminds Me, available at www.jerrymevissen.com.
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Wandering Waxwings

2/20/2017

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By Judd Brink 
​Owner of MN Backyard Birds



Minnesota has two waxwing species: the Cedar Waxwing (Bombcyilla cedroum) and Bohemian Waxwing (Bombcyilla garrulous). Both are often found feasting on winter fruits such as mountain ash and flowering crabapple in the Lakes Area. In some years huge flocks of these birds cover fruiting trees by the hundreds or even thousands, stripping the tree of its fruits. For many bird watchers or photographers it’s quite an impressive sight to observe. At first glance it would appear that their wings were dipped in wax, as the name implies.


The Cedar Waxwing is the most common and can be found year-round, compared to the larger Bohemian Waxwing, which is only a winter visitor to the state. The Cedar Waxwing is approximately 7.5” in size with light brown back and chest with a light wash of yellow on the belly becoming white under the tail. A few field marks to look for include a crest atop the head, yellow tips on the tail, black facial mask and the red wax like beads on the wings.


Cedar Waxwings nest late in the season to take advantage of available fruits to feed their young. They prefer to nest near water in wooded or orchard like habitats, and are also very fond of feeding on the fruits of red cedar (Juniperus virginiana) even though it’s not a true fruit but more like a cone. This is fitting to their common name (Cedar Waxwing), and sometimes the birds are just referred to as “Cedars.” Both species are very erratic in their movements as they can be abundant one year to nonexistent the next year. The Cedar Waxwing is often replaced in the north by Bohemian Waxwings come winter.


The Bohemian Waxwing is only found during the winter season, as it is a very nomadic species in search of fruit. First reports in the state often come in December from the Grand Marais area along the North Shore where Mountain Ash is present. In a year when fruit is abundant, birds can number in the hundreds and will pick a tree clean in very short time before moving on to another area. They seem to be “tame” and approachable as they gorge themselves on fruit, paying little attention to anything else. As the fruit goes through the frost and thaw process the fruits become fermented producing alcohol which causes the birds to fly a little awkward.


The Bohemian Waxwing is slightly larger at approximately 8.5” in size, appearing darker in color. Other features are very similar to the Cedar Waxwing. There are two distinct features that will quickly identify the waxwings from each other: the Bohemian has rusty undertail coverts and is more colorful when looking at the “waxy” wing tips. Occasionally they can be found together feeding in the same fruit tree but the differences can be noticeable at close range. Their feeding behaviors are also very similar as they tend to hang or cling to the fruit cluster of the Mountain Ash sometimes going upside down.


The breeding rage for the Bohemian Waxwing extends up to Alaska and Northern Canada. Their preferred habitat is associated with boreal forests of Spruce and Tamarac. Nesting habits also closely resemble the Cedar Waxwing.


Look for fruiting trees like Mountain Ash and flowering Crabapples near parks, schools, cemeteries, hospitals, churches, arboretums and nature centers to find feeding waxwings this winter. Waxwings can sometimes be attracted to your yard by placing out a heated water bath and/or placing frozen fruit out on the ground. You can also plant fruiting trees like the ones above or try planting highbush cranberry, a native shrub that keeps its berries well into winter. I did some birdscaping myself at my new home this past fall, planting two varieties of flowering crabapple and two mountain ash trees.


A few other winter visitors to watch for include Varied Thrush, Townsends Solitaire, Evening Grosbeak and Pine Grosbeak as they also seek out any remaining fruits. Happy Birding!


Judd Brink is the owner of MN Backyard Birds in the Brainerd Lakes area. MN Backyard Birds provides birdscaping for homeowners and businesses to attract and enjoy more colorful songbirds. The business was recently featured on Kare 11 news with Belinda Jensen and MN Bound with Ron Schara. For more information about birdscaping or a free backyard consultation visit birdminnesota.com or email us at info@birdminnesota.com


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Tradition, Taste and Love, Baked Into Every Pie

2/13/2017

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By Kate Perkins
Editor
Sisters Elsie Van Horn and Mary Etta Durham, alongside Mary Etta’s daughter, Debra Flategraff, stand around a stainless steel countertop at the Schaefer’s Foods bakery, assembling dozens of pies in a seemingly effortless assembly line.
​

Of course, anyone who’s baked a pie knows that they can be tricky. Rolling the crust to a nice, rounded shape at the right thickness, getting it into the pie pan without rips, and making a presentable top crust are all challenges. But after tens, probably hundreds of thousands of pies, the women behind Grandma Bettie Jane’s Pies have it down.

Mary Etta combines a crust mixture with water until she finds the right consistency, then forms the crust into baseball-sized balls. She rolls out the balls of dough to a uniform thickness, her hands operating on pure muscle memory, before placing the crust in a pie tin. Elsie fills the shells with berries, levelling them off perfectly. Sometimes she adds or removes just a few berries to get the filling just right. Then, Elsie takes a top crust, folds it in half, and places it on top of the pie. She unfolds the crust and the pie goes to Debra, who puts a perfect, pretty pinched edge around the pie before putting it in a plastic case and loading it onto a cart. Each of the women is patient with each other and obviously happy to be working with one another, and with the other Schaefer’s employees who are in the bakery or stop by.

The assembled pies are then frozen, and then the nighttime bakery crew bakes pies every night so they’re fresh the following morning.

Today Debra and Elsie are the main force behind Grandma Bettie Jane’s Pies, though they get help from Mary Etta, the woman behind the well-known Mary Etta’s Pies business that many Lakes Area residents will remember. All three have been making pies for years, but the business side of things was started by Mary Etta. After making pies for restaurants and bakeries for years, she decided to start her own business.

“If I was going to make money for everyone else, I figured I might as well make it for myself,” Mary Etta said. 

The Mary Etta’s Pies business was born in 1999, but after many years with the business, Mary Etta made the decision to sell. She worked with the purchasers for a few years before retiring. When Mary Etta’s Pies seemed to fall off the radar, Schaefer’s invited Mary Etta to make pies in their bakery. Mary Etta was joined by her sister, Elsie, and her daughter, Debra, and together they make Grandma Bettie Jane’s Pies, named for Ted Schaefer’s mother.

Most of the time Debra and Elsie take the lead on making pies, and Mary Etta takes it easy after years of working two jobs (she was both a pie baker at area bakeries and restaurants,and the head cook at Pequot Lakes Schools for 30 years). But, Mary Etta still comes in to help with the baking from time to time. All three women are from the Jenkins area, making Grandma Bettie Jane’s a true local, family-run operation.

All the Grandma Bettie Jane’s pies are made by hand without any preservatives and, befitting of legendary pies, with a recipe that has at least one secret ingredient. Mary Etta said the crust recipe isn’t from any particular book or relative, it’s just the same recipe she’s followed as she’s made pies her entire life. The three do still measure their ingredients, though, to maintain consistency in their pies.

There are 36 different varieties of pies the trio makes, and that’s after paring down the list. They make fruit pies, cream pies, meringue pies and more, decidedly covering everyone’s favorites. The three admit that there are some varieties that they’ve never tried but are customer favorites. Their favorite pies? Mary Etta said that in all honesty, she’s not a huge pie fan. But, she does enjoy pumpkin at Thanksgiving. Elsie said the same; pumpkin is her favorite. Debra, on the other hand, enjoys cherry raspberry, which has a tart bite she enjoys.

Cherry pies, incidentally, have become more and more popular in recent years. Apple and caramel apple, though, are the top sellers.

While Grandma Bettie Jane’s pies have become a staple in the Lakes Area, their fame goes far beyond north-central Minnesota. Debra said that on several occasions she’s struck up conversation with a friendly stranger while at the airport, only to have them ask if she’s ever tried those awesome pies available in the Lakes Area.

In the past year, the women made nearly 10,000 pies that were sold in Schaefer’s, plus thousands more that were sold at the A-Pine or for fundraising. They agreed that they easily make more than 15,000 pies a year. Since Mary Etta’s Pies started in 1999, it’s probably safe to say that the women have made more than 100,000 pies- perhaps more than 200,000. The pies have gone with customers to Florida, California, Iowa, Missouri, New York City and beyond. One couple even flew to the area in a private plane to pick up pies, Elsie said.

The popularity of the pies has drawn attention from newspapers, magazines, television media and more. They’ve been featured in On the Road with Jason Davis and received a mention in Food Network star Simon Majumdar’s book.

The pies have been used to celebrate birthdays, served at weddings, funerals and everything in between.

“If you can put a smile on somebody’s face, at least one a day, that’s a great thing,” Debra said. Grandma Bettie Jane’s Pies do just that.

Find Grandma Bettie Jane’s Pies at Schaefer’s Foods in Nisswa and at the A-Pine in Jenkins. Special orders are welcome one day ahead, and nearly all the pie flavors can be made sugar-free on request. Call Schaefer’s to order.
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Why We Love Westerns

2/9/2017

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Picture
Justus D. Barnes as Bronco Billy Anderson in The Great Train Robbery
Why We Love Westerns
By Rich Engstrom
     Westerns: they are part of our history, they are part of our DNA. The West, as we know it, starts with the Mountain Men going west of the Mississippi and coming back to tell tales of a land that goes on forever. Much of the land seemed too tough for the plow, but it seemed just right for raising cattle. It was the life of the cowboy that entered our imaginations.
     As the Old West faded into memory in the later part of the 1800s, writers such as Ned Buntline brought back the memories by glorifying the exploits of such real life Westerners such as Buffalo Bill, Wild Bill Hickok, and other real life Western outlaws and lawmen.   Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show traveled not only in the US but traveled throughout the world, and Buffalo Bill became the most recognized face in the world.
     About this time movies came out, but really didn’t take off until
the movie The Great Train Robbery. It was only 12 minutes long, but it told a story- something that the other movies at that time didn’t do.
     Westerns after that followed the same pattern- a plot that included a train or bank robbery, a chase, a saloon setting, and a real story ending with a shootout. It was hoped that the audiences would be able to follow the story even though it contained 14 different scenes.  As the director/writer, Edwin S. Porter watched to see if a Western with a story would go over. But  at the end of the movie he could hear “Get them!” and, “Shoot them!” Then the lights went on and the movie goers started shouting– yelling, asking for more. They wanted to see it again. It was a huge success. The Western movie had arrived.
       Not only were the Western movies a big hit but the leading men became national heroes. During the silent era names like Broncho Billy Anderson, William W. Hart, and Hoot Gibson brought young would-be-cowboys to the theaters in droves. Young boys would do whatever they could to raise enough money for a ticket and a box of popcorn at the local movie house. But the biggest silent Western star was Tom Mix- a real life cowboy. He was a skilled horseman, an expert shot, and had won some riding and roping contests. Tom was a friend of politicians and was a real movie star.  He even helped John Wayne get his first job in Hollywood.  
During the early talking years the cowboy stars were Buck Jones, Bob Steel, and Ken Maynard.
    It wasn’t just young boys who went to see their favorite cowboys on the big screen. My Norwegian born grandfather would drop grandma off at the grocery store on Friday nights and head to the local cinema to watch the weekly Western. When he retired he would always have a paperback Western nearby, his favorite being Zane Grey.
    In 1939 came a number of Westerns that would change to a more adult media: Destry Rides Again with Jimmy Stewart and Marlene Dietrich, and Jesse James with Henry Fonda and Tyrone Power - two of the biggest Hollywood stars at the time.
    Then came Stagecoach starring John Wayne- an adult story with plenty of action. Typical of Westerns, it had the good guy getting the girl at the end of the movie after a big shootout.
   Along came the singing cowboys- they even tried to make Wayne a singing cowboy. But the biggest Western singing cowboy was Gene Autry followed by Roy Rogers. As Western movies became less in numbers the two stars moved to television. An older movie star by the name of William Boyd became Hopalong Cassidy.
Youngsters couldn’t get enough of their Western heroes and, with the help of TV advertising, out came notebooks, lunch boxes, and jackknives carrying the name of their favorite Western cowboy.
      It started in the middle of the ‘50s that Westerns filled the TV networks. (There are too many to name here.) Older movie stars entered the small screen- Henry Fonda, Barbara Stanwyck, Walter Brennan, Hugh O’Brian, and Ward Bond. The TV Western made instant stars from new young actors such as: Roger Moore, James Gardner, Michael Landon, and James Arness. Gunsmoke was on the small screen for twenty years and Bonanza drew large audiences. The Westerns were on every channel and some evenings Westerns were played all night.
     Whether on the small screen or the big screen with a Dolby  Sound System, Westerns are not as popular as they once were. But every now and then a good Western shows up and is seen by millions. In the early ‘60s The Magnificent Seven made stars out of James Coburn, Charles Bronson, and Steve McQueen and has been called one of the great Westerns of any time. Coming out in the late ‘60s, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid put two of Hollywood’s biggest stars (Paul Newman and Robert Redford) together and it became one of the best pictures of the year.
    Hollywood found out that if you have a good script and well-known stars, a Western can still draw large crowds. Clint Eastwood directed The Unforgiven. The movie won an Oscar for Best Picture and  Eastwood was nominated for the Oscar as best actor. Morgan Freeman, Gene Hackman, and Richard Harris also starred.
    But Americans are not the only ones who love Westerns.
     In Wild West magazine, December 2016, Tamas Makra from Hungary  writes that, “Since I was a kid I have been fascinated by the Old West.” Having a chance to visit Western states after teaching in Chicago for a year, he went back to Hungary with the Old West on his mind.
His home town high school had a new language classroom. Tamas got permission to set up one room as an Old West room, or “The Saloon.” The room was decorated with pictures of the Old West– sheriffs, outlaws and the American Indians. The students could learn English in an American environment- a Western environment.
       And among Americans who enjoyed Westerns was Dwight Eisenhower, who at 0700 on June 6, 1944, (D-Day) was found smoking a cigarette and reading a Western novel.
       Although there aren’t Westerns on TV as they were in the ‘50s and ‘60s, Westerns on the tube can still be popular. Again, with a good script that has a lot of action, add popular movie stars and you can still draw in a big audience. Take Lonesome Dove, originally written by the popular Western writer Larry McMurtry. The movie, in 1989-90, was the most watched miniseries of all time, watched in 26 million homes. It was up for 18 Emmy Awards and won seven. Lonesome Dove also won two Golden Globes. The movie pulled in the talents of Robert Duvall, Tommy Lee Jones, Danny Glover, Diane Lane, and Anjelica Huston.
     The United States has a dramatic, exciting history and Westerns are a big part of that history.
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Jeff Benson Continues His Life Saving Adventure

2/6/2017

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By Kate Perkins
​Photos courtesy of Jeff Benson

Editor
Throughout his career of becoming and working as a helicopter pilot, Jeff Benson has gone from serving his country to serving his local community, both from the sky and on the ground.
When Jeff Benson joined the Navy at age 18, he enlisted for six years. He joined for an adventure, but those six years turned into 24, and an adventure turned into a career as a helicopter pilot.

“I just kind of set my goals early to do whatever it takes to get my education and become a pilot,” Benson said.
Many people don’t realize that the Navy has almost as many pilots as the Air Force, Benson said. The Navy requires that anyone who wants to become a helicopter pilot receive a four-year college degree first. Benson attended Auburn in Alabama and got a degree in electrical engineering. He then put in 100 hours on a T-34 Mentor, a type of plane. Benson described the Mentor as a two seat, turboprop, fully aerobatic plane. After 100 hours, he had to make a choice: jets, props, or helicopters.
“I just had an affinity for helicopters,” Benson said. “Flying helicopters is a lot of fun. You can land pretty much anywhere.”
Benson worked for 10 years to make his dream of becoming a helicopter pilot a reality. Soon he became the kind of pilot to land a helicopter on the back of a Navy frigate as it pitched and rolled in 20-foot swells on the Persian Gulf. Once he got his wings, Benson was put on multipurpose missions, like search and rescue, as well as carrying hellfire missiles and 50-caliber machine guns.
Benson became the officer in charge of a Navy detachment of six pilots, three rescue swimmers and 20 enlisted soldiers who maintained two helicopters. In the Persian Gulf, they helped protect the waterways for free commerce and keep shipping lanes open.
Benson’s Navy career also had him searching for submarines in the open ocean, transporting food and supplies from one Navy ship to another, and delivering medical supplies to areas of Africa, among other things. In Malta he participated in the Malta International Airshow.
After his 24 years in the Navy, Benson retired and returned to the Lakes Area, his home stomping grounds, to raise his family with his wife, Julie. Today he lives in Pequot Lakes with his wife and two kids and flies an emergency helicopter for North Memorial Ambulance, where the adventure continues.
Benson flies one of six helicopters that cover the whole state, reaching out to Duluth, International Falls, and Fargo. He finds that his work at North Memorial is similar, in some ways, to his work in the Navy. In the Navy he did search and rescue and patient transfers, which bear a resemblance to the flight for life work he does today. He found that work for North Memorial is more challenging in some ways than flying for the Navy. For example, two pilots man a Navy helicopter, but only on pilot is onboard a North Memorial helicopter. Alongside Benson in the copter is a paramedic and a nurse.
It’s Benson’s responsibility to make the decision to take a call or not based on the safety of a flight. The decision is almost always based on weather, he said.
“The most challenging part is making the go/no go decisions based on weather,” he said. North Memorial follows specific criteria for the weather, including current conditions and what’s forecast, to make informed decisions. “It’s black and white, can we do it safely or not.”
And even though the criteria is clear, “that’s a bit of a challenge,” Benson said. When asked to take a call, helicopter pilots aren’t given specific information on the situation they’ll be handling.
But while there are challenging aspects to his job, there’s also reward. Benson said his favorite part of the job is getting to help people out and save lives.
Side perks include the awesome perspective of seeing the state from the sky. Averaging two flights per shift, Benson has seen northern lights, city skylines, lakes and forests and more from windows of a helicopter.
For instance, Benson watched the progress of US Bank Stadium from above and from the rooftop of nearby hospitals. He watched as the Metrodome was taken apart, then saw an almost step-by-step progression of the new stadium from the sky.
Benson works 12 hours shifts, six days in a row, and then has six days off. His work schedule, and a passion for the community, has allowed Benson to become heavily involved in volunteer work. He’s the Scoutmaster for his son’s Boy Scout Troop 102, and also helped start the Watch DOGS (Dads of Great Students) program in Pequot Lakes Schools. He’s also a member of the Sibley Lake Board.
After 24 years of serving his country in the Navy, Benson’s continuing the theme here in the Lakes Area. Both in his career as a pilot, transporting patients to save lives, and in his free time as Scoutmaster and Watch DOG, Benson is one who serves.
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Life On the Water

12/26/2016

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By Jerry Mevissen

Author, That Reminds Me
    Legend has it Paul Bunyan rose from his lodge in Akeley one day with a plan to walk south and view the timber supply. His mighty footprint created a lake, then another, then another. By the time he reached Huntersville, 11 footprints drained the countryside and created 11 lakes. While he scoured the area for old growth timber, the lakes filled, then overflowed, connecting one to another. They continued to rise while Paul scanned the ample varieties and quantities of cordage. With nowhere to go, the overflow formed a river. Paul watched his creation and noted the new river twisted and turned in gentle arcs. “Like a raven’s wing,” he said to Babe. “But, you know, Crow Wing is easier to say.”
    Fast forward to 2015. The river continues to flow from the 11 Crow Wing Lakes, meandering, rising, and falling with the seasons. Now it’s January and the river is frozen. The constant, soothing flow of water is on hold, at least on the surface. Beneath a plate of ice, another world exists. Water courses at a constant five miles an hour, silvery minnows dart to nowhere, and beneath them, in primordial mud, turtles and frogs shut down for the winter. Our conduit to the rest of the planet is interrupted.
    But not really. The water flowing past the farm converges with the Long Prairie River at Motley, the Mississippi at Pillager, the Gulf of Mexico at New Orleans. From there, our modest Minnesota waters mix with the big guys -- the Caribbean Sea, the Atlantic Ocean, and through the Panama Canal, the Pacific. Our humble river, the one that consoles and cools, inspires and indulges, connects Nimrod to the planet.
    Years ago a neighbor, also impressed with this connectivity, floated 35mm film cartridges containing his business card in the river. A note on the back of the card read: Return this to the address on the front. A couple miles downstream from where he made the deposit, the Crow Wing makes an improbable bend to the north. The reluctant river hangs back, creating a backwater bay along the farm shore. The cans floated that far, then snagged in the foliage and bobbed among the shafts of wild rice. Traveling friends, eager to collaborate in a little mischief, wrote letters and mailed them from Florida, Hawaii, all the way from Normandy Beach. Improbable yes, but possible. The perpetrator was not identified, until now.
    Literature is replete with the river as metaphor for interconnectedness and the constancy of change. Greek philosopher Heraclitus promoted change as being central to the universe. “No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river, and he’s not the same man.” Twenty-five hundred years later, Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote, “Man is a stream whose source is hidden.” And, “Who looks upon a river in a meditative hour and is not reminded of the flux of all things?” Finally, “…but one blood rolls uninterruptedly an endless circulation through all men as the water of the globe is all one sea and, truly seen, its tide is one.”

    Four o’clock Sunday afternoon, and the day’s temperature tops out at -7 F. Cattle seem impervious and poke their heads in the bale feeder like spokes in a wheel. The flag at the river hangs limp, then flutters to life at the north wind’s provocation. The dog senses it’s walking time and runs down the bank, chancing the thickness of  ice. On the river, a scrim of virgin snow billows and collects in miniature contours. No snowmobile tracks outline the shore; open water is reported at bridges.
    A pale wafer of sun seems ready to call it a day as we follow the river north. Tawny gold grass trembles and complements our long blue shadows on the snow.  At the oxbow which defines the farm boundary, black ash bend and lock branches in ice, victims of last summer’s winds. It’s quiet and desolate. No foot prints, hoof prints, paw prints.
    The walk back to the house follows the river through the woods, also quiet and desolate. As the muted sun lowers, it creates miniature pastel prisms in the snow. Soon a hint of wood smoke, jack pine wood smoke. Closer, it’s a welcome aroma. Chickadees flutter at the feeder. A nuthatch scolds. A woodpecker drums a tiny solo.
    Visitors remark on the beauty of the river and its environs in spring, summer, and fall. In spring, the joy of waterfowl migration and budding dogwood. In summer, the parade of exuberant high school seniors canoeing on a class trip. A pair of swans lazing in the bay. In fall, the congregating Canada geese, the incredible redness of high bush cranberries. But doesn’t winter’s cold become life-threatening? Don’t you feel lonesome and deserted in winter?     
    No.
    As Emerson declaims, “Indeed, the river is a perpetual gala, and boasts each month a new ornament.” There is no peace like the river and woods in winter. No scene as simple and beautiful as dichromatic trees and snow. No destination as welcome as warm yellow lights of home on a moonlit night, fresh snow frosting the Norways, wood smoke curling from the chimney. Then, across the river, coyotes howl in raucous conversation.
    A visiting archaeologist commented that the features that attract us to this spot on the river are the same as those that attracted Native Americans -- a panoramic view up and down the river, not for aesthetics but for defense, and the river on three sides of the oxbow which permits efficient game drives. Dig a foot of riverbank topsoil, he said, and you’ll find artifacts.
    Let them be.
    A visiting geologist remarked upon inspecting an aerial photograph that the river has changed course. At one time it flowed straight across the base of the oxbow. A riverbed of rocks in the pasture confirmed that.
    And while we’re on a scientific bent, why shouldn’t we be attracted to water? It’s sixty-five percent of our physical makeup.
    So there you have it. My river, My woods. My paradise. But not really. I don’t own them. They own me.

This essay is one of many appearing in Mevissen’s latest book, That Reminds Me, available at www.jerrymevissen.com.
    

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