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

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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Christmas on a North Dakota Farm in 1929

12/19/2016

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By Rich Engstrom

  Going through some papers in a drawer I ran across an article my mother’s cousin sent to me after my mother passed away. It was written in December of 1979 by Norma Neperud.
  Norma lived on the North Dakota prairie with two siblings. It was December of 1929, just three months after the start of the Great Depression. The Depression didn’t affect them that much in that they were already poor and lived off much of what they produced on the farm.
  The family lived in a large farmhouse with the nearest electric power and gas lines miles away. They heated with lignite coal and used no more than a combined two gallons of gasoline and kerosene a week in lamps and lanterns. Norma’s father had a car, but it was used only once a week to go to town for supplies. The farm used 16 mixed breed horses-Clydesdales, Percheron, and Morgan horses which was used for all the farm needs.
  They would attend church on one Sunday a month as the minister had four churches to provide services. After the service the church members would retire downstairs to enjoy Scandinavian pot luck.
  She remembers that Christmas gifts were created by the giver. “Knitting, crochet, embroidery and sewing needles and many treadle type sewing machines were actively going under the guidance of loving hands from September on.” They created stuffed toys, caps, scarves, socks, tablecloths, mittens, gloves, dresser scarves, doilies, dresses, aprons, shirts and neck scarves. Pocket knives carved wall plaques, animals and birds. All these found their way under the tree or into stockings at Christmas.
 What I found interesting was that she talked about spending hours looking at the wish books- the mail order catalogues that arrived with their beautiful array of gifts. (My sister and I would do the same in the early 1950s.) Norma and siblings would look at dresser sets consisting of mirror, brush and comb, crystal, china, clothes, and oh!- the toys. There were bride dolls, baby dolls, Raggedy Ann dolls, flapper dolls, teddy bears, wagons, sleds, tricycles, foot propelled scooters, wind-up toys such as the Tonnerville Trolley and Andy Gump’s car, train sets, doll dishes, rubber balls, games such as checkers and marbles, toy soldiers, Jack-In-The-Box, Tinker Toys, Lincoln Logs, clocks, water colors, crayons and books.
  Going to school the family youngsters and their friends would play a game. “We’d look at them with our friends and ask one another, ‘If you could have just one thing, what would you have?’” They had fun talking about what they would want but they knew these items would not be under the tree on Christmas Eve.
 She wrote about the school program (in a one room school room) where there were poems, songs and character lines in both a funny play and the recreation of the Nativity. “Protestants and Roman Catholics** joined together in this Christmas program and party. We drew names to exchange gifts, created Christmas decorations and cards out of construction paper, and Oh yes! We sold Christmas seals for one cent each. If you sold ten cents worth you received a pin. Our parents usually bought those ten stamps.”
 “Santa would show up and distributed our gifts to one another and our gifts to the teacher. She, in turn, always found enough money in a very slim paycheck to give each of us a gift such as pencils, erasers, rulers, etc. The school board provided apples, oranges, nuts and candy.”
  By mid-December the snow lay on the ground in North Dakota and the temperature plummeted. “As I heard the story of Jesus’ birth in a stable, I thought He must have been very cold. I didn’t think of Bethlehem as having a climate different from ours!”
  Getting ready for Christmas, pigs were butchered and from them came sausage, headcheese, hams and fresh pork. Her mother would take the fat and rendered lard and made homemade soap which she scented with sassafras. The kitchen was busy baking and using recipes that had been made by generations of Norwegian housewives. “There were ringlet shaped Berline Kranza, Fattimagn Bakkles (jokingly called poor man’s biscuits because they were so rich) Sandbakkles (sand tarts in molds), Rosettes, Kringle (shaped like a figure eight), molasses cookies, butter cookies, Sprita cookies, and nut cookies among others. Mother also baked lefse, a thin flat potato pancake which is served with butter and sugar; flatbrod, a hard flat crisp bread; Julekaga, the Norwegian yeast bread that is flavored with cardamom and filled with cherries, citron, raisins and nuts; and both fruit and butter cakes.
  In 1929 one could not find a Christmas tree within the state so the family would have to buy a tree that was shipped from the Rocky Mountains.
  “Decorations on the tree consisted of paper chains, popcorn and cranberry chains, a metal star on the top, candles and glass balls and icicles for the branches. Under my father’s watchful eye, the candles would be lit for just a short while on Christmas Eve. As gifts were wrapped and placed under the tree, I used to crawl under it to see if I could guess the contents of the packages.” I would bet that this is still done by children today as I know I also did this as a child.
  Christmas was a big family event back then with a number of relatives getting together on Christmas Eve and the mother of the house leading her sisters and sisters-in-law cooking on a black cook stove.
  “The menu would consist of things such as: Sot Soppe, which is a sweet soup made of prunes, raisins, orange and apples, minute tapioca, sugar, cinnamon, cloves and water, and there was lutefisk which was a Norwegian Christmas must.” There were meatballs and meats such as turkey, ham, chicken or the goose that had not too long before chased us. There was pickled herring, headcheese, assorted pickles, jellies and jams, canned green peas and beans, mashed potatoes, Julekaga (Christmas bread), rolls, fruitcake, the assorted cookies, chocolate cake and salad. “
  “The grown-ups always ate first but we children didn’t mind-we were enjoying being together.”
  After dinner we would open the gifts under the tree. We then went home to open our presents under a highly decorated spruce. Then, we also believed in and enjoyed visits from Santa Claus, so on Christmas morning we found our stockings filled with fruit, nuts, hard candy, and hand-created gifts that were strangely similar to those Mother had been working on before Christmas. There also might be one or two gifts such as we had seen in the catalogs.
  “When our Christmas holiday was over, we returned to school and enjoyed hearing and telling of the good things Christmas had brought to each of us. It was a happy time.”
  ** When immigrants from Europe settled in a certain area they would write back to relatives about the good farm land to be found in the US. So certain areas would be settled by friends and relatives who came from the same area in Europe- bringing with them their religion. Small towns would spring up and therefore you would have the farmers and the townsfolk coming from the same area in Europe and with the same religion. Even though there was a public school most of the children were of the same religion and brought with them their ethnic customs.

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The Ghost Bird

12/15/2016

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Above: Judd Brink stands at the entrance to a National Wildlife Refuge where he searched for the “Ghost Bird,” the ivory-billed woodpecker.

Story and photos by Judd Brink

Owner, MN Backyard Birds

One of the rarest birds in North America is known as “Lord God Bird,” “Grail Bird,” “Ghost Bird” or, by its common name, the ivory-billed woodpecker (Campephilus principalis). It was thought to be extinct for nearly 60 years until recent sightings started to surface in the early 1990s. But it was officially rediscovered in 2004.

If the bird still exists today it may only be found in very small remote old growth swamps such as the Everglades found in Florida or other secluded areas. Historically the ivory-billed woodpecker was found from Cuba to southeastern states in the U.S. The ivory-billed is larger than our backyard visitor the pileated woodpecker (Dryocopus pileatus), having an ivory colored bill with large white patches on the wings. Preferred habitat includes old growth cypress, tupelo and oaks among others found in the bottomland hardwoods of the south. Ivory-billed woodpeckers feed on beetle larvae from dead or dying trees that are still standing. Since 2004 research teams have gathered to find and document any evidence but not a single photograph has captured its presence. It might be one of most well-known, rarest birds in the world. Extremely shy birds that avoid most human activity makes for difficult relocation of any sightings.   


Early studies of the ivory-billed woodpecker took place in 1924 by Cornell researchers. One of the pioneers was ornithologist Arthur Allen who observed one pair in Florida that year. The first ever documented sound recordings were captured in hopes of studying rare birds including the ivory-billed. Today the recording is still used in research. In 1935 Allen and James Tanner led the first large expeditions into the old growth Singer Tract in Louisiana that was about 81,000 acres in size. The owners of the land belonged to the Singer sewing company which at that time was the largest private forest in the south. Tanner spent two years here from 1937-1939 studying ivory-billed woodpeckers. Tanner estimated there to be 22-24 left in the U.S. and the only birds he found were at this location. Unfortunately the famous Singer Tract was sold to the Chicago Mill and Lumber Company where it was logged despite efforts in trying to save the last stronghold for the ivory-billed woodpecker.  In 1943 back at the now-logged Singer Tract, a single bird was found surrounded by destruction. A year later an artist named Don Eckelberry went back and re-found the single bird and spent two weeks watching and sketching. It’s now the last accepted sighting.


In February 2011 I was invited to participate in an ivory-billed woodpecker search team in Louisiana. As an avid birder for nearly 30 years it was an honor and privilege to take part in this experience. The team spent five days in the swamps and bottomland hardwood forests at several National Wildlife Refuges during the trip. We also met with other search teams, and one team member told us of her encounter over dinner as she witnessed the bird go across one of the trails she was on. Our searches started very early in the morning as we tried to be on the trail, ready to walk and search. We walked many miles each day through some old growth forest but much of the habitat was second growth or young forest. Seeing some of the big trees gave us the sense of what it must have looked like in the 1940’s. So, after hearing of the many years of searching I just had to ask the question: why hasn’t anyone gotten a credible photograph yet? Well, it was explained to me as if someone saw a ghost. They simply froze and in shock, forgetting to take the photo. From what I have heard these encounters or observations are very brief, only seconds before the bird disappears in the dark swamp. We were obviously looking for the bird by sight and sound but we also looked for clues that would indicate its presence. Ivory-billed woodpeckers feed by stripping or peeling off the bark to look for beetle larvae. We also looked for any large oval tree cavities that could be used for nesting especially in the larger trees in good habitat. I still keep in touch with one search team member who still is on the trail and continues to follow up on any reports received. I still believe that someone will eventually come forward with an authentic photograph and accurate documentation of the existence of the ivory-billed woodpecker. Happy Birding!     


Judd Brink is the owner of MN Backyard Birds in the Brainerd Lakes area. MN Backyard Birds provides birdscaping for home owners 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 our new website birdminnesota.com or email us at info@birdminnesota.com       
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Thanksgiving Civil War!

12/12/2016

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Sisters Duke it Out While Community Watches On

By Elizabeth S. Persnickety

Snow hasn’t yet covered the dead leaves with its wintery blanket, but the ice of sibling rivalry and holiday spirit has chilled the hearts of the Persnickety family and their neighbors this early November morning. The front yard is a battle field of cranberry sauce, empty pie crusts and globs of mashed potatoes that cry out on the muddy lawn. Panting, like two wounded lionesses, Aunt Marge and Mother circle each other, holding a pan and a wooden spoon respectively. A tiny white mop of a dog barks and growls when it’s not busying itself trying to scarf down the edible artillery scattered on the ground.  Sources say that they first heard the ruckus at 8:30 a.m.  
Mr. Carson, the owner of the local thrift shop that sells your assortment of moose, cheese and weird Viking memorabilia, shook his head and scratched at his large horned sleeping cap. “Ya know Elizabeth, I really think your ma Marie’s winning this time though. Got your aunt square in the face a few times before that little feather duster of a dog came out. Some of us are still trying to sleep though ya know, can ya tell ‘um to keep it down?” After, Mr. Carson was laughed at by the throng of ever growing neighbors, all wanting to see if anyone would draw blood or resort to name calling.
“We just heard this caterwauling this morning, and oh gosh, your mom just started swinging at Marge there with her spoon ya know, flicking food like the American Sniper or something and Marge firing back. It looks like a slaughter!” Neighbor Ester Johnson said defensively, when she was asked what brought her out of her house. “I mean, it’s not really a slaughter until someone bleeds dearie…”
The brawl had in fact started 15 minutes earlier than the neighbors believe, in the Persnickety kitchen. After two days of not sleeping, being in extremely close proximity to one another and an adrenaline high that just kept pumping, Aunt Marge and Mom had finally snapped when they began to start the first of many dishes for the blessed holiday.  
“They just wouldn’t stop screaming about who made the better cranberry sauce or mashed potatoes,” Amy, this journalist’s older sister sighed, not looking up from her smartphone. “Mom thinks there should be more cream in the potatoes, Aunty Marge says more orange juice in the cranberries. Then it was all downhill from there. Aunt Marge hates the decorating and Mom hates Princess Doodles.” The small white dog in question threw up whatever it was eating to begin yapping at everyone even more “ferociously.”   “Honestly, it’s better to just let them fight this one out, if worst comes to worst we’ll order pizza.”
Uncle Tim and the Father unit were far more distressed about the situation than even the neighbors.
“You girls don’t understand, this could not just effect this afternoon, but this could end all of our holiday meals all together. Don’t you get it?!” Father rumbled, nervously shuffling as he began to dial the number to his Mother-in-law’s cellphone. “Maybe Diane can talk some sense into them before she gets here this afternoon.”
“That means no more peach cobbler, no more corn pudding, no more chicken pot pies, and…no more pecan pies.” Uncle Tim continued. Amy gasped softly. No more pecan pies? But they were the best pecan pies that had ever been made in all of Northern Minnesota. Those pies had won awards, made full grown men cry, and the only ones who knew how to make them were currently spitting and hissing at each other like angry house cats. A great yowl went up and the crowd all gasped, horrified.
“Marge!”
“Marie!”
The two women collided in midair, their combined force and midlife crises seemed to blend together with a terrific CRACK! We all waited with baited breath as the two bodies lay stunned on the ground. Their hair and cheeks were caked with food, mud and bright cherry leaves. Mother stretched her hand out, trying to find something solid to help her to her feet, but grabbed Aunt Marge’s hand instead. The two sisters stared at each other, two titans momentarily stunned, then stared at the ground looking at all of their foolishness and waste of work exploding around them, all to be witnessed by the happy and sleepy occupants of our town.
They sighed, and climbed to their feet. Aunt Marge helping Mother, both gathering their utensils and glancing in the crowd’s direction.
“Oh like you guys are so above it all!” Mother yelled, waving her arm in dismissive motions.
“Can’t sisters have an argument without the whole neighborhood chiming in? Goodness.” Aunt Marge sighed, flicking mashed potatoes out of her hair before they both turned and walked back into the house to continue the food prep.
“We’re never going to be like that, and if we do get like that, we’re ordering Chinese.” Amy said to this journalist as she went to recapture Princess Doodle, and the entire town breathed a disappointed sigh that the madness was over…At least until Christmas rolls around.

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A Paul Bunyan Christmas

12/8/2016

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By John Wetrosky

Paul Bunyan sat in the dim lighted cabin with a puzzled look on his rugged, half-shaven face. He was doing his annual Christmas shopping list and it wasn't getting any easier for this huge lumberman.

Paul did his shopping close to home in places with names like Pine River, Hackensack, Longville, Crosslake, Pequot Lakes, Breezy Point and Nisswa. These were towns built around the tall timber where Paul made his reputation along with his faithful sidekick, Babe. Babe stood outside Paul's rough hewn log cabin, gazing through the window pane at Paul sitting on his wooden bench, quill pen in hand. Once in awhile Paul would scratch down a few words on a piece of white paper birchbark.

Over the years Paul's shopping list had changed. The gifts he had given over the years had changed to reflect the times. It was easy to buy a new pair of heavy wool socks, a hefty red and black plaid wool shirt, or perhaps a pair of lumberman pants. But, the younger crowd didn't seem to get the same thrill out of opening a package of red bandannas or a brightly striped pair of suspenders. One year Paul gave a brand new, shiny axe to all his nephews and nieces. They were delighted, and Paul sat back contentedly drawing on his pipe, watching their excited faces when they opened their prizes. They didn't seem to appreciate such gifts in the modern day.

Now-a-days it seemed that technology had crept into gift giving. Paul saw advertisements in the local paper featuring things called cell phones, ear buds, laptops, iPhone watches and things called Kindles. He asked himself what good any of these things would be to someone working in the tall timber. You couldn't cut a tall tree down with something called an earbud. A laptop wouldn't keep you warm when it was 30 below zero with a north wind howling down your neck. Paul was puzzled by these modern conveniences.

Snow had begun to fall at a fast clip and Paul could see that the trail out front the cabin was rapidly drifting shut. If he was to complete his shopping list tonight, he'd have to hitch Babe to the sleigh and get busy. Babe pushed through the chest deep drifts out to the main road where the two were met with the first snowplow of the season. Babe followed the plow down the now cleared road into town. Twice the plow became bogged down in the deep drifts, but with just a nudge from Babe's broad forehead the plow was freed and the driver waved in appreciation for the push.

All of the north country towns Paul roamed through stayed open throughout the long northern winters, serving their customer's every need. He bought feed and hay for Babe from a store in Pine River. He bought hardware there as well and he had a favorite barber in Pine River who trimmed his huge beard with a hedge trimmer. He bought a gift certificate to a favorite restaurant in Hackensack for his beloved Lucette. Lucette really liked the twenty-four ounce Porterhouse steak they served there. Crossing over the Pine River into Crosslake Paul found a new snowblower for his long lost nephew who hated shoveling snow by hand. Traveling south to Breezy Point, Paul bought two weeks in a timeshare for his aunt in Alaska so she could come down and thaw out near the indoor pool in January. Making his way back home, Paul stopped in Nisswa and Pequot Lakes to pick up a few fishing lures and a Mary Etta's pie for his uncle who loved pecan pie.

All the towns in the north country were brightly lit for the coming holidays. Each light pole was adorned with colorful lights and the little stores all glimmered with tinsel and decorations. Even with a snowstorm raging, the merchants stayed open and some of them even offered Paul hot apple cider and a freshly baked cookie or two. Paul’s chosen gifts were cheerfully wrapped by the merchants and soon the sled was full of brightly colored gift boxes. Paul threw a tarp over his pile of gifts to keep them snow-proof, climbed aboard and gave Babe the order to head on home.

Paul thought how lucky he was to live in this part of the pine country where the small town service was still around. He no longer wore the puzzled look on his face as he had found just the right gift for everyone on his list.

Christmas Eve came and found Paul sitting among all his family as they unwrapped his gifts. He sat back in his huge rocker, gently puffing on that big black pipe and smiling as his youngest niece opened her package of new earbuds and gave out a squeal of pleasure. Somehow Paul knew she would enjoy them more than a pair of thick, wool socks. It was Christmas time in the North Country. It was, and is, a special winter place.

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Local author Simar delves into area history

12/6/2016

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By Kate Perkins

Editor

After 20 years as a nurse, Pequot Lakes resident Candace Simar went back to school to get a four-year nursing degree. There were a few required English classes, and Simar found herself loving those classes, taking as many as she could. Soon she decided that instead of pursuing the next nursing degree, she’d take up writing, something she’d always loved to do. Today she’s an award-winning author with six books published, including the popular Abercrombie Trail series. Many combine what Simar has learned from her passion for history with her own fictional tales.

Simar went into nursing because of her father, she said. She and her family moved to Pequot Lakes when Simar was 17. She graduated from Pequot Lakes High School, where her guidance counsellor suggested that she pursue English. Simar’s father was ill, though, and died a short time after the move. He had always wanted Simar to be a nurse, because of all the help that nurses had given him. He knew it was a stable career and that Simar would be able to find work anywhere she went. Simar agreed, and nursing became her primary career.

It was as her kids were leaving home that she decided to pursue writing. Once the decision was made, Simar attended every writing conference and workshop that she could. She read books and magazines, and she began to write. Six books later, Simar continues to attend workshops and seminars to continue learning and improving.

Simar’s books are mostly historical fiction, in which she blends historical facts and elements into the stories of fictional characters. Her most popular books, the Abercrombie Trail series, tell of pioneer Scandinavians in Minnesota during the Sioux Uprising, the Civil War, and the grasshopper plagues around the 1870s.

“I’ve always loved history,” Simar said. “I love the stories of my family, who were all Scandinavian immigrants.”

The Sioux Uprising was the largest American Indian war in history, and took place in 1862. It was caused by the Civil War, as the money the government needed to pay the treaties went to the war instead.

“The Sioux rose up, and who wouldn’t? They were starving,” Simar said. She said that the Sioux Uprising was overshadowed in historical records by what was the bloodiest summer of the Civil War. Nonetheless, Simar said the state is still feeling the effects of the war today.

“Only 20 percent of the Sioux participated, but all were exiled,” Simar said. “It started here and ended with the Battle at Wounded Knee.”

In the Abercrombie Trail series, Simar chronicles immigrant life throughout the Sioux Uprising, plagues of grasshoppers that destroyed crops, and bank failings. The people of the time showed both tenacity and resilience.

“They (immigrants) had no recourse, no way to go back, nothing,” Simar said. “They just had to survive, and I wanted to celebrate that.”

Simar’s most recently published book is Shelterbelts. As a nurse, Simar cared for many World War II veterans who told her their stories. Some of the elements of those stories were used in Shelterbelts.

The book follows a war veteran who comes back to Minnesota to operate the farm that his sister has been managing throughout the war. While the family feels he should take over the farm, his sister is the only one who wants to and is capable of doing so. The story is of the farming community, and how when the chips are down, they stick up for their own. Shelterbelts, for which the book is named, are the rows of trees that shelter farms from the elements.

“Shelterbelts become a metaphor,” Simar said. Just as the shelterbelts protect the farms, the farmers protect the vulnerable members of their communities. Just as the shelterbelts sometimes need repair, so do farmers, neighbors and family.

Both Shelterbelts and the Abercrombie Trail series have won several awards and accolades. Simar believes one of the reasons the books are so popular, especially in Minnesota, is because of the connection readers are able to forge with their own history.

“There’s something very validating about reading about our history, our people,” Simar said. She’s heard feedback from some readers who travel the area, visiting the locations detailed in the books. “That makes me so happy, because we need to hang onto our history. It doesn’t mean we have to agree with it, but we need to understand what happened…. The Scandinavian culture is very unique.”

Simar wished to thank the Five Wings Arts Council, which provided her with grants that helped make her books possible. Her books are available at Turtle Town Books in Nisswa and Book World in Baxter, as well as on her website, candacesimar.com and on Amazon.

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