My little digital camera is a good one.  It takes great, high quality pictures.  Small enough to fit in my pocket, but with great zoom and focus….but as a Sony, it is sometimes fickel in the downloading.  Finally managed to get the pictures for the last four months off the darn thing, so will be slowly adding pictures to the old posts.  Worth taking a look.

 The little town of Leeds sits about fifteen miles west of the city of Devils Lake on US Hwy 2, and remembering from my days working on the ranch, I knew they had good grub.  So we stopped in for lunch.  It’s a little spot on the little main street.  But the food is good if I remembered right.

And I did remember right.

We sat down and enjoyed a lunch, and again, while we know its rude, neither Dad nor I said hardly a word, just taking in the conversations around us as neighbors discussed the latest news and happenings…it gave us pause, and we would occasionally give each other raised eyebrows to acknowledge the shocking nature of the conversations as the lake continued to inch closer through lakes, sloughs, rivers, and ditches.

A sampling of conversations:

“Did you move into town?”

“Yeah about six months ago.”

“Loose the house to the water?”

“No, the house is fine, a little bit in the basement, but all of the sheds are sitting in about two feet of water, I can boat right in.  It was taking the wife and kids about forty minutes to make it in for school though, what with all of the roads closed, then with water coming into the basement, we were going to loose power.  Figured it was time to move in.”

“Do you go out there often?”

“Oh yeah, I need to boat in now, but I still go out there.”

Or this one…

“How is harvest looking this year?”

“Oh, what we could get too looks good.”

“How much did you get in this year?”

“About 500 acres, there is about 200 acres that is underwater, but another 600 acres that I just can’t get too.”

“Roads washed out?”

“Yeah, or else the ditches and sloughs backing up, so we can see it, but we just can’t get to it.”

Dad and I just shook our heads.

We drove north, past the old North Prairie Lutheran Church, and past the headquarters for the ranch that I worked at.  Miles of fences that were built to keep Bison in, were now standing in disrepair as the farm economy turned around.  Now the land that was worthless to grow wheat on and was only fit for grazing is now all corn and beans.  It was shocking to see, but not surprising.

We drove back through Leeds and back onto Highway 2, and into the little town of Churchs Ferry.  Once a little town of about four hundred people, it is now being swallowed up by the might Devils Lake.  When it was founded, a hundred years ago, it was a ferry stop on the lake, but the lake receded and was a good ten miles away, but now, slowly eating away at the homes, businesses, and churches in the town as each inch brings the surrounding landscape ever closer to eating the town.

Four people still call the town home, though how they can live in this ghost town, slowly sinking into the water is beyond belief.

Back on Hwy 2, we drove through Devils Lake again, and headed for home.  The magnitude of the lake and the devastation to families and communities keeping the conversation muted for some time.

The banter picked back up as we neared Grand Forks.  We decided that we should stop and see Dad’s counsins, Uncle Frank and Aunt Marie.  Fantasic people that welcomed us with open arms, a tour of their garden, and a good cup of coffee, we visited for some time before heading out again on Highway 2, through Crookston, for our final stop of the day, the little café in Erskine for a good supper - then home again.

750 miles in the car over fourteen hours with Dad looking at crops, visiting with folks, seeing the rising lake and the devastation.  It was a day well spent.

Church in Churchs Ferry, losing the fight to the ever rising water

BNSF Train crossing what was once a fertile farm field

 Dad and I continued on and we shocked with our first glimpse of the lake…ten miles closer than either of us remembered seeing it.

Devil’s Lake itself is protected by a twenty foot dike where the city beach used to be, but we bypassed that section of town and headed right for Spirit Lake Casino, what we were told would be the epicenter of the flood fight.

And it was shocking.

The last time I had been out here was about ten years ago for good friends Dave and Traci’s wedding.  The landscape had completely changed.  Driving south on Hwy 20, we were surrounded by what looked like a raging angry sea.  Lake spray splashed over the road as an army of earth moving equipment worked to raise the road.  It was white knuckle driving the whole way, with pilot cars, flag people directing traffic, big trucks bringing dirt and road and draglines and big bulldozers and scrappers working to move protect the road, the last link between the city of Devils Lake and the all important Spirit Lake casino, right outside of Fort Totten, the headquarters of the Sioux Indian reservation.

We finally made to the casino and did a lap of the parking lot, high on a hill side, and took a good long look at this growing inland sea.  It was a good break from the drive and a good spot to grab a soda and some caramel corn for the next leg of our journey.

We continued to hug the lake, and fight the ongoing construction and road building crews for the next ten miles or so, until we hit the town of Fort Totten, then the lake began to recede in the distance, but still water - sometimes backed up ditches from the lake, sometimes seeming potholes filled probably from the high water table from the lake only a mile or two away.

Yet life tried to continue as normal.  These ditches and potholes were surrounded by grazing cattle or recently baled hay.  The land must yield as much as was possible.

Finally, we reached highway 281 and headed south to New Rockford.  This was the area that I called home for one summer during my days at North Dakota State University, working at the North American Bison Cooperative during the week and for North Prairie Bison Company making fence and hay on the weekends.

First up was the little town of Sheyenne, the little town that seems to mark the demarcation line between the western culture of farming and ranching and the eastern culture of cropping.  The little mainstreet looks like something that gun slingers would call home.  And indeed, its summer rodeo is said to be something to behold.

Straight south of Sheyenne is New Rockford.  We make the trek around town.  Dad had never been here, so I got to show him my old haunts.  The old church turned into apartments that I called home.  The little Catholic Church that I frequented, the grocery store, the bar, then south of town to the plant.  Dad and I were on a mission to find some Bison sausage, something we both enjoyed the summer I worked at the plant, but alas, neither the grocery store, the convenience store, or the old refrigerated case at the plant had any Bison sausage…or meat of any kind. 

We took a little detour into the countryside, to take a look at a grazing herd of Bison, but also to look at Gavilon’s new unit train loader on the outside of town (you can take the boy out of the commodity trade, but you can’t take the commodity trade out of the boy…).  Then it was back on Hwy 281 for more views of the lake.

We retraced our path up to the point when Hwy 57 and Hwy 281 meet, then we continued north to see the west side of the lake.  I had promised Dad that it would be impressive, recalling the many harrowing stories back from that summer in 1997.

Alas, we could hardly see the lake, and I was perplexed…until we got to the beleaguered town of Minnewaken…then it made perfect sense, they had shifted the road several miles to the west.  Instead of the highway cutting through the town, it came out on the far western side.  We drove into the town and saw a city fighting an escalating, but never ending battle with the rising waters.  Most streets to the east of town ended in a massive dike.  The school, which we couldn’t reach due to the construction crews working to shore up the dikes, once miles away from the lake, was threatened.

We drove out of town in a somber mood, back up the highway for our next stop, the Farm House Café in Leeds.

 I got home after 9pm in Sunday night, and was tired.  Dad and I visited for a while and waited on the news and weather, then I went to bed.  It was going to be an early morning.  We were leaving at 5am.

That Monday was another beautiful Minnesota morning.  Dad and I were in the car before 6am, ready for a long day of driving.  I was determined to get as many miles on that rental car as I could.  If it was on my dime, I was going to maximize it!

With the sun rising in the east behind us, we headed west down the gravel road, then cut north on the Faith Road to Hwy 200 until we hopped on Hwy 32, heading north through Gary and Fertile, then angling over to Crookston.  The crops looked great on this early morning crop tour.  The sun made the corn and soybeans look a dark, vibrant green.

Dad and I chatted about crops, the landscape, the many times we had each driven this road, Dad back when it was newly paved, going to the winter shows in Crookston, Hockey games in Grand Forks, church meetings, township training, or a host of other things.  It was a good reminisce.

We talked about friends and relatives, old stories of people, some living, most dead, that had travelled this path too - and the related stories about them too.

We crossed the Minnesota - North Dakota border about 7:30, in the height of rush hour traffic.  It was a good, then it was back out in the rural landscape of North Dakota.  No trip along Highway 2 west of Grand Forks could be complete without the retelling of the big airshow the family went too back when I was about five, the day that Hwy 2 turned into a parking lot with thousands trying to make it out to see the world famous Air Force Thunderbirds perform.  It took almost 2 hours to make that it that last two miles that day!

On this day, we did it in about 2 minutes.

We stopped for breakfast in Michigan, North Dakota - a town that I used to stop and refuel at the summer I worked for the Bison Cooperative in New Rockford and the North Prairie Bison Ranch in Leeds.  Dad used to haul machine out to this part of the world, as far west as Devil’s Lake after he retired…then went back to work…working for John Deere, delivering and picking up machinery.  A good job for someone that doesn’t need a job, but wants to stay busy.

Dad bought me breakfast in the little coffee shop in the downtown strip mall.  Not much of a strip mall in the quiet little mainstreet, but a good cafe with a good breakfast and a much needed cup of coffee.  While it is rude to listen in on other conversations, every table was talking about the flooding happening only twenty miles away.  Everyone knew someone it seemed whose house was on the verge of going under.  Everyone wondered about the outlet.  Everyone was speculating what happened if Devils Lake were to break its shores.

A brief history of Devil’s Lake - an ominous name with innocent beginnings.  The Sioux originally named the lake “Bad Spirit Lake” which the first settlers interpreted as “Devils Lake.”  In truth - the “Bad” referred to the high salt content of the water (making it taste worse than most water sources) and “Spirit” referred to the mirages that appear on the waves, something that happens on a big body of water surrounded by a very flat plain.

The lake is a basin that drains about 4000 square miles of mainly flat prairie ground.  During dry seasons, like the 1980’s, the lake was almost dry.  There are stories of hunters that would go to the lake bottom looking for ducks, and depending upon the wind, their hunting area would either be dry land, or under 6 feet of water…the last water in the lake literally blowing from side to side.  At that point, they had estimates of the lake returning to ‘normal’ depth in about thirty years…

A wet period set in in 1993.  The lake quickly rose, within three years to its ‘normal’ depth, and kept on growing.  By 1999, the lake had swallowed 70,000 acres - almost doubling in size.  And it continues to rise, each foot representing another 10,000 acres of land.  The state and federal government have spent about $450 million fighting the rising lake.  But they are losing the fight.  Towns are being swallowed.  Minnewaken is slowly going under.  The town of Church’s Ferry (100 years ago, the sight of a ferry service) has gone from over 200 people to the last four….

Towns once far from the lake are now fearing for their safety as the lake backs up through ditches, streams, and sloughs.

The real fear is at 1498 feet…this is the point when the lake breaks out and reaches the Sheyenne River…the last time this happened was over 1000 years ago (though it is said the outlet was flowing 100 years ago, but has since silted in).  If it breaks out, there is 8 feet of silt in the channel which will quickly disappear, which means any downstream community will need to brace themselves for the onslaught.

 It was a good nights sleep.  Not enough, but it felt good - a day or good weather and good friends.  Waking up the next morning, I was the first one out of the bed.  Part of the dangers of growing up on a dairy farm is that the routine that I grew up with is a hard one to break, so it was earlier and with less sleep then was probably prudent, but you don’t argue with your body clock.  But it still felt good.  I greeted Pat quickly, who was walking through the cabin to use the bathroom.

With guests all sleeping, I made my way to the car and went to the early Mass at church - thinking that they probably wouldn’t even be awake in an hour.

It is interesting that we usually get the sermons and the readings that we need the most, and this Sunday was no exception.  Father expounded on the first reading from Kings - when Elijah sought to listen to God - who came not as the crashing wind and the earthquake, but as the quiet whispering winds.  Then on the Gospel, for when we hear his voice, we need to heed Jesus’s comments as he came to the Disciplines across the water, “Take courage!  Do not be afraid.”

Both messages that I needed to hear that morning. 

I picked up a few things from the farmers stand, and headed back for the cabin, where I was met with the quiet still of a room full of people who had just gotten up and where still fighting sleep, hungry, tired, and maybe, just a little hung over.

I set right to work with the perfect handover cure - my omelettes.  Truth be told, there isn’t that much special about them, but it is one of the few things that I learned in Home Economics, and they are the perfect cure for a night out on the town.  There is protein and grease.  Both in ample quantities.

We ate our breakfast in the morning sun out on the deck.  Rehashing some of the moments from the night before, but a quietness hung around the group.  For me, it was a bit of sadness for a good time coming to an end.

Before noon, they packed their bags and headed for the door, just as my next set of visitors were stopping by for the day, my younger sister Margaret and her boyfriend Jon.

I want to state, again, for the record, that I believe that my sister is too young to date yet, so on the one hand, I don’t approve of her having a boyfriend.  On the other hand, Jon is a decent guy and a very good match for my sister.  He laughs at my jokes and gets my sense of humor, which bothers the rest of the family, so there is some benefit there too.

Plus, I guess Margaret is thirty now….

Margaret and Jon are pretty low key guests.  They both brought books, Jon brought his fishing gear.  We sat around and talked about life.  They were kind enough to give me the latest Weird Al Yankovic album (which we had to listen too…I mean come on, its Weird Al!).

We had a late lunch at Zorbaz, the best pizza place in the world, and had a great conversation about life, religion, and politics.  Two of the things that you should never discuss.  It was an enlightening, and at times, disturbing, conversation.  I will say nothing more about it except to say - I love my sister deeply…but that doesn’t necessarily extend to her political views.

The rest of the afternoon was one of the most relaxing of the trip.  For me, it was going back and forth between swimming, napping, reading, and visiting.  For Margaret, it was reading while listening to my ipod on random…and she found out that my music selection is indeed random…and for Jon, an afternoon of reading and fishing.

Tom, Mary, and the girls came by for supper again -  and another great summer sunset on the lake.  The guests left about 8pm, and I followed them out the door, I was going to Dad’s - we were taking a long promised trip tomorrow, to see the famous Devil’s Lake basin in North Dakota.

 With the music wafting over from the WeFest grounds, we had to fired up the grill, popped a few more tops, enjoying the midsummer Minnesota night.  We ate and drank, and laughed and talked on the deck overlooking the lake.

Then it was time to prepare.  Out came the jeans and the straw cowboy hats and we prepared some refreshments for the two mile walk to the WeFest grounds.  People were fired up.

We made it all of about three blocks before we made our first stop.  We had to pace ourselves.  The Shorewood Pub is a classic northcountry watering hole, and like most good north country taverns, its looks are deceiving.  While on the outside, it looks like a hole in the wall, inside, it is a big hole in the wall, with character.

More importantly, it had cheap beer, a good juke box.  Less importantly, it has decades of beer memorabilia and north country kitsch on the walls and ceiling.  A true classic.

From the Shorewood Pub, we meandered up the road again, past Bleachers Bar (closed…who is going to a bar when WeFest is only a mile up the road) and over the railroad bridge.

I have to say that the sight from the railroad bridge is impressive.  There was a line of sight, a continuous clearing amongst the trees that stretched along the tracks, for what looked like a mile or two on either side of the road, and all you could see was tents, trailers, and campers.  It was like seeing some army encamped through the trees.

A big, drunken, army.

We were getting ready to enlist.

The first major act of the night was Darius Rucker.  We missed him by about five minutes, which meant that the majority of party goers would retreat to their campsites and cheaper beverages, and give us at least forty-five minutes to wander the grounds, view the food, beverage, and t-shirt options and get the lay of the land.

All of the guests were impressed.  It was like a, well, a giant music festival in the middle of an open field surrounded by a half circle of beer and food vendors made up to look like some wild west theme park.

And it was good.

At some point, with seven people venturing out for food, drink, and bathrooms, it was a bit like herding cats.  But someway, somehow, everyone managed to make it in place for the second big act of the night, Miranda Lambert. 

Miranda was a bit like Sugarland the night before.  You think to yourself, “What does she really sing that I would know….” And you end up singing along to most of the songs.

We had a blast.

But the place was filling up with the same rowdy band of youngsters (twenty-five and under) that we had seen the night before….but seemingly more of them, and even rowdier.

And it was a blast.

The sights we saw…probably inappropriate…the conversations with the people around us…hilarious….the entire crew…having a blast….

We were packed in like sardines with thousands of people milling around us and pushing us together when the headline act hit the stage - Rascal Flatts.  Well, let me tell you, the crowd, and our group included was there to rock.  We danced together, we sang along together, we laughed at the funny songs, we swayed to the sentimental ones.

It was a classic concert event.  Epic in so many ways.  In its fun, in its sights, in its sounds, in the antics, in the sheer audacity of some of the people around us (and with us!).

It was a very good time.

We left with the crowd, making our way towards the gates as the stage lights dimmed, Rascal Flatts left the stage, and the rain started to fall…not waiting for the encore…

It was a long drive back.  Some of our party had been having a very good time all day, and were very tired and exhausted.  Our group separated.  Some walked ahead…back to the Shorewood (we would need some of the peppers off the table for the pizza…that others were picking up from the convenience store enroute).

Everyone made it back, once the moon came out and the rain stopped.

The women folk sat inside and figured out how to run my oven for pizza, while we men went outside and swam, started a fire, and generally made asses of ourselves.

Then we ate pizza, watched the pictures taken through the night…few which can ever see the light of day…and then, we went to bed.

A good day at the lake, a good night at WeFest.

Our group finds our spot

Unknown people….passing out?  Dancing?  Hugging?  The World may never know…

The great unwashed…and loving it.

A WeFest Sunset

WeFest, Rain, and Pizza (via the convience store)

 Country music singer Jake Owen sings a summer song called, “Barefoot Blue Jeans Night,” that captures all that is good and right about summers - good friends, good weather, water, music, hope, good times, and good memories.  I woke to that song on the radio and on my mind that first Saturday of August.  And watched the rain clouds threaten outside.

Mike and Lindsay slept in, as did I.  It was a late night at the concert, and it was perfect sleeping weather.

Mike cooked us breakfast…his famous ‘Cajun’ eggs - and we prepared for the day, getting the cabin ready and going for a little swim  We had a little to get ready for, the crowd was going to grow.  The refrigerator was well stocked with food and beverages. The counters were overflowing with food.  We were set.

And when guests came, they came in waves.

Good friends Pat and Katti showed up right around noon with their guests.  Pat, my hero, managed to take my request to bring along single women seriously, and he delivered.  He and Katti (I suspect the driving force behind it) invited up two sisters from my own street back in Saint Louis Park, lovely, charming, intelligent, and good looking - and darn fun to have around.

As we were meeting and greeting and showing them around, in the door walks good friend Matt and his brother Kent.  Matt and his family graced me with their presence the prior weekend - and were and I was delighted to see him and his brother stop in again.  Always full of good humor and good stories, think they left the crew from the cities enraptured with their stories ranging from down on the farm to living in the hood of Minneapolis back in their younger and wilder days.

For a good hour, the entire crew laughed, joked, and visited in the little living room of my cabin.  Laughter and goodwill filled the place.  It was what I bought the place for.

All too soon, Matt and Kent had to move on, while the rest of us moved outside to enjoy the increasingly sunshiny day - the rain clouds of the morning had broken and given us a beautiful day.

Us guys made our way to the water where we threw the football around and enjoyed the clear water under us…and the women that had made their way to the dock to enjoy the sunshine.  My dock has never looked so good nor been so charming.

Our arms sore from catching and throwing the ball…and our ears full of water from making many ‘daring’ diving catches (like all good males trying to impress women folk), we made our way to the shore and the beverages.  We sat in the shade of the trees on the deck and watched the beautiful scene in front of us - the sun, the lake, the dock…

The afternoon went too fast.  And the words of “Barefoot Blue Jeans Night” rang true - “never gonna grow up, never gonna to slow down….we were doing it right, we were coming alive…”

 It was back to the cabin.  There were some things that needed to be done, and I was expecting more company by the end of the day.

And work needed to be done.

First shopping - I had to pick up meat.  Roasts, bacon, chops, pork roast - the full meal deal.  Then, the fun stuff - chips, fruit, and pop.  And finally, the liquor store…which, I must admit was quite an experience.  First of all, it was 10:00am, and already, pickup trucks with people looking like they had just woken up were already rolling in.  Boys and girls really, half dressed.  Ah yes, WeFest weekend.

It was a bit of a madhouse, but I managed to get there about ten minutes before things seemed to really get busy.  As a result, I had to wait for two people…but there was a line of ten when I left.

I drove through downtown and along the lake, where I was met with hundreds of people, pouring out of their cars and heading to the lake.  In the lake, people were diving in, lathering up - in short, they too were WeFesters, coming into town to freshen up in the lake before another day of festivities.

It was mayhem.

There were booths and stalls set up everywhere, selling sunglasses, t-shirts, straw hats, beads, tickets, and the all important ice.

It was fun to see, but there was work to do - a few final touches to the cabin before my company arrived.

Namely, unpacking the booze.

Well, building shelves, then unpacking booze.  There was one section of the wall that at one point had built in shelves, but there were no shelves to be seen.  So with the help of some pine boards found in the garage and Dad’s circular saw (with the wrong blade…which kind of burned through the lumber rather then cut it….), the shelves were up and my booze - whiskey, rum, vodka - the lot - was unpacked and set up on the shelves.  It looked classy…as classy as four shelves of middle shelf booze could make it.

But it was ready to roll - and I had a little time to jump in the water for a swim before my first company arrived.

Mike and Lindsay have been good friends for ages.  They are the main instigators of the annual Crawfish Boil, they have been there to help me move more than once, they have fed me more often than I can remember - and they were coming up to spend the weekend.

They pulled into the driveway of the little cabin about one o’clock that afternoon, and after a quick tour of the place, we headed into town for a little lunch, at one of the best pizza places in the town…no…the state…no…the country….no…the world….no….THE GALAXY…Zorbaz (truth me told, I’m writing this two months later at my computer in Australia drinking out of my Zorbaz mug…its that good).  It was a picture perfect Minnesota day.  We sat outside, drinking beer, eating pizza and discussing the state of the world, while I watched the lovely, skimpily clad girls walk by in their WeFest cowboy hats.  Thinking to myself - life is grand.

We whiled away the afternoon, then headed back for the cabin (after buying a three pack of tickets and the obligatory straw cowboy hats), went for a swim, threw the football around…then took a good nap.

It was hard work to take it that easy.

Then, with our shorts, flip-flops, and straw cowboy hats, we headed for the door.

I’m a bit embarrassed to say that we missed Willie Nelson.  I’m not a fan, and I’m not disappointed, but he is a classic in country music…and lets face it, every other week we hear that he’s been in another accident (which is what you get for….playing on the road again….).

But we made it just in time to say hello to a couple of former teachers that were working the gate - and to grab a beverage or two before Lynyrd Synyrd, the classic of southern rock.  What is more impressive is that of the 90,000 people in attendance, probably less then 10% were alive when Lynyrd Synyrd were actually cutting chart topping records.

Consider this, “Sweet Home Alabama” was released on their second album (appropriately titled “Second Helping”) and was released April 15^th, 1974….that folks, is older than me.  And at this event, with the general admission crowd, I felt…well, old.

I know I was old because there were several children, and I call them children, though they must have been at least approaching twenty-one (as they were clearly inebriated) that I wanted to go over and say, like a good uncle, “FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS GOOD HOW CAN YOU GO AROUND WEARING THAT IN PUBLIC!”

Not to be too big of a hypocrite, there was about a five year age gap between what was too young to be out in public wearing what little they were, and what seemed to be to be very appropriate…and folks, there wasn’t much difference in what they were wearing…

The crowd of course went nuts for Sweet Home Alabama (you could expect no less) and it was the first time in my thirty plus years that I actually heard thousands of people chant, “FREE BIRD!”  and actually mean it.  It was, or course, their encore song.

Sugarland was up next.  I’ll admit, I wasn’t looking forward to this concert.  Nothing against Sugarland, but I just couldn’t think of a lot of their songs that I knew.

Boy, was I wrong…

As they ripped into their first set, every song I could not only recognize, but sing right along with.

I guess I knew their music better then I thought.

They put on a terrific show - and one that I’m glad I got to see on a picture perfect Minnesota evening.

 I’m a homebody.  Yes, I know I’m living in Australia, have moved twelve times since leaving the farm, but when people ask where home is, they hear the story of the little farm up on the northern prairies, next to the big woods country of Minnesota.

It was hard to believe that I’d been back in the country almost a week and this would be the first time that I’d be back on the farm.

It was a picture perfect summer day, so I decided to take one drive up Main Street.  The old main street of the home town was decked out in its finest - with the big old trees shading the street on the south end of town by St Michael’s church slowly giving way to the flower planters and American flags that graced each light pole up and down Main Street.  Not much had changed, though they had ripped down the old car dealership and lumber yard, both buildings that were threatening to come down on their own, with walls buckling and roofs sagging.

I did the classic pointer finger raised from the steering wheel of the car to wave at the people passing by.  Most just thinking they are being kind to a stranger or some unnamed stranger, a few familiar faces lighting up as they recognized the face behind the wheel.

Then it was down Fairgrounds road - the classic old WPA brick buildings, then west by Green Acres, the newest subdivision in the town (circa 1970) - and the two miles to home.

Dad had mowed grass, so the place looked sharp, and there is nothing quite like the smell of fresh cut grass on a warm summer day.  The late afternoon sun was shining down on me as I drove up the driveway.

It was good to be home.

Getting out of the car into the windless summer day, the grass smell combined with the humid, dank, earthy smell from the slough next to the house.

“Hello!”  I called, walking into the house.

“Yea, Mark, you’re home.”  Dad said matter-of-factly, but with a smile on his face.

We chatted for the next hour or so, Dad sending me running occasionally for some piece of paper or letter, “Grab that round robin letter on the counter, let’s see what Frank had to say - there was something I wanted to show you in there.”  Or “Grab that Pioneer (the local hometown newspaper) off the table, think there is someone in there that you know.”

About six, we turned on the news, then - like clockwork, “What do you want to do for supper?”  Dad asked, though he knew the answer.

“Oh, yeah, guess we could go to the Red Apple.” I replied.  The Red Apple café is the only café in town.  And it’s a good one.  Dad has coffee there every morning and most of our formal family meals that don’t take place around our dinner table, take place at the Red Apple.

Back to town we went.

Being the social hub of the community, there was a fair amount of people walking in and walking by, providing a running commentary:

“Oh yeah Bob, see you got company tonight.”

“Oh yeah Bob, must be your turn to cook tonight.”

“Oh yeah Bob, see the boy is home.”

“Oh yeah, Bob, which one is this one?  Is this the one Australia?”

Dad answered each comment with the appropriate response, usually smile and quick nod of the head, followed by some comment about the weather.

The food was always good, and I was hankering for a good Red Apple Special - a California burger - with waffle fries.  A classic American meal.

Then came another family tradition, crop watching.  The same line is used today as when we were kids, “Let’s go for a drive,” or the more abbreviated, “Let’s go for a ride around the block.”

If this is said Sunday afternoon at one o’clock, that normally means an all afternoon affair down some back roads far from home and/or some visit to a friend, neighbour, or relative.  In the evening, it might just be a simple thirty to ninety minute driving through the neighborhood looking at crops and watching for deer.

Tonight, it was a hybrid, we did the drive, then driving home - we stopped at Urban’s.  Urban, or Urbbie as he was known to us growing up, farmed just down the road from us, and is technically a cousin to Dad.  They shared a lot of machinery together and it wasn’t uncommon to swap labor as needed either.

Pulling in, it was clear, we needed to do a little labor tonight.

Urban was trying to wrestle a big black, steel desk into his front door.  Not an easy task to do on your own.  In short order, Urban and I had it wrestled into place in his living room.  As payment, Urbbie pulled out a couple of ice cream bars out of his freezer, and we sat out in the lawn in an assortment of chairs, talking farming, crops, and state of the local economy.

With the August sun settled into the red horizon, shining through the dust of wheat harvest kicking off farther wheat, we made our way back to the farmstead.  Dad settled down for the night in his recliner - where he has slept for the last almost twenty years, and I went for a walk to take in the effects of the Minnesota summer twilight.

I slept well that night, with the comforts of home around me, the fresh night air wafting in the windows, and crickets singing me their lullaby.

“MARK!  MARK!  MARK!”

“WHHAAAT!”

“Are you awake?”

“Yeah!” I replied…at least I am now….I mumble under my breath….

“You wanted to go to coffee with me this morning?” Dad asked.

“Yup, coming.”  I yelled back.

5:30am came much sooner than I expected.  In an instant, I was dressed and ready to go.  Then we waited.  The 5:30 news was on, we had to watch that.

Then it was on to the Red Apple.

We walked through the doors slightly before 6:00am, and the place was just coming to life.  The waitresses all knew Dad of course, and they were busy getting things ready for another busy day.  There was already one person at the counter.  And one person at the table.

Dad got his decaf, and I got my regular.  I literally mean Dad got it, he serves his own coffee - since they don’t officially open until 6:00am, Dad usually gets his own coffee, part of the cost of being early.

The table we sat at, the big round table towards the back, was the biggest in the place and had eight chairs circling it.  Little did I know the work out those chairs would get.  Over the next two hours, it would be a constant game of musical chairs as various friends and neighbors came through the door, ordered a coffee, sometimes a bit of breakfast, and caught up on the news of the day.  There were times when the eight chairs weren’t enough, so some were stolen from nearby tables.  Over the course of the time we spent there, there must have been a good twenty people that make the trek through the door, to the coffee pot and to the table.

The conversation was pretty stock standard, who was sick, who died, who was in the hospital, the latest news from the school, the weather, the crops, the latest on the news from the elevator.  I got asked a fair number of questions on Australia.  And there was a good dose of humor and jokes thrown in for good effect as well.

Eight o’clock rolled around, about the time Dad would be heading off for daily Mass, but with Father on vacation, it was just home for me to get packed and head back down the road.

This was my first trip home, but it wouldn’t be my last on this trip. 

 This evening lakeside in Minnesota was no ordinary one however, for this was the first Wednesday in August, and though this was my first year on the hallowed shores of Detroit Lakes (Playboy’s best place to be in the summer for about ten years running back in the 1980’s and early 1990’s), even I knew of the events taking place only two miles from my cabin door…WeFest…

Twenty-nine years ago, a small farming family said, “Hey, lets start a little country music festival.”  From there, they proceeded to turn the hillsides of their little farm into a music venue that surpasses almost any in the United States, and probably the world.  The town of Detroit Lakes swells from its normal 10,000 people to well in excess of 100,000 this one weekend…

And my little cabin was on its doorstep.

In it’s 29 year history, I’d never attended.  Though I grew up only forty miles up the road, it was seen as a wild and raucous place…plus, I was usually working.  Milking cows as a teenager, somewhere around the US during my working years.

But now, living in Australia, I would get a chance to attend…

But not tonight.  The concert didn’t start until Thursday (and I wouldn’t get a chance to go until Friday).  So on this night, as twilight settled in, and my brother and his family left for the night, I swam out into the warm inviting waters for a relaxing dip.

It was then that I heard the music….someone was playing at WeFest…

I sat in the warm lake water as the sun sank below the Northwestern horizon, and listened to the music coming from the WeFest grounds two miles away.

It was awesome.

Turns out, there were already over 10,000 fans on sight camping…of the more then 100,000 that would fill the campground by the end of the festival.  Some of the artists, knowing that people were already there and waiting, decided to put on an early show.

Now that is Minnesota nice.

I slept well, and I slept well that Thursday night, with the call of the Minnesota loons, our state bird, calling across the lake, and the sound of country music wafting across the waters.

Thursday was the first “me” day of the trip.  A chance to unwind a bit and relax.

For the first time in about twenty-five years, I walked the streets of Detroit Lakes.  This was the major commercial hub for our family growing up.  Forty miles from home, it was the closest place to get some of the necessities, from clothing to tractor parts.  And it was a whopping thirty miles closer than the metropolis of Fargo.

I remember walking with Mom down Washington Avenue, the Mainstreet, during some of the crazy days sales as a youth.  And here I was now, walking into some of the same stores.  Looking for gifts and viewing the wares.  Sights and sounds out of history washed over me in waves.  It was humbling.

As a teenager and adult, I’d dreamed of redoing this walk, and though I’ll never have the chance to go back in time and rewalk it with Mom, there was something satisfying about walking these streets that brought happiness. The thrill of a new book or new toy, or that new pair of jeans for the start of the school year.  Though the stores can’t compare to those in Fargo, Minneapolis, New York, of Melbourne…it was the most satisfying shopping trip I’ve had in many a year.

And part of that might be because I bought nothing for myself!

There were a few more errands that needed to be run - to my brother’s place in Hawley, twenty miles away, to Fargo to pick up a few things for the coming weekend, to meet my brother for lunch.

Then home.  Back to the farm.  The pilgrimage.