Small town memories
A reminiscence by parishioner Deacon Tom Lindell.
Listening to Garrison Keillor’s radio show, Prairie Home Companion, always brought my own memories of having “lived there.” It was almost painful listening to his tales from Lake Wobegon.
At the age of eight, my family moved from Red Wing, Minnesota, a Mississippi river town, to Bayport, a small town on the St. Croix river. Both river towns bordered Wisconsin, clearly visible across each river.
At that time, Bayport had a population of 2,500 people—1,000 of whom had permanent residence in the Minnesota State Prison. The prison was about three blocks from our first home which was across the street from the Catholic cemetery. Both were quiet neighbors.
Being from a small town carries a lot of nostalgia. No one locked their doors and yards did not have fences, so dogs and kids roamed freely without parental concern. It was a very liberating existence. Many days we would get on our bikes in the morning and return that evening for dinner—no questions asked. We got into the usual small-town troubles, but nothing overly serious. Shortly after we moved to town, several streetlights were extinguished by rock throwing newcomers.
Bayport had an excellent school that ran from kindergarten through ninth grade. I arrived in November 1949 and was immediately enrolled in Mrs. Carlson’s third grade class where I struggled to memorize the multiplication tables. Sharon Huss, daughter of the local baker, tutored me in the back cloakroom.
Some lifelong friendships were kindled that followed us to high school in the neighboring city of Stillwater, the oldest town in Minnesota. When I matriculated to Stillwater High School (home of the Ponies) was when I experienced for the first time the stigma of having come from a small town.
Almost all towns in Minnesota had traditional annual celebrations. Stillwater had Lumberjack Days and other small communities like Le Sueur (home of Green Giant) had their Corn on the Curb Days.
Bayport was known for its celebration of Memorial Day. People throughout the St. Croix valley came from miles around to attend. It was a surprisingly long parade that ran from the south end of town and ended at the cemetery on the hill.
The parade was led by an Honor Guard from the American Legion, followed by a convertible with local dignitaries—often the featured speakers at the cemetery. What followed was an impressive array of fire and emergency trucks from surrounding communities. The town had an excellent volunteer fire station with some large fire trucks because the Andersen Window Corporation was headquartered in Bayport.
Not far behind were the American Legion Drum and Bugle Corps (we called them the “drunk and bungle corps”), Explorer Scouts, Boy and Girl Scouts, Cub Scouts, local high school bands, and the grade school children. The parade route was lined with people in lawn chairs.
When the parade passed, people carried their chairs up to Hazelwood cemetery for the presentations. The program always took the same pattern: an opening prayer by the chaplain of the Legion, followed by two children reciting Flanders Field and the Gettysburg Address (supposedly memorized) but always needing prompting.
The main address was usually a retired military officer who came from the area and extolled those who sacrificed their lives for their country. (Our cousin Harry Carlson was among them. He was killed on his first mission over Germany in a B-17 as a tail gunner.) The bugler’s haunting Taps was heard off in the distance followed by a rifle salute by uniformed Legionnaires. This was the highlight for children who gathered around to pick up the spent cartridge casings ejected by the bolt-action rifles.
The Stillwater High School band then played some marching songs, and people lingered near the graves of their loved ones, which held freshly planted geraniums in full bloom. Today, Mom and Dad are still in their usual place among the many others whose names I still recognize.
If there is a time that I cherish returning to Minnesota, it is Memorial Day. My wife and I have done it numerous times since moving to Arizona, and it is always the same each year. It is also an opportunity to see some old friends who never moved away or did and returned for the quality of life. There are fewer each year, which is to be expected….
There are, of course, many stories to be told about growing up in Bayport. When I would read to my two daughters each night they would always request, “Tell us about when you were a little boy, Daddy,” and that is where the real stories were told. I have since begun writing down some of these vignettes in hopes that I will someday give them to my adult children as a present to tell their grandchildren. Life will continue through stories of small-town Minnesota.