SMALL TOWNS, HOMETOWNS

There are times when I contemplate what it would be like to live in a small town again.  The Wisconsin town I grew up in had a population of only 1,013 in the 1960’s.  It didn’t seem small at the time, maybe because much larger cities like Milwaukee and Chicago were far away and my family rarely got there.  Those cities seemed drastically different and scared me in some ways—the houses were often close together, the traffic impossible, and people everywhere.  At least when we drove to Milwaukee to watch the Braves play, we had a purpose—to enjoy professional baseball. 

The street I lived on was called Butternut Street.  I’ve always had a fascination with how streets were named, but I’ve never figured that one out.  Across the street was an empty field where I played ball for hours at a time. A block away was a neat and well-maintained ball field with an old grandstand that was simply grand.  Driving back the 150 miles now to my hometown and Butternut Street, I can still visualize that wonderful old grandstand, which was torn down long ago.  The town has since doubled in size, and it has many beautiful new homes, but most of my old landmarks are gone.  Across from my father’s downtown furniture store, where I sometimes helped out, was a charming old drugstore.  I’d often sit at the counter with my friends after school and have a delicious cherry phosphate, which was a combination of sweet cherry flavor and sparkling water.  I don’t know if you can still buy a cherry phosphate, but  I can almost conjure up the taste now.

In many ways I had an idyllic childhood in that little town.  One year my dad paid the miniscule amount of $40 for a year’s membership at a small country golf course 13 miles away, and my friends and I played there often.  Of course we rarely missed a stop at the root beer stand afterwards. 

Me on the left with friends and fellow skaters

And in the winter there was ice skating at the rink near the Boy Scout cabin, just a block away.  I remember having sprint races there and warming up by the fireplace inside the cabin with a hot chocolate in hand.

But of course not all was perfect.  I recall sitting by the floor register when I came home and waiting for my feet to thaw out, a painful process.  I always vowed not to stay out so long the next time, but it was rarely different.  A passage of childhood, I guess. 

And then I remember my mother, feeling obliged because of her Norwegian heritage, to make Lutefisk and Lefse, our once a year treat.  My oldest brother and I thought it was delicious, but my dad and younger brother were less enthusiastic, and for days afterwards, our house had a distinct fish smell. The little Norwegian plates made by a neighbor adorned our kitchen and made that special Norwegian food seem even more authentic. I still have the plates, but have held off on the Norwegian delicacy for a while.

In 1966, when I graduated from high school, there were 44 students in my class.  Fast forward 25 years, when my oldest son graduated from a suburban Minneapolis high school with over 2,000 students in his class alone—twice the size of my hometown.  How different our experiences of growing up have been, along with different perspectives.  He’s lived his entire life in large metropolitan areas, but thankfully he does have an appreciation of small towns and their unique and different way of life.

I do feel truly blessed to have experienced two different life paths.  Minneapolis has been my home for over 40 years and it’s still fun and exciting for me, with wonderful lakes and parks, sporting venues, theater, shopping, and opportunities to meet new people nearly every day.  But I find myself sometimes yearning for a quieter place, with fewer cars and people, and more time to relax and reflect.  My wandering spirit has returned.  The grass is looking a bit greener on the other side, but I’m sure it’s only temporary.  Cher, the famous American singer and actress, once said, “If grass can grow through cement, love can find you at every time in your life.”  I take my cue from that piece of advice and vow to stay open to different possibilities—whatever that may entail—new adventures to embrace, new places to discover, or new ways to fully love all that life has to offer.  As President Lincoln long ago remarked, “And in the end, it’s not the years in your life that count.  It’s the life in your years.”