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Let's face it, sometimes it sucks Babe the Blue Ox balls to live in Northern Minnesota. The winters are cold, lutefisk is disgusting, and you're forever mocked by people whose only experience with the better state half involves films with class-action law suits and wood chippers.
The summers, however, make it worthwhile. This past week, I ran a 4-mile loop with Forest Gump-esque scenery, sow-gnawed, cliff jumped and stared deeply into the depths of a bonfire. All at temperatures between 65 and 80 degrees.

What I really like, however, is the small town-like feel you get up here. You Twin Cities people might have six degrees of separation — we have three. For example, my coworker's husband's ex-wife was my bus driver from fifth through twelfth grade, and I knew about her daughter's FACEBOOKOFFICIAL relationship six months before she did. Ock-word.
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The Parkside in Soudan
At Parkside Homes, the place where I'm living this summer, everyone knows everybody. The manager of the Parkside, Ken, is the former mayor of West St. Paul / an ex-con. If I can ever pen up a character as wily as him, I'd probably sell a million books. He's got his hands in a dozen different projects, from gold-panning, to hockey sticks made from recycled cardboard.

Last week, the Parkside had an unexpected visitor — an 80-year old man named Edmund. Somehow, Edmund convinced the nurses of his nursing home to let him make a trip up to Canada. He borrowed a trailer, filled it with everything he owned and set off from the Wisconsin Dells.

It wasn't meant to be. Outside of Tower, his trailer fishtailed and he overcorrected, "cracking the whip," as Ken put it, and sending the trailer and car into the other lane, where a car slammed into him.

When the police determined Edmund was okay, they called Ken because they knew he had rooms open. The trailer and truck were smashed up, but Edmund wasn't too bad. Ken brought him back and bandaged him up without a thought. He also started making conversation with him.

Turns out, Edmund had eight months to live. All he had to his name was that trailerful of possessions. I doubt he ever intended to return. He'd wanted to fish the lakes of his youth, re-explore the trails.

During the conversation, he began to shake: diabetes. Ken scavenged the Parkside and fed him jam and a candy bar. Around ten, he finally put Edmund to bed, telling him to get some rest.

The Nurse arrived around 2 in the morning, having driven all the way up from the Dells. Edmund was woken and brought to where what was left of his things were. He became picky, explaining that he must bring this, he couldn't leave that. Finally, the Nurse said 

"Edmund. It's time to go."

They loaded up and made the whole drive back to Wisconsin. And that was that.

Ken told me the whole story over a cup of coffee the next day, in a serious tone.

In my own way, I guess I was rooting for Edmund. I was deeply moved by his story. There's always something you intend to do In The Future. Maybe it's a place you've never been. Maybe it's a part of your past you want to reconnect with if only to understand why it was so wonderful at the time. But if your intentions always stay In The Future, you'll tend to run out of time.

Eventually, you'll look at all the things you've accumulated, wondering which one matters the most. Then, like Edmund, there will be a hand on your shoulder, and a voice: "It's time to go." It isn't something you can argue with.
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Near Bass Lake
I don't know where I'm going to be in 50 years, but I wonder if I'll dream about that beautiful trail around the lake, or leaping and screaming off a blood red cliff as I crash into the clear waters of a mine pit. 

Most of all, I think I'll remember the people. You get to know them pretty well up here. They've got a tendency to be loud, neurotic and generally nosy, but if your trailer flips over, they'll be there for you, ya betcha. 

Landscapes change; character endures.
 


Comments

Amanda Siegle

Tue, 20 Jul 2010 12:53:22

Wow awesome story Matt! I'm rooting for Edmund too.

 

Jen

Tue, 20 Jul 2010 19:05:15

Sigh...the things you miss when you leave Soudan...

 



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