To: Joe McD.
Date: Monday, August 20, 2007 10:30 AM
Subject: "Now why don't he write?"
That's a line out of, "Dances With Wolves." The ill-fated mule skinner, looking at a sun-bleached human skeleton with arrows sticking into it (versus, 'sticking out of it') is talking to "John Dunbar," and explaining that," ... some of these po' folks are never heard from again, and the people back home are wondering, "'Now why don't he write?'"
On Sunday, I went to Rydell Wildlife Management Refuge to hear a talk about NW Minnesota's Savannah-Parkland region, and Red River Ox Cart Trails, given by Nancy Sather, a naturalist and writer whom I've wanted to met for some time. I've read her work from time to time and wanted to reprint a piece or two since as it's exceptional. At the beginning of the talk she handed out excerpts from historical manuscripts by early explorers that she encouraged all of us to take and read aloud; I took three. There were only about a dozen people there (all over the age of 45) and they needed participants.
As an elderly woman ahead of me read her passages, I recognized her voice as that of Anne H. from Red Lake Falls, but waited until the presentation was over until I greeted her and introduced myself, as we have often talked on the phone but never met face-to-face. She then introduced me to Nancy Sather, who upon reading my RAVEN cap, said she had long wanted to follow-up on that little magazine from Wannaska, but never had. I gave her a complimentary copy of the Larson issue, but declined to rivet her attention until after everyone else had an opportunity to talk to her. Instead, I helped carry chairs and close-up the place, then after the other people had left and all lingering participants had said their piece.
Anne was seemingly delighted to meet me (I have the feeling she acts that way toward everyone) and asked me if I was planning to go home via Red Lake Falls…? Well, what's another 10-15 miles in the scheme of things? I mean really. So I said, "Yes, I guess I could." And she said, "Great! I'll fix you a…" Then there was a great burst of laughter somewhere in the room and I failed to catch what it was she was going to 'fix me'. Her daughter, who accompanied her, then smiled and said, "She really means it." Still perplexed, I said I'd stop by in a couple hours or so.
I talked to Nancy and her sister all the way out to their car, that was parked close to my Toyota pickup, and enjoyed the conversation immensely. (We'll, see if she really subscribes.) She said we could reprint her work along as she doesn't lose any of her publication rights, and that's fine. So not wanting to keep them any longer, I said my goodbyes and went back to the truck, but before I could get gone--her sister came to the driver's side of the truck and asked me if I/we have ever thought of doing a presentation about media communications for 5th or 3rd graders? (She teaches in TRF)
"Hooyah! NO!" I said, whacking her soundly with the door, then backing out of there with the gravel shooting out from under the tires.
Well, I didn't do that really. I just said I hadn't given it any thought, but if she was serious she could email/or write us. This sounds right up your alley, grandpa/child educator, book reader (Joe McDonnell). Huh? huh?
Then I drove to Red Lake Falls. Anne had told me to go past the courthouse and turn onto Bottineau and hers was a big yellow house on the right side of the street. Okay, so I drove past the courthouse and I turned on Bottineau, and the first yellow house I see was also purple, and dark gray--and was at the top of a near vertical driveway that I couldn't believe someone of her age would use. I hesitated, but stuck 'er into first gear and drove to the top of that driveway and kept driving higher until it topped out at the end of an alley where two guys were standing by their truck.
"Did I just drive up someone's sidewalk?" I asked with a bit of the incredible in my voice. "No, but you are on private property," the man with the narrow, high-cheeked face framed by long white hair, beard, and mustache, answered tersely.
"I'm terribly sorry about that, but I'm looking for Anne's house. She said it was on Bottineau, and that house,' I said, gesturing backwards,' is yellow, among other colors. I wasn't sure."
"That house is gray," he grumped, nodding toward the almost-three story Victorian house situated on a bluff high above the Clearwater River, 'Anne's house is yellow. Go past the courthouse. Turn right on Bottineau. And Anne's house is the first yellow house on your right."
"Thank you," I said without arguing the point, driving past the men just knowing our exchange would've been much more colorful if we could've shouted in French and used hand gestures. but alas we could not.
Okay ..."Past the courthouse. Then,"Right on Bottineau. The first yellow house on Bottineau is yellow and white! The only yellow house on Bottineau is on the left side of the friggin' street!"
"ARGH!!!!!!!"
Well, I remembered Jackie said Anne lived in a big old house above the river, and this big yellow and white house was above the river, whereas the yellow house on the left side was not, so I took another chance and went to the door of the yellow and white house and knocked.
I could hear the TV on, and as I looked inside the little foyer there saw two doorbells, one with a little sign and arrow below it that said, "Anne," and pointed to the bottom doorbell. I stepped inside and pushed that doorbell.
To my great relief Anne answered,"Great, you're here! C'mon in, let me fix you a… cocktail!"
Aha! So that's what the daughter meant when she said, "She's serious."
"My daughter said, 'He'll never show up. Going through Red Lake Falls is out of his way,. But I knew you would," she said.
So I sat and drank cocktails, and ate Schwann's 'Mini-Tacos,' with a spry 89 year old woman on that beautiful Sunday night and talked about the Red River Valley, and history. A very enjoyable weekend to be sure.
Hope yours was as this.
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