I’m just driving down the road minding my own windshield when up ahead I see a sign that says, “Maple Sugar Minnesota, population 3026”. A guy waves as he drives past me, a complete stranger, headed out of this friendly little town. I don’t know if Maple Syrup Minnesota really exists, but I like the idea of a small town with 1554 posted as living instead of 80000.
Last time I was in Bovey, it had 662 folks. That size city or town, with less than a population of 5000, right there I think to myself, I think, real mashed potatoes smothered with honest to goodness chicken or turkey dripped gravy on home made bread. Then I go looking for the “open” sign on the nearest café to the only stop sign in town.
The waitress at the café may have her thumb in my gravy as she serves me. Coleslaw tastes great even though I’m positive it was made last Saturday in some huge batch, no matter what day of this week, I drive into town.
Some Great big guy that owns the local bait store, knows every hot spot for twenty miles and hasn’t been seen fishing in one, in the past twenty years, he starts the conversation. The local chit chatter when I order is about how everybody miss’s the mayor who just lost in the last election.
Try going to the VFW, American legion post number 42 or the moose club on Saturday night without meeting at least one blood relative, the minister’s kid or the local Sheriff. Who, by the way, all just happen to be in the same mood.
You want to see last summers Fourth of July fund raiser poster for the volunteer fire department, pull up to the local convenience store. The sun faded poster, its right next to the sign that says “no parking in front of store”. Where the kid, who’s trying to date the tenth grade Blondie clerk, has his big wheeled- truck, parked right smack in front of.
I pull into these wayside wonderfuls and I never feel the itch to unholster my “permit to carry a concealed weapon” weapon. Being a victim in a small town usually means somebody pulled one very clever practical joke on you, and the entire town will know by noon of the following Monday. By Saturday night next week, you won’t even be old news. Nothing else that funny, is gonna happen that fast.
So I start to drive out of town, some mongrel mutt is following real close to the best dressed little old lady this village can afford, and it bugs her no end. I bet the new mayor is going to hear about this. She staunchly nods at me, so I wave back. The trout whisperer
I loved this. When I go into small towns like that I always seek out the nearest cafe (I admit, I call them grease cafes) The people are always conversational, interesting and have a unique look on life.