Receiving communion for the first time was a very special day. My mother always made us the center of attention when it was our special day. We always attended rosary and Benediction on Saturday evenings and sometimes on Wednesday. My dad didn’t always because he had farm work to do. I remember going to Holy Thursday and Good Friday services and then going to school. Easter and Christmas were very special times. After Midnight Mass it meant a big meal at 2:00 in the morning. No matter what age we were, on those special days, we got a few swallows of homemade wine.

At home we would pray the rosary daily on our knees in the dining room. As time went on we were able to sit and pray the rosary. That was welcomed by all.

Daily prayers were said kneeling in the morning and evening. Meal prayers were also never forgotten.

As my mother and dad went on in age, their rosary, meal prayers and daily prayers were of great importance. When my dad’s aneurysm burst, he had a rosary around his neck. My mother passed away after the “Angel of God” was said. Growing up Catholic has helped me to be the person I am today. Thank you, God, for being in my life.

-Mary W.

Date of Essay: October 24, 2011

Those of us who grew up on the Bestside had many things available to us; stores, churches, rec centers, schools, parks, and all the many things that are found in a small town.  If we wanted to see a movie, go to the fair, or learn to play baseball on a REAL baseball field, we had to cross the river to THE OTHER SIDE.  To get there (east), we could get there by using the mother-approved way, or we could go the kid way, the fun way, the dangerous way; we could walk on the wild side!   Our choices were the Broadway bridge (boring) or the TRESTLE by the paper mill, which brought us across the river only a few blocks from the fairgrounds ballpark.

Now a railroad bridge added excitement to our lives, because we could die while attempting to cross it.  Signs warned us that it was railroad property–NO TRESPASSING!!  Either railroad workers or the papermill workers would yell at us or, if they were young enough, they would chase us to keep us off that bridge.

Now you have to understand that the trestle was not like the one that spans the river today; it was old, wooden, narrow, and high above the river.  It was a single track wide and it had a narrow catwalk on the south side, with a wooden railing to keep us from plunging to certain death in the river below.  If we were on our bikes, that meant walking the bike across because if we tried to ride across on the catwalk and fell, to the north we would land on the tracks and break bones; if we fell to the south, we would undoubtedly fall over the railing, into the river and drown.

Actually, crossing was no big deal, unless we were about halfway across when a train came along quickly and quietly, leaving us with 2 choices: run toward the train and hopefully be off the bridge before the train killed you, or try to get off the bridge before the train caught up with you and killed you.  We discovered that when you are 10 years old, it doesn’t take long for your life to flash before your eyes.

There was a third desperate choice that some of us had to resort to–the water barrel.  Every 100 feet or so (distance, height, and danger, are variable elements to a kid, so my details may be off a bit) there was a platform jutting out from the catwalk that held a barrel, in that barrel was water to be used to put out any small fires that may have started on the bridge.  The barrel was also big enough to hold a kid who jumped in it and the held his bike out over the river until the train passed by, not killing him.  We lived–usually, and most eastsiders went on to lead their boring, humdrum kid lives, while we  Bestsiders faced  death on an almost daily basis, either by train or angry mothers.

That which does not kill us makes us stronger–and occasionally, smarter.  I have not crossed an active trestle in at least 55 years.  God, how I miss the terror!

-S.W.

Date of Essay: February 21, 2012

The only problem shining in town was too many kids – as a result, too little money.

The next step was going into Camp, where the customers were congregated. Since it was about 8 miles, that meant that one of the moms would drive us to Camp, and another would pick us up. Sometimes we walked through the gate; sometimes we climbed the fence, but there were riches to be made.

I shined shoes, combat boots, and jump boots. If you could do a spit shine, you were in demand. There were times (1950-51) where, as a 10 or 11-year-old, I made as much money in a long day as my dad did in 2 weeks. After one of those “big money” days Dad offered to trade jobs, but he couldn’t do a spit shine.

- S. W.

Date of Essay: October 24, 2011

Then as I was waiting on another car, I looked up and went “Ah!” because there was this “Big Ape” like guy coming toward me!!! He came over, picked me up (I was under 100 pounds all through high school), spanked me, put me down and walked away! With that, I kept working. And he had to pick up his mom from work at Victor Clothing Company at 9:00. She already had heard about it.

I got even. I married that guy!

And when I went to formally meet his mom, that was the first thing she said to me … “I’d never go with someone who spanked me.” I didn’t tell her I was getting even!

Sammy’s Drive-In was just south of Little Falls by Twomey’s, where the Benson Radiator Shop is now. Sammy Winger from St. Louis Park owned it. And he always had a big cigar in his mouth. He’d smoke it until it “died” then chew the rest of it.

-D. W.

Date of Essay: October 24, 2011

Thankfully, our suburban yard is not large, although most of the leaves had blown across the road from the majestic oak trees.  This particular Saturday morning, with the October sun shining brightly, I look forward to working outside and breathing the crisp fall air.  I head outside to find my parents and suddenly the ridiculous roar of lawn machines meets me.  This leads me to think the whole neighborhood is doing their leaves, but I soon find out it is only the neighbors to the north.  They have two riding lawn mowers and are using a leaf blower to collect their leaves.  I walk to our shed to grab the old-fashioned tool, a rake.  My rake, unlike my parents’, has a metal and plastic end.  While raking, I find the metal rake works better than the completely plastic ends, or perhaps it is my commitment to gather every single leaf littering my yard.  The rake I am using may have worked the best, but was bested in terms of a cool factor by another.  The plastic rake my dad is using has a handle long enough to fit Paul Bunyan.  My family and I joke that we could stand in one spot and rake the whole yard and, if we stretched our arms out, the neighbor’s yard too.

To further divide the gap between the technological neighbors and ourselves, once our leaves are raked in piles, my parents and I pull out the old-fashioned tarp to move the leaves.  Our dog enjoys a ride as we pull the leaves across the yard to the trailer.  At least our system of raking leaves does not use fuel or pollute the atmosphere with noise.  It was quite peaceful when the neighbor’s machines were off and I could joke with my family and appreciate the crunch of the leaves.

R.B.

Date of Essay: October 24, 2011

There were several choices, including Wadena, Fergus Falls, and Little Falls. “Where is Little Falls?” my husband asked. After I printed out the map and the research I had done about the town, we decided a trip was in order.

I had driven through Little Falls once in the late-70′s when I lived in St. Cloud. This time, however, Highway 10 skirted the town, and we had to deliberately drive into town.

Little Falls certainly had the Lake Wobegon feel to it. (That’s from the Prairie Home Companion series by Garrison Keillor: “where all the women are strong, all the men are good-looking, and all the children are above average.” ) The traffic was minimal, the houses looked cozy, there were parks and historical sites. Downtown had small businesses, restaurants, banks and a bakery. And the population was only 8,000!

It was October 2005 when we visited. The air was chilly and the trees were in fall colors. We stopped to see a realtor, and took a tour of the town.

The day before Christmas Eve, we moved into our home, just six blocks from downtown. It was really cold and there was six inches of snow on the ground.

K. Olsen

Date of Essay: November 14, 2011

The Lutefisk Supper is a longstanding annual event which the community and surrounding area looks forward to the first Tuesday in December. Serving begins around 4:00 p.m. and continues until 8:00 p.m.

The Bethel congregation was organized in 1892 and incorporated on October 31, 1892. The first building was purchased from the Swedish Mission Friends in 1892 and stood on 11^th Street Southwest in Little Falls. Of course, their faith, traditions and love of their Swedish roots were also incorporated into that first church. The Worship Services were held in Swedish for some time.

In searching through the Swedish minutes of the Bethel Ladies Aid, we found the first mention of a Lutefisk Supper was on February 21, 1925. It was held at their regular meeting. The dinners continued up until World War II, then started again soon after the war was over.

The menu consisted of lutefisk, but not always meatballs. Ham or Swiss steak was sometimes served. The butter and milk were contributed by the farmers. The salad was usually cranberry and dessert was angel food cake and jello. The cost of the meal was 35 cents, serving approximately 180 people, with a total income of $64.17.

Today advertising is done in the local paper, local radio station and TV station. Posters are also displayed at local churches and businesses. The meal costs $15.00 at the door ($13.00 for advance tickets) and around 600 people are served. The meal consists of lutefisk (350-400 lbs.), potatoes (200 lbs.), white sauce, gravy, Swedish meatballs (150 lbs.), lefse, coleslaw, cranberries, homemade breads, and cookies and pie for dessert.

It is an entire church participation event, needing table setters, flatware wrappers, potato peelers, meatball rollers (a.k.a. “holy rollers”), pie, cookie and bread bakers, white sauce preparers, coleslaw makers, waiters, servers, ticket takers, ushers, and, of course, lutefisk wrappers, cutters and cooks. (I’m sure that there are more jobs that I’ve overlooked.)

I would also like to share how my experience with lutefisk began.

It was at a very young age, as it is our family tradition to serve lutefisk at every holiday, especially Thanksgiving and Christmas. My dad, Morris (Mauritz) Hallberg, however, would eat it anytime it was available. At the table Dad would have the potatoes, dressing, coleslaw, gravy, vegetables, jello all on his plate, THEN, the lutefisk and white sauce would be poured over everything on his plate.

Grandpa Oscar Hallberg came from Sweden and actually taught my German mother, Anne, how to prepare the precious lutefisk.

Grandpa and Dad have both passed, but we have many fond memories of glorious celebrations around the table when lutefisk was served.

I think of Dad and Grandpa in heaven and it reminds me of a poem that was written by the late Red Stangeland of Sioux Falls, SD (he won ten pounds of lutefisk for writing this winning verse):

O lutefisk, O lutefisk,

When my poor hear stops beating

The pearly gates will open wide,

I’ll see the angels eating

From steaming platters of the stuff,

And there will always be enough

O piece of cod that I adore,

O lutefisk forevermore!

I think that Grandpa and Dad would be proud today to know that I am one of the lutefisk cooks at Bethel Lutheran Church. My brother John also works with me in the lutefisk room (we call it “Brain Central”).

The first time that my husband Jerry tried lutefisk was when we were dating and I invited him to church for the supper back in 1972. At first he said he couldn’t stand the smell and proceeded to take about a tablespoon of lutefisk to try it out. Well, I’m happy to say that he went back and filled his plate! He hasn’t missed a lutefisk supper since (Dad thought he was a pretty good catch, since he liked lutefisk).

That was back in the old Bethel that had been built in 1903 and served the congregation well for 100 years. In 2003, a new Bethel was built at 901 West Broadway, Little Falls, MN, and – you guessed it! – it was wired to make sure we could continue our fabulous Lutefisk and Meatball Supper.

I hope that this wonderful event will be around for generations to come. Our little granddaughters have given it a try and I believe there is hope that lutefisk may survive another generation!

-Lynda (Hallberg) Lochner

I joined the Little Falls Kiwanis Club in January 2006. Our club, like so many service clubs, struggles with membership. The younger generation (those under age 50) are not willing to make the long-term commitment. They are more likely to do a one-time event or one annual event.

Our club is made up of mostly business owners, government employees, and former teachers. One year after joining the club, I was asked to be President. I accepted. Our club has about 20 active members. For a small club, we work very hard to serve the community. Our main emphasis is serving the needs of children. Our club has proudly served Little Falls for over 50 years.

C. Olsen

Date of Essay: November 17, 2011

Having between 135-150 students per day, all on a variety of reading levels, interests, strengths and weaknesses, curbed my enthusiasm just a bit.  In my minds-eye I can see myself sitting at my desk long after the students had left, trying to think up ways to make the out-dated Houghton-Mifflin reading series we were using more interesting. No extra time, no extra help, no extra resources, just make the ‘magic’ happen.

During my third year I was blessed, and many teachers would say cursed, with the opportunity to work with a group of students who were far beyond the basal level materials we were using.  They were the ‘TAG’ –talented and gifted students- and no one really wanted to differentiate the curriculum for them, it was simply too much work.  I can still see Sarah B.’s face as she looked me right in the eye and said, ‘Do teachers really think that I am stupid enough to zip through this worksheet, just to be given another?  I figured out long ago that if I don’t do the first, the teacher will think that I ‘can’t’, and will give me less work.”  I went home that day and threw out all of my planned lessons for them.  I rethought what I would do for these students, and how we would do it together.  Many of them were leagues smarter than me, but I knew that I could guide them to learning new things, in new ways.

I turned to literature—not the basal reading books, but really well done literature from all genres. I remembered how literature had changed my life when I was bored with whatever was being ‘taught’~ whether it was spelling or math; I had a book in my lap. My mother was outraged when Sister M. called and told her that I had to stop reading in class. I knew then that I had an ally in pursuing any book that I wanted to read.

In literature I found for my students a wealth of ideas from poetry to historical fiction, to biography, to technical writing.  We found things to read, reflect on, write about, and act out.  At the end of that year I recall Sarah B. saying, ‘Ugh! Mrs. S., I hate it when you make me think!”  Success!

I continued to struggle to stay ahead of (and often didn’t!) and challenge my ‘TAG’ students throughout my career.  I realized early on that ALL students are talented and gifted, just in different ways, and all students deserve to have thought put into what and how they are being taught, all deserve a differentiated curriculum.  Literature, and their love of learning– and all students have that– kept me motivated for nearly 30 years.

What do I miss most about being a teacher in Morrison County?  The students and the literature, and that they made ME ‘think’!

-P. Sharon

Date of Essay: October 24, 2011

We played half-court basketball in those days – wore blue gym suits. You didn’t want to sweat, so tumbling was the most strenuous thing we did in Phys. Ed.

We were a giggly bunch of girls. One time in science class we all climbed out the window. We had a first year teacher. Well, we all had to write “I must be a lady,” 500 times.

President Kennedy was killed in my sophomore year. When announced, we went to the chapel to pray. I’ll never forget that day.

They were good years – we had fun. In our senior year we got to have one of the first proms. Of course we were told we could not dance body-to-body. What would kids think now?

During the Cuban Missile Crisis we filled sand bags to fill the ends of the tunnels in case of war.

We watched the first unmanned space flight in the gym on T.V. – of course black and white.

They were years of change. The Vietnam War was going on. People started to think about protests. Young men we knew were going off to war after graduation.

The nuns still wore the black habits, so you could always hear them coming. We always tried to guess their hair coloring and age.

I graduated in 1965. Those years you either got married, went to college, or went to work. I went to work at the J.C. Penney store as an office cashier. In those days we got paid every week in cash. I made $1.25 an hour. My rent was $40 a month. Things were a lot cheaper then.

-Cookie

Date of Essay: October 24, 2011