Berne, Minnesota: it's not on the map, but it exists. New Glarus yodeler Toni Blum Seitz had been invited to entertain at Berne's annual Swissfest. As I often accompany Toni, her son, and two daughters, with my accordion, Toni invited me to join her.
Toni wasn't going till Saturday, but I left a day early on a sunny afternoon. At Tomah, instead of continuing my usual route north on I-94, I turned west on I-90. Then across rolling hills of southwest Wisconsin, descending to the Mississippi at La Crosse, and a climb up the Minnesota side of the driftless region.
In the late afternoon sunshine the fields of soybeans, corn, and alfalfa are a rich emerald green, the landscape dotted with well-kept farmsteads. About an hour west of the Mississippi, I turn north on US 52 to the outskirts of Rochester, then west on US 16 to the small town of Kasson. Then its north on lightly traveled Minnesota Route 57 to Mantorville, another picturesque small town.
On Mantorville's Main Street there is an interesting looking restaurant, the Hubbell House, well known, I was to learn. Even with my previous 20 years in Minnesota I had not heard of it. But then, culturally deprived as I am, there are a lot of places I never heard of. I made a mental note of it.
A few miles farther north - there it is, "Berne," a Zwingli United Church of Christ and a few homes on top of a hill. I turn into an alfalfa field doubling as parking area for the festival, exit my GMC and stroll over to the outdoor stage on the church grounds. There are some folks rehearsing on the alphorn. I feel as if I were back in Green County.
My eyes drift over to a small group under a tent, searching for Jill, my contact. Although we had never met, we recognize each other immediately. Jill, an attractive, energetic athletic looking woman, welcomes me and introduces me to the other volunteers who are relaxing after their effort in setting up for the festival.
Early evening cool with low humidity, friendly people, and relaxing with a beer and some pizza, we chat about the Swissfest, and challenges in keeping it going - challenges similar to other events of that nature.
I tell Jill I would have been happy with a simple mom and pop motel, but she has reserved a room for me at the Hilton in Rochester. I drive back south, then east the few miles to Rochester as the sun is setting in the northwest.
Rochester - the economist in me automatically thinks of what makes a region tick. Rochester, home of the world famous Mayo Clinic, the crème de la crème of the economic sector that is guaranteed to expand during the coming decades. Add to that a large IBM plant and prosperous farm country. You know that the professional and technical people who make those enterprises run demand nothing less than top-drawer public services, especially education.
Hmmm. Top flight medical facilities like Monroe's award winning hospital, some excellent business enterprises, prosperous farm country, a good public school system - could be Monroe has some things in common with Rochester if we make the most of it.
Downtown Rochester looks as impressive as I had imagined it would be. I checked into the hotel and took a short stroll. On the warm summer Friday, sidewalk tables were filled with people eating, drinking, conversing, and enjoying the pleasant evening air.
Next morning, I donned my Swiss garb, tossed my accordion into my GMC, and made the run over to Berne. Toni soon arrived, and we watched the fahnenschwingen (flag throwing), steinstossen (stone throwing), and Swiss wrestling.
The temperature was rising and so was the humidity. By the time of our early afternoon performance, it was just plain hot and humid. My accordion keys were sticky and so were my hands. No excuses, but I wasn't satisfied with my performance. Toni, the professional that she is, was tremendous, as always.
With the hot, humid weather, the crowd had thinned out. After our second performance, we were in the shade backstage, dripping with perspiration, my accordion still on. I felt a pair of hands on my shoulders and turned around. "Tom, what the - are you doing here? I didn't see you in the audience."
It was my pal and one-time neighbor from old St. Paul - our boys had grown up together. I had told Tom I would be in Minnesota. He came down to check out this operation. He promised not to heckle me during our third performance and, happily for me, kept his word.
Toni and her kids headed back to Rochester for the evening. Neither Tom nor I were hungry enough for a big dinner - a beer and a sandwich would be just right. Jill suggested the bar at the Hubbell House, the place of which I had made that mental note. It was a good suggestion. Tom and I had a hamburger, a couple of beers and a couple of hours telling lies in the coolness of the bar - a refreshing break from the stifling heat and humidity outside.
I had been contemplating a trip to New Mexico. Tom had accompanied me on a previous trip and said he would like to go again. We decided that since neither of us has a permanent contract on this earth, maybe we should go again - fairly soon.
Maybe next week - who knows? You never know whom or what you will run into when you cross the Mississippi into Minnesota.
- Monroe resident John Waelti's column appears every Friday in the Monroe Times. He can be reached at jjwaelti1@tds.net.
Toni wasn't going till Saturday, but I left a day early on a sunny afternoon. At Tomah, instead of continuing my usual route north on I-94, I turned west on I-90. Then across rolling hills of southwest Wisconsin, descending to the Mississippi at La Crosse, and a climb up the Minnesota side of the driftless region.
In the late afternoon sunshine the fields of soybeans, corn, and alfalfa are a rich emerald green, the landscape dotted with well-kept farmsteads. About an hour west of the Mississippi, I turn north on US 52 to the outskirts of Rochester, then west on US 16 to the small town of Kasson. Then its north on lightly traveled Minnesota Route 57 to Mantorville, another picturesque small town.
On Mantorville's Main Street there is an interesting looking restaurant, the Hubbell House, well known, I was to learn. Even with my previous 20 years in Minnesota I had not heard of it. But then, culturally deprived as I am, there are a lot of places I never heard of. I made a mental note of it.
A few miles farther north - there it is, "Berne," a Zwingli United Church of Christ and a few homes on top of a hill. I turn into an alfalfa field doubling as parking area for the festival, exit my GMC and stroll over to the outdoor stage on the church grounds. There are some folks rehearsing on the alphorn. I feel as if I were back in Green County.
My eyes drift over to a small group under a tent, searching for Jill, my contact. Although we had never met, we recognize each other immediately. Jill, an attractive, energetic athletic looking woman, welcomes me and introduces me to the other volunteers who are relaxing after their effort in setting up for the festival.
Early evening cool with low humidity, friendly people, and relaxing with a beer and some pizza, we chat about the Swissfest, and challenges in keeping it going - challenges similar to other events of that nature.
I tell Jill I would have been happy with a simple mom and pop motel, but she has reserved a room for me at the Hilton in Rochester. I drive back south, then east the few miles to Rochester as the sun is setting in the northwest.
Rochester - the economist in me automatically thinks of what makes a region tick. Rochester, home of the world famous Mayo Clinic, the crème de la crème of the economic sector that is guaranteed to expand during the coming decades. Add to that a large IBM plant and prosperous farm country. You know that the professional and technical people who make those enterprises run demand nothing less than top-drawer public services, especially education.
Hmmm. Top flight medical facilities like Monroe's award winning hospital, some excellent business enterprises, prosperous farm country, a good public school system - could be Monroe has some things in common with Rochester if we make the most of it.
Downtown Rochester looks as impressive as I had imagined it would be. I checked into the hotel and took a short stroll. On the warm summer Friday, sidewalk tables were filled with people eating, drinking, conversing, and enjoying the pleasant evening air.
Next morning, I donned my Swiss garb, tossed my accordion into my GMC, and made the run over to Berne. Toni soon arrived, and we watched the fahnenschwingen (flag throwing), steinstossen (stone throwing), and Swiss wrestling.
The temperature was rising and so was the humidity. By the time of our early afternoon performance, it was just plain hot and humid. My accordion keys were sticky and so were my hands. No excuses, but I wasn't satisfied with my performance. Toni, the professional that she is, was tremendous, as always.
With the hot, humid weather, the crowd had thinned out. After our second performance, we were in the shade backstage, dripping with perspiration, my accordion still on. I felt a pair of hands on my shoulders and turned around. "Tom, what the - are you doing here? I didn't see you in the audience."
It was my pal and one-time neighbor from old St. Paul - our boys had grown up together. I had told Tom I would be in Minnesota. He came down to check out this operation. He promised not to heckle me during our third performance and, happily for me, kept his word.
Toni and her kids headed back to Rochester for the evening. Neither Tom nor I were hungry enough for a big dinner - a beer and a sandwich would be just right. Jill suggested the bar at the Hubbell House, the place of which I had made that mental note. It was a good suggestion. Tom and I had a hamburger, a couple of beers and a couple of hours telling lies in the coolness of the bar - a refreshing break from the stifling heat and humidity outside.
I had been contemplating a trip to New Mexico. Tom had accompanied me on a previous trip and said he would like to go again. We decided that since neither of us has a permanent contract on this earth, maybe we should go again - fairly soon.
Maybe next week - who knows? You never know whom or what you will run into when you cross the Mississippi into Minnesota.
- Monroe resident John Waelti's column appears every Friday in the Monroe Times. He can be reached at jjwaelti1@tds.net.
