Friday Night Cresco

As much as this blog may give people the impression that I jet-set all over northeast Iowa and beyond, the truth is that my Friday nights mostly consist of going to the gym, then getting back home in time for Star Wars: Clone Wars or pro wrestling, whichever one seems more realistic at the time. However, last Friday night was different. This was partially because the Cresco high school had made the regional news the week before for a bullying incident that I won’t comment on right now since the bullies involved are facing charges of assault and sexual harassment. Mostly, it was due to the fact that the Cresco high school football team would be playing their last home game of the season. There was kind of a train wreck cool about this home game—if some students were willing to hurt another student that badly last week, what would they do this time?

Actually, that’s not quite fair, although there was a definite undercurrent of “how could our kids do this?” that people always ask when they’ve ignored all the warning signs leading up to the incident itself. Mostly, people were looking to the wrapping up of the game as a small-town celebration. I have to admit, I don’t know what people think of varsity sports in the suburbs or in the actual cities, but in small towns it’s usually a BIG DEAL, spoken with all caps. I’ve mentioned that out here in Iowa wrestling seems to be the favorite sport, but football is still a fall tradition.

Despite having played football for a year in high school, the only thing I really know about football is that if you go to Chili’s while Michigan State or University of Michigan are in the playoffs, you can get free tortilla chips and salsa for well over an hour. Still, the night was looking pretty socially dead so far. I asked myself why I shouldn’t go to the football game, didn’t get an answer, and decided to take the drive.

Like everything in a small town, the high school is only a few blocks away. I could have walked if I’d wanted, but the weather was getting cooler, and the car heater was as welcome as a lover. With warmer feet.

The street leading to the high school was filled with cars parallel parked close to one another. It was pretty obvious the last man in would be the first man out, which also meant that no one on the street was planning on leaving for a long time. It was kind of crazy, but also kind of interesting. There were some serious fans here.

I ended up parking near the junior high school, as the high school parking lot was obviously full. Even if it hadn’t been, there were a few stragglers who were slowly driving in at speeds approaching 1 MPH, either dropping off a student or trying to find a recently-vacated parking place. The junior high school parking lot, by way of comparison, had only four cars in it, mine included. I’m not entirely sure why that was. I suspect there was some rule I was breaking, but quite frankly if there was I’m happier not knowing.

My next brush with lawlessness came later that night at the ticket gate, where people were lining up to pay the five bucks to get in. Not having five bucks on me and not wanting to have to locate an ATM, I did the only honorable thing—found another way in. Not climbing fences or anything truly criminal, just slipping in through another entrance and taking the long way around. I’ll be honest, I didn’t feel guilty. And I think I feel guilty about not feeling guilty. This must surely be a downward spiral to my slipping in to see the Super Bowl without paying for it, or it would be if I were really interested in seeing the Super Bowl.

Regardless, I’m pleased to report that the Crestwood high school has some pretty nice bleachers. It reminds me a bit of my hometown’s football field, only nicer and in blue and white. The bleachers were on their way to being packed, and I managed to locate a small bare spot in the bleachers, between a mix of early junior high students and parents. I sat down and noticed that the timer was counting down from nineteen minutes and fifty-eight seconds, with the score heavily in favor of Cresco. Good, I thought. I got here right at halftime. I could enjoy what was left of the game and get the flavor of the atmosphere. I leaned over to the woman next to me and asked how the team was doing this game.

She gave me the kind, polite smile you give to people who have said a very stupid thing and said, “Son, the game hasn’t started yet. That score is for the sophomore football team that just played.” 

The woman, whose name was Bonnie, was actually extremely polite, considering she was dealing with a functional idiot. She told me who we were playing and which member of the Crestwood football team to keep an eye on—number two, Leyton Bohr, the woman’s grandson. The woman, whose name was Bonnie, went on to inform me that she attends seven sports events a week, thanks to her grandchildren. That seemed really touching. The woman was beaming with pride  as she said it, and I had a brief flashback to my high school years, where my mom and dad made a point of coming to almost every event that their four sons had in high school, even the ones I thought were really, really stupid. Granted, most of the time they made it there five minutes late because getting four kids ready to go out the door in addition to yourselves is not easy, but they made it nonetheless.

I sat around, watching the crowd mill about mostly, while on the field the marching band prepared to play “The Star Spangled Banner.” I also saw the cheerleaders preparing to cheer, however they go about that. To an outside observer, it seemed like they were doing typical girl stuff—talking, giggling, pointing and giggling some more. It was at that point I realized I have never seen cheerleaders practicing, the way the athletes do on the field. One would think that cheerleaders would practice their cheers or something. “’Go team! Beat…’ Hey, what’s the name of the team we’re playing tonight?”

Regardless, the cheerleaders had a secret weapon that the other side couldn’t hope to match—the team mascot. The Crestwood High School sports teams are called the cadets, and the mascot is a Civil War soldier with the absolute meanest face I have ever seen. This is the face of a man whose wife has kicked him out of the house three minutes before the Super Bowl starts because she’s been having an affair with his best friend and wants him to move in. This is the face of a man whose $1,000,000 Bugatti Veyron sportscar was T-boned by a drunk driver who is now screaming he’s going to sue for damages. If I was on the other team and I saw that mascot, I would not be wondering if my team could win. I would be wondering how many of our players were going to be pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital.

If the image of the mascot weren’t enough, somehow the high school managed to get a costume of the cadet—a 3D image of the Civil War’s answer to Apocalypse Now. The mascot moved up and down the cheerleaders, and pumped his fist a couple of times at the crowd on the opposite side of the bleachers, which really got them fired up. I couldn’t blame them. When you have someone like that signaling you should cheer, you should definitely cheer. Privately I wondered what he would do if the football team were to lose. Hanging for treason seemed likely.

Then the game started. The Star Spangled Banner was played, and it didn’t sound too bad. Then the game started, and that’s about when my attention went downhill. I’d really come to see the people here, and now everyone was sitting around watching football. It was kind of boring. I excused myself, and passed by the high school.

As I went by, I noticed that there were a bunch of people in the high school cafeteria, apparently eating. I went in to find out what was going on, and discovered that they were having a fundraiser for a project that will send a bunch of students to Costa Rica next summer. The thought floored me. Our Spanish class went on a tour to Mexico. That was perhaps the only time we crossed the border without needing a passport, and that was the first time in at least four years. Going to Costa Rica in high school meant either things had really, really changed, or this was a very uncommon high school. Personally, I’d like to think it’s the second option.

Afterwards, I strolled back to my car, got in, and drove off. It was fun, but the night was young. Besides, if I hurried I could probably catch the climax of Clone Wars.

My Weekend in Chicago (yet again)

So, on the weekend of October 1 I was off to see my brother Jay, who lives in downtown Chicago. The event was Jay’s birthday, and as such I we were going to eat at an expensive German restaurant. Granted, eating at expensive restaurants with Jay is nothing new. I think an integral part of the Jay Experience is going out to eat with him. More often than not, you will be taken to a Chicago restaurant which you have never heard of, but has some measure of notoriety. The notoriety may or may not come from the price. In the time that I have visited Jay and Natalie, I have been to a couple ethnic restaurants I had no idea existed, such as the Pegausus, a Greek restaurant that offers all sorts of dishes the average person would have no idea existed. In contrast, the most expensive Greek restaurant I had eaten before the Pegausus is Mac’s Café and Restaurant in Rochester, which serves Gyros to go. Also a Greek omelet.

I arrived late in Chicago on a Friday night, which meant getting an early train into downtown Chicago from the suburbs. After the train had pulled into the station, I got coffee and an egg folded between a small tortilla shell at the nearest Dunkin’ Donuts and listened to two twentysomething businesspeople fawn over a fiftysomething businessman about the presentation they had done on Friday, what they would be working on during the weekend and who they would and would not be inviting back to their presentation based on several different returns on investment. I’m pretty sure they outearned me, but I was going literally across the street to spend a couple days with my brothers, and here they were being much more cheerful about a presentation than a human being should be on Saturday morning at seven-thirty a.m. There is something to be said for spending time with people who you actually want to spend time with.

Jay lives on the xteenth floor of an apartment building with at least forty floors. And that’s just one of its towers. I could tell you the exact tower, floor and apartment number and still be confident Jay and Natalie would be unbothered. This is because the apartment complex has its own security. In order to get into the complex if you are not a guest, you need to fill out a form, present them with valid identification and have the tenant’s permission to let you in. I’m sure at some point they asked me for my Facebook account, shoe size and sexual orientation. So if you’re trying to get in, and you aren’t invited, good luck. I’m not sure what would happen to you. It probably involves rabid dingoes, if they are permitted in the Chicago residential and rabid animal zoning area.

One great thing about Jay’s apartment is the people who live there. I’ve visited three times now, and I have rarely seen a suit. The people who are walking around seem to be either college students or successful hipsters. You’ll see some person in jeans, a vest and a t-shirt, sipping on a coffee and reading something on his Macbook, and you’ll think “Hey, that person lives here! In these apartments! Which are in the middle of downtown Chicago!” Or maybe that’s just me. Maybe living in downtown Chicago is cheaper and hipper than I thought.

When I got to Jay’s apartment, my brother Andy and his girlfriend were there. Hugs were exchanged, greetings were exchanged, and as everyone was in the process of waking up, we decided to head to a restaurant called Lou Mitchell’s for breakfast. Andy had been there the previous day, and apparently he had selected the Maitre’d as his ultimate nemesis for the trip. So off to Lou Mitchell’s we went.

Lou Mitchell’s is apparently located at the beginning of the famous Route 66. It’s also world-renowned, adored by not only celebrities, but food critics as well. Two days before we dined there, Henry Winkler had apparently shown up and had something to eat.

I’ve got to be honest—I liked Lou Mitchell’s, but it didn’t strike me as a place that I absolutely must visit again. The restaurant décor is your typical greasy spoon, with various relics of yesteryear plastered on the walls. On the bright side, it does feel as though you are walking back in time to, say, the 1960s. And with the line that forms in the restaurant and winds its way down the street, you have plenty of time to admire the decorations. Fortunately, a very nice man walked down the line, offering everyone doughnut holes. It didn’t make the line move any faster, but it was a fun distraction. When we had finally gotten in, I discovered that Lou Mitchell’s doesn’t accept credit cards/debit cards/anything other than cold, hard cash. Fortunately, they do have an ATM inside the front door that only has an ungodly surcharge fee. Still, whoever heard of a modern restaurant that doesn’t accept credit cards?

So, after we got seated, we ordered meals, and then ate. I’ve got to be honest—I don’t know why food critics adore this place. The food was not bad, not by any stretch of the imagination. But it didn’t make my taste buds sing, and there was no flourish that made me think, “Hey, I gotta try this in MY cooking!” Okay, they did serve an orange slice and a prune for an appetizer, they did give us a little plastic cup of soft-serve ice cream afterwards and Natalie and Andy’s girlfriend got boxes of Milk Duds, but other than that the food wasn’t anything that would make me run into the streets. It was just good food to have while we all talked and Andy occasionally glared at the Maitre’d, daring her to come over and try something.

I can’t really see why celebrities would come to Lou Mitchell’s. On the other hand, I can definitely see why politicians and anyone who needed to get in touch with the common man would. The place is routinely packed, has a very blue collar feel among the clientele, and if you came here you would get the feeling that this is Main Street America, and these are typical Americans. It would also make a great photo op.

Afterwards, we took a bus out to the Navy Pier, where the Chicago version of Oktoberfest was going on. Jay is extremely interested in his family history, and our family has deep roots in Scotland and Germany. Given that Jay’s birthday is on October 1, while Oktoberfest is going on, I can safely say that when Jay gets to heaven, he’s going to be disappointed.

To be honest, the Navy Pier is something to see once. It’s essentially a mall with boat rides, which is neat if you’re into that sort of thing, but other than that the big event was the Oktoberfest tent. There were a lot of people there, most of them over 21 and ready to put down some serious alcohol. As you might expect, almost everyone there was in a great mood. I am constantly amazed at how happier people get after a mug or two of beer. Personally, I had a diet soda and a small-size large pretzel and was extremely happy listening to the German band play such classic German hits as “Country Roads” and “Ring of Fire.”

For dinner, we went to the Edelweiss restaurant, one of the only German restaurants I know. I could make a joke about the waiters marching in lock-step or the server giving a Nazi-salute and saying  “Heil” when he delivered our food, but the truth is Germany gets a bad enough rap for that anyway. It’s kind of unfortunate. The USSR had Stalin, China has Mao Tse-Tung, the United States had the Bush Administration…pretty much every country on Earth has gotten a leader that, if not an incompetent egotistic cretin, is out and out evil. (By the way, I do not want my readers to think I consider George W. Bush and Dick Cheney to be as bad as Stalin and Chairman Mao. It’s just that I sincerely believe George W. Bush and Dick Cheney were terrible leaders. ) My point is, Hitler and the Nazis were bad in all sorts of ways, and ever since World War II, Germany has borne that stain on their reputation about as well as a country that has given rise to a genocidal dictator could. So before I launch into depth about the Edelweiss, I want to say that a lot more attention was paid to imbibing good beer and having good food, and nary a thought was given to the Third Reich. That being said, the first thing we were told when we sat down was that everyone had to be on one bill, and there was absolutely no way we could split up the tab. Which was a problem since we were expecting around 20 people for dinner. They claimed it was due to the increased business. Seriously.

So I would like to take this opportunity to say to the management of the Edelweiss—Screw you. You were not ridiculously busy, you didn’t inform Jay about this when he made the reservation beforehand, and you could have easily ran our credit cards instead of making everyone walk two blocks to the nearest convenience store to get absolutely raped by the ATM machine surcharge fees. At least the waiter felt the need to explain over and over again as he served us that the restaurant needed to do this and that he was” just following orders,” which has so many levels of irony it’s almost funny.

Now, I will say that the food was extremely good, and I need to find out how to make Katzenspatzle for myself one of these days. I also got to have another giant pretzel, this one with melted Gruyere on it, and I was extremely happy. We talked for hours on hours, and it was very late when we finally got a cab back to Jay’s apartment. Jay has some very nice friends, and when you have nice friends at a nice(ish) restaurant, you really can’t go wrong.

I had to leave the next afternoon, going back to northeast Iowa to get back in the weekday groove, but we did have time to stop at Lou Mitchell’s again, if only so Andy could go another round in his inscrutable combat with the Maitre’d. We met some friends of Andy’s there, and we met some friends of Andy’s girlfriend. Natalie was busy working at a fair for her boss, so Jay and I basically kept Andy’s friend’s wife occupied. When we were done, I took the train back to the suburbs, and began the drive home. I have to admit, I don’t like the drive home after I see my family. I have to be alone with my thoughts, and they’re always how great a time I’ve had, and when I’ll be able to do it again. Still, having family you love to be around provides incentive to be around them as much as possible. That’s not a bad thing.

What I’ve Been Doing

As the last blog entry was a few days late and this entry is going to be more “drifting” than “driftless,” I figured I should explain what could possibly be so important as to distract me from my blogging.

The big thing right now is kendo. Kendo, as you may remember, is the martial art which I practice and which I only used to practice one day a week. In a fit of self-improvement, though, I will be testing to go up a level at the end of October. This means I am practicing two days a week, and one of these days is a Tuesday.

The weekends have been pretty busy, too. I need to write about my brother Jay’s birthday bash in Chicago, mainly because it was pretty cool and partly because you would not believe how many metropolitan restaurants have a thing against credit cards. I also need to tell you just how good German food really is, because otherwise I don’t think you’d believe it.

Still, I didn’t start this blog only to see it die the slow, painful death that other blogs suffer just because their writer went out and started doing a lot of stuff. I will have the gory details of my brother’s birthday party up tomorrow!

Off to Galena We Go, We Go

As I’ve mentioned before, I occasionally go to Chicago to see my brother Jay. Taking the train is perhaps the nicest way to get there, but it does have one or two disadvantages. My default method of travel is driving, and although the trip is at least six hours if I’m traveling at least 70 miles per hour and don’t stop for anything, having your own car in the suburbs of Chicago opens the way to a few stores that almost make the drive worthwhile. It’s also nice to be on your own timetable, instead of constantly having to look at your watch, just waiting for the time to leave is upon you.

When you drive to Chicago from northeast Iowa, you have no less than three choices. The most obvious choice is to take Highway 63 down to Waterloo, then take Expressway 380 to Expressway 80 and go from there. However, you can also drive almost straight east to Madison, then drop down to Chicago from the north. Both are fairly decent routes, but I decided to take the third option—Highway 63 to Waterloo, then Highway 20 across Iowa and Illinois. It’s probably not the most efficient way, mainly because you hit a couple small towns on Highway 20 that drops your speed down to 35 when you really want to put the accelerator down and cover as much ground as possible, but it does have one thing the other routes don’t—Galena.

Galena is a small town in Illinois, fifteen miles away from Dubuque and just on the other side of the Mississippi river. It may be my all-time favorite town to pass through when I am on my way somewhere else. That may sound damning with faint praise, but a nice town to pass through while driving is an underestimated treasure. When you drive through a city, such as Madison, you get the outsider’s view as buildings flash by while you travel on the expressway. Small towns, on the other hand, usually have the main highway double as the main street, so you get some of the local flavor, although more often than not the local flavor is a bar, a hardware store, and perhaps a restaurant or two if you’re lucky. All in all, not anything interesting.

Then there’s Galena. If you’re driving from Iowa to Chicago, you’ll encounter some tourist fare first and foremost—two fast food restaurants, and an increasingly common Wal-Mart enclave. I freely admit to stopping at all of them, if only to access that comfort you can only get from a franchise in an unfamiliar city. It’s nice, but what really makes Galena worth traveling to is the town proper. Galena resides in the driftless regions, similar to Decorah, which means that the town geography is hilly. This would be obvious even if you didn’t get to pass through the town. However, when you go through town you are struck by how nicely the residents have adapted. The roads go across the hills, with the occasional very steep crossroads, and the houses seem to be terraced on the sides of the hills. Now would also be a good time to point out that many of these houses were built in the 18^th and 19^th centuries, giving the place a look that is old-fashioned, but with modern improvements. Somehow, though, Galena seems to have avoided the mess of modernization that all too often occurs. You won’t see any stray cables or leakage from cheap air conditioners in these houses—and yet they all seem to be actively lived in.

At some point, you pass by the home of one Ulysses S. Grant. Yes, the future president of the United States claimed Galena as his home before he went to the White House. He wasn’t alone, either—a full nine Civil War generals came from Galena, which makes you wonder if these people didn’t have some pre-existing grudge. “You think you’re so smart!” they would scream at each other. “If there was a civil war, I would get out on that battlefield and kick your butt!” That’s probably not what happened at all, but it’s kind of fun to think about.

After you pass Grant’s house, you go up a hill. And up. And up and up and up until you see the eastern outskirts of Galena. Unlike the western outskirts, this is where a lot of the “casual tourists” must come in, because there is a series of restaurants lined up one after the other, all in the style of a downtown street in the old west. The colors are faded greens, oranges and blues, and more often than not you’ll see the immense parking lot in front of them packed with cars. There’s also a Happy Joe’s franchise, but let’s face it—if you get to eat in a nice restaurant in a building that looks like it was designed in the 19^th century, why on earth would you waste your time in a franchise restaurant? The people who eat there must be sick of high-end steaks and salmon fillets. Either that, or they’ve eaten at the high-end restaurants so many times that they’re sick of the flavor and yearn for the mediocrity only a chain restaurant can provide.

I suppose they set the restaurants here because it’s closer to Chicago. I’d heard that Galena was a bit of a tourist vacation for people from Chicago, and I can see that. However, I like coming in from the west. You get less tourist razzle-dazzle, and more watering holes. If you’re just passing through, that can be a godsend.

The Norman Borlaug Harvest Fest

I’d previously talked about the Mighty Howard County Fair, and the other fairs that went on over the summer that were town-centric. I was under the impression that the Mighty Howard County Fair was Cresco’s “fair” event, but in fact it’s more for Howard County. Cresco is just the county seat. What Cresco has is the Norman Borlaug Harvest Fest.

The Norman Borlaug Harvest Fest used to be called the “Ag Fest,” but was apparently changed in the last couple years in honor of Dr. Norman Borlaug, the Nobel Prize-winning scientist. I’m not sure who put this change forward, but I wholeheartedly approve of it. Personally, I think if you win a Nobel Prize your hometown should have an annual festival in your honor. It’s the least people can do.

The festival started on Friday afternoon, when the town closed off the main street in preparation for the big event. A few food vendors showed up, and the main businesses in town set up some displays. The main downtown area was also cleared for the classic sports car display. I still don’t know exactly how classic sports cars relate to a harvest fest, but no one else seemed to mind.

Actually, the “Norman Borlaug” part of the Norman Borlaug Harvest Fest was sort of glossed over, at least on the weekend. The Norman Borlaug Legacy Foundation had a bus tour to go out and see Norman Borlaug’s childhood home, which had a grand total of six or seven people on it. Half of them were members of the Norman Borlaug Legacy Foundation, going out with interested people to conduct the tour.  I decided to go, in no small part because when my family was here, my mom had tried to get the foundation to give us a tour of the Borlaug place. She tried for a week straight before finally giving up, since she couldn’t reach a member of the Borlaug foundation at any time we were available to take the tour. Going to see the Borlaug home felt like upholding the family honor.

The tour more or less started on the bus ride out of town, and I immediately realized two things about the Norman Borlaug Legacy Foundation. First, these people were not consummate professionals. One man gave a decent talk about Norman Borlaug, aided considerably by his wife. It was fun to watch them talk—you can tell when people have been married for so long their thoughts start to intertwine like two strands of ivy, and I enjoyed listening to them play off each other as much as I enjoyed listening to them talk about Norman Borlaug.

Tour at the Norman Borlaug House

The second thing I realized was the Norman Borlaug was the sort of person who inspires you. I’ll be honest—I don’t know any celebrities. I’ve met a couple at conventions, and they have all been unfailingly polite. But the members of the Norman Borlaug Legacy Foundation had actually known him, and they were all changed by the experience. I won’t get too deep into psychoanalyzing them, but the bulk of their conversation centered around Norman Borlaug, how great he was, and how inspiring he was. It was a bit like hearing Simon Peter talking about his old pal Jesus. It’s rare that someone can be that inspiring, but Norman Borlaug was apparently one of those people.

The Borlaug House sits in the country

About fifteen minutes after leaving town, the bus arrived at the Borlaug home.  It was a white two-story farmhouse, set in the middle of a field and somewhat shielded from the road by oak and maple trees. About fifty yards away was a pumphouse, a machine shed and a large white barn. It was the perfect place for a Nobel Prize-winning Agriculturalist to grow up. We all paraded into the house, and then the tour began. Actually, it was less of a tour than it was members of the Norman Borlaug Legacy Foundation telling all the stories they knew of Norman Borlaug, his family, and how some of the areas of the barn were used. As a tour, it was more disjointed than a David Lynch movie with Abraham Zapruder as the cameraman, but I enjoyed it all the same. The sheer enthusiasm these members had was infectious, and if you are ever in the area, you need to take the tour if you can. You’ll walk away inspired to do some good for humanity.

After that, I wandered down the five-booth flea market/craft show and the three-booth farmer’s market. I appreciated the effort, but part of the allure of farmer’s markets and flea markets is the number of things that are available. When you can count the number of choices on two hands with fingers left over, the allure kind of goes away. Fortunately, right around the corner was the classic sports car show.

I have to be honest, agriculture or no agriculture, the classic car show was fun. The cars are awfully pretty to look at, and in some cases you can see yourself getting in, starting up the engine, and taking off for parts unknown. Of course, when you actually get to drive these cars you realize they’re best at going forward, which is kind of a handicap when you actually do driving that requires you to, say, make turns or drive in reverse. Still, most of the time you don’t have to make turns or drive in reverse, so I can see the appeal.

I could go on about all the cars that I saw, but there was one that was particularly memorable. It was a red Mazda Miata, and as I was walking by I noticed a glint of silver on the rear. Walking around the car, I discovered that the glint of silver was one of a set of “girl reclining” silhouettes, the ones more commonly found on the mudflaps of pickup trucks driven by people with names like “Skeeter.” There was also a bumper sticker that read “Little car—Big payments!” Usually, when confronted with this level of tastelessness on a standard automobile, I think to myself that the owner of said car must be a submoron. I would like to say, for the record, my reaction is the same even when the car is a sports car. The only thing was, I encountered the owner of this car a day later. I can’t tell for certain, but it seemed like he had some sort of mental disability. It’s at times like this when you realize that being right about a person’s shortcomings isn’t as fulfilling as you would like.

It also raises a lot of questions, not the least of which is why would such a person own a sports car? I’m not against mentally retarded people owning sports cars as a general rule, but in a lot of ways it’s like treating a homeless person to a cutting-edge gourmet meal when he or she would get more food at a less fancy all-you-can-eat buffet. I will probably never get an answer to this question, and let’s face it, it’s none of my business anyway. Still, I do wonder.

The final big event in downtown Cresco was the parade. As far as parades go, this one was surprisingly big. Almost every business in town wanted to get in on the act, it seems, right down to the family farms. As a lot of parades go, this one was a mishmash of vehicles, including some of the sport cars and some antique tractors, along with some modern-day farm equipment, which easily took up both lanes of the street. There was also the Cresco High School marching band, which did a really good job. I was impressed, especially because I remembered the one time I had marched in a parade with the high school marching band in my hometown. The amount of preparation involved was a phone call a couple days before asking my brother Andy and I if we would like to participate in the high school marching band’s Fourth of July performance, along with the band director handing out some pep band music on the day of the parade. Looking back, I think it’s just as well that Steve Jobs did not invent the iPhone before I graduated high school. I’d also like to thank the YouTube creators for holding off as well.

The Norman Borlaug Harvest Fest may be the end of small-town festival season for the year. If so, it ended the season with a bang. Really, all that’s left is Halloween, and that’s got a decent enough celebration as it is.