Lake Benton, Minnesota. The name means nothing except to me, some old residents, and the 703 people who currently call the community 'home'. It was my home, but it's been awhile. Crossing over the windy plains of Buffalo Ridge travelling west, it surprises a smile on your face when your road suddenly drops and winds through the trees into one of the most peaceful valley towns you ever saw. As you descend, the trees draw back like a curtain to reveal the lake to the left and to the right, the steep roofs of the houses, churches, and buildings just peek through the leafy blanket of green that covers them. To the right is a small ski resort that boasts an old rope tow to the top of a hill that, in the summer, makes room for brave youngsters to roll and run down though the soft bermuda grass. We have dinner at the Country House, where the recipe for French Onion soup, thankfully hasn't changed. I went to school with Julie, our waitress. We catch up briefly yet affectionately. Last I saw her, 16 years ago, she was smiling. Still is. It's hard not to smile around here. Tonight a group of locals makes up the cast of the play, 'Annie' which will draw sell out crowds into the 100 year old opera house. This town is not dead, neither is it dying. It's as alive as Andy Griffith reruns on cable and every bit as familiar. You feel like you've been here before and that you could stand to be here longer than you plan to stay. The play is excellent. Not just a decent bit of community theater. It's good enough to make you glad you left the TV off tonight. These players will go back to family, farms, fields, a mere diversion from the normality of growning corn and soybeans. I take my kids to the park behind my old house. The park I used to play in. The park that still has a merry go round and those dangerous metal jungle gyms in the shape of a dome. No rubbermaid playgroud equipment here. I got the wind knocked out of me on this merry go round at the age of 9. More than once as I recall. I can still hear mom's alto voice climbing the entire musical scale saying the phrase, "Billlllllyyyy, time for supppeeerrrrrrr!" I hated it then. I love its memory now. I went to the school where I found the back door cracked open. I reach for the handle and the door jars open without my help. I step back and look up at Bob, the janitor. "It's been a long time." I say. I say that alot around here. He says, "Henry's boy." Can I look around? (It's good to see him) Sure. I lead my children straight to the 5th grade classroom. (The school runs 1st grade through 12th grade) This was Mrs Haugen's room. Affectionately known as Mrs. H, there was never a better teacher in any school anywhere. The desks are the same. The smell is the same. The marks I made in the wood are still there. (My inner artist trying to express himself) The hall seems smaller. Everything seems smaller.
Back outside, we wander to the old house. The current owners, the Carpenters, are not only glad to see me, but offer ice cream cones to my kids while I look around. Again, everything looks smaller. The house, built in the late 1800s is still solid enough to hold out the biting cold of winter. I walk up the oak staircase to my room. The floor still creaks in the same places. Every solid wood door has a real key hole. I wonder what my current house will look like in 100 years. I laugh. This is the stage upon which played out many a scene that taught me many lessons. Some of the following stories are totally true. Some are as true as I remember them to be. Like I said, It's been awhile.

(Stories about life in Lake Benton will appear after this date, not literally 'below')