Mayberry No More . . .

Once upon a time there was a little town in Minnesota called Monticello (Monti to those who called it home). Monti was a lot like Mayberry. All of my grandparents lived there, one mile apart. One grandma was a little tiny Swedish farm wife. She worked hard inside and out. She baked yummy treats and always had them in the freezer, ready to pull out for afternoon "coffee" if someone dropped in (she cut the cake into the tiniest little pieces - in a crazy little aside, I would, later in life, blame her for my love of frozen Twinkies and Hostess Cupcakes - I put them in the freezer to avoid eating them, but learned I loved them frozen even better!) She also had a bathroom. This was huge.

The other grandma was a very young "working" grandma - she worked at the bakery in town, bowled, and brought treats, including pop, home from town. We loved being at both places. But they still had an outhouse - I always tried to "wait" till I got to the other house.

I loved going to town with Grandma W, the "working" grandma - she was always proud to have my sister and me walking down the street with her, and enjoyed introducing us to her friends (well, everyone knew everyone) as "Margaret's girls." I don't recall ever going to town with the farm grandma.

Unfortunately, "progress" entered the scene and the idyllic little town changed everytime we visited. My mom's folks (the "working" grandma) retired from farming when they were paid a large sum to sell the farm to allow the Interstate highway to cut through their land. The farm on the hill was no longer. I know my oldest brother mourned especially - it was literally his playground when he went to stay in the summer for a few weeks.

I walked past the old driveway last week when I took my morning walk from my aunt's (mom's sister) apartment. I came to the old cemetery that we used to love to explore (not the one my uncle was buried in). This cemetery was at the base of Grandpa and Grandma's driveway. It looks much larger than I remember, which is the opposite of what usually happens when you look at things from your childhood. But it used to be a bed of weeds covering the stones. Now it is well maintained.

The gas station sign you see rising high above the cemetery is the location of Grandpa's hilly pasture, the one we used to sled down and stop just in time to avoid the barbed wire fence just this side of the train tracks.


This paved street was once the steep hilly driveway that we climbed to get back to the house.

I did what I used to do when I was younger - looked at the names and dates and tried to imagine why so many young children were buried there, what had happened to decimate these families, such as this one. . .

. . . and these . . .

. . . and what happened to this one with no known name . . . and who is on the broken one?

This one especially gripped my heart - twin brothers, Harry and Herman, gone a day apart just before their 6th birthday. I can't imagine the grief.




I've read a lot of historical fiction of the pioneers and my mind can imagine the kinds of illnesses that ravaged these people in this little town back so many years ago.

The really old ones are learning precariously --





The most elaborate ones must have been placed much more recently . . .


But - someone forgot to come back - I wonder if she is buried there - because I know she couldn't still be alive!

I continued my walk that day and found what I was looking for - a piece of Monticello that had not been built on - yet.





I wish little towns could stay the same - I know people come back here to my town, who lived here in their youth and are saddened by the changes (I don't like it myself!) I know, life has to move on and progress is inevitable, but it is hard to realize what has happened to the wonderful places of your childhood.

My cousin, who serves in Mali, says that Monticello has lost its charm - it is just another town now. It has all the fast foods, the big box grocery store, large schools, new houses - it has become a bedroom community for folks who work in the Twin Cities, but want a bit of respite for the evenings and week-ends. But in the meantime, it is no longer "Mayberry." I look at their houses and their businesses and realize they have no idea what it used to be like. I wonder if they call it Monti.

This same cousin, several years ago when we were together in the same place, was with my sister and me as we tromped around my Grandma and Grandpa Swanson's old place, looking for souvenirs. We each did eventually get a piece of the old lilac bushes, which are growing healthily in our yards. I said I wondered what people must think as they whizzed past the property and saw these middle aged people wandering around in the weeds. My cousin, Ann said, "They probably think we're a bunch of missionary's and preacher's kids hunting for our roots." And she was right.

More about Ann and others to be continued . . .