Oat Harvest on Broadway Hill (photos) It is easy to forget in Frank Carpentier’s sunny oat field that suburbia is just down the hill and across the highway. Everything around his farm is changing, …
Oat Harvest on Broadway Hill (photos) It is easy to forget in Frank Carpentier’s sunny oat field that suburbia is just down the hill and across the highway. Everything around his farm is changing, but Carpentier’s work is much the same as it was 35 years ago when he began farming on Broadway Hill in Cottage Grove.
Now 68, he still sows oats with a hand spreader and in mid-summer cuts them with an old wooden reaper and binder. Assisted by his wife and grandchildren, Denise and David Lake, he loads the stacks on a rack to be towed to the thresher, where the grain and chaff are separated. The finished product is trucked to Hastings for sale, and Carpentier can begin looking ahead to next year’s crop.
Swimming in Simley Lake ‘Hazardous’ Swimming in Simley Lake (across from the high school on Cahill Ave.) may be hazardous in two ways, according to Inver Grove Heights village administrator Karl Burandt.
ONE, since the lake is so small, persons swimming may be endangered by the motor boats weaving around the lake.
Two, the Health Department recently took samples of the water and will determine if the water is too polluted to swim in.
Signs have been posted around the lake warning swimmers to keep away. They have been torn down, Burandt said, however more will be put up.
ALSO, BURANDT noted, property lines of those living around the lake extend in a way that may make residents liable or responsible if any accidents occur.
County Edition Serving St. Paul Park, Newport, Thompson Grove, Woodbury Hts.
Friday, May 26, 1961 Hill Cleaner To Supply Free Flags For Memorial Day SOUTH ST. PAUL— Children who will march in the South St. Paul Memorial Day parade will be given opportunity again this year to obtain free American flags at the Hill Cleaners establishment at 411 Marie Ave. They should apply at that place before the parade starts at 9 a.m. Tuesday.
This firm has for several years past donated flags for this purpose. A supply of 1000 flags has been obtained for distribution prior to the forthcoming observance of this patriotic holiday.
120 Years Ago THE MIRROR Published by the inmates of the Stillwater Prison Motto: It is never too late to mend.”
Stillwater, Minnesota May 9, 1901 (Note: around the time the following story was written, Wisconsin passed an “anti-pass” law that forbid “pass” privileges being shown to individuals on such things as railroads to individuals, which may or may not inform the story. An internet search was not helpful in answering this question—now for the story!) A DREAM, By ‘A DREAMER’ TRAVELING on the railroad is monotonous business unless you have good company, and in the absence of that, together with the swaying movement of the cars and a long tedious journey, one is apt to lose interest in the passing strangeness and seek sleep. This is the situation I found myself in not long since. I then dropped into a deep sleep and dreamed I was dead. I was flying through the air on my way to heaven, I could see the beautiful city of the New Jerusalem in the distance, and it looked as beautiful and bright as my imagination had painted it.
I thought, “How happy I am going to be at last, after having so much trouble on that miserable old earth.” Oh how easy I did float along with those airy large wings of mine! “Yes,” I continued, “surely there it is, for I see the gate and it is open for me and old Peter is smiling as he sees me coming toward him.” At his feet I soon alighted, and Peter said to me: “I ought to know you, but your face is not a familiar one to me. By the way, where are you from?” “Now,” I thought, “if I can only strike on a good place I will be strictly in it.” And I thought of all the places I had ever been to, and could come to no better conclusion than St. Paul. I thought the name in itself would sound so appropriate. So I said to Peter with some little hesitancy, “Why I am from St. Paul.”
“What!” he says, “from St. Paul in Minnesota?” Now if I had known any other St. Paul I believe I should have been tempted to have told old Peter a lie, but I could not then think of any other so I says: “Yes, I’m from St. Paul in Minnesota.”
“Well Sir,” Peter says, “where is your pass?”
“Pass,” says I, “why Peter are not these—pointing to my wings—pass enough?”
“No Sir,” he replied, “all applicants from Minnesota must have a pass.” Then I said: “Well Peter, if I must have a pass will you kindly instruct me how or where I am to get one?”
“Oh yes,” Peter answered, “do you see that train coming yonder?” I turned and looked in the direction he indicated, and sure enough there was a train of cars coming in, loaded with white-winged applicants for heavenly honors. I said to Peter: “I didn’t know that you had railroads up here.”
“Oh, yes,” says Peter, “we have two, one up and the other down. Now sir,” he says, “you just take that train going up, and when the station, St. Paul, is called, get off and go up the hill to the right and in the stone house on the hill you will find John L. Sullivan (a name similar to that of a Stillwater prison guard), who will give you a pass if you’re from Minnesota.”
“What!” I exclaimed, “John L. Sullivan! Is he here?”
“No,” Peter replied, “he is not here, he is up on the hill, where we keep him busy passing on the qualifications of the Minnesota applicants.” The bell rang and the conductor called all aboard, so off I ran and just caught the last car as it was passing. In a short time, St. Paul was called and I got off. I was the only passenger who did. But thinking nothing strange about that, up the hill I went, to find John L. Sullivan. It was no trouble to find him, as there was no other house to be seen anywhere.
I knocked at the door, and a voice bade me enter. Sure enough, there he sat, in the center of a small room, with a little table in front of him on which were paper, pen, and a huge pair of scissors. He arose and said, “Well, old boy, you got here at last all safe and sound, and I have your pass all ready for you. There it is.” I reached for it and turned to leave, when he said, “Hold on, I want those wings. You will have no further use for them now, and as they are the only pair we have for Minnesota I need them right away. There is another fellow dead down there and I want to send them back for him.” And he deliberately took those huge scissors and clipped both my wings off close to my body. I was wondering who was coming next, so I said: “John, who gets the wings next?”
“Oh,” he says, “It’s a fellow down there about twenty miles from St. Paul by the name of Happy Jack.”
I heard the train whistle, and off I ran for the depot. I reached it just in time to catch the last coach as it was passing. All exhausted, I entered and almost fell into the nearest seat. By and by the conductor came along and I handed him my pass. He looked at it, then looked at me, and laughed and said: “Young man, you are on the wrong train.”
“Well sir,” I said, “just stop the train and I will walk back.”
“No,” he said. “I can’t do that. This train never stops until it reaches its destination.”
“And is it far?” I asked.
“Well sir,” he said, “it’s a good twenty miles.”
“And what is the place you go to, sir?” I ventured to ask.
“To hell, sir.”
“What! to hell, did you
My hair began to stand on end, and I began to think what I must do to get back. That conductor stood laughing at me and I ventured to ask him another question: “Sir, is there any possible way for me to get back?”
“Oh, yes,” he replied. “If you’re acquainted with the president of the road.”
“What, is he in hell?”
“Oh yes, he runs the railroad.”
Now I was very well acquainted with the president on earth, so I felt pretty sure I could work him for a pass back, so comforting myself with the idea that all would be well, I lay back in my seat and soon fell asleep. I was not aroused until I heard the shrill scream of the whistle and a commotion all about me. As I raised up in my seat and was rubbing my eyes, someone at my side says: “I guess you been asleep.” Just then the brakeman rushed in, slamming the door behind him, and screaming at the top of his voice: “Stillwater.”
As yet, I haven’t got the pass to go back.
THE DREAMER From Statehood Almost 162 Years Ago THE STILLWATER MESSENGER August 31, 1858 The Stump-Tail Process.
Rev. Geo. B. Cheever, of New York, preached a sermon in that city recently, on the Tract Society. Referring to the way it has been prostituted and debauched by the Black Power on which it has leaned for support, he says: Your Tract society, in such a process, becomes like a diseased cow, round whom you must put a vast bandage, and hoist her up while you milk her. Just so, you have shut up the very Word of God under the roof of this sin, as in a Swill-Milk Distillery, and you feed your presses with falsehoods; and truth itself is concocted by passing through the vats of the great slave system, which is a distillery, that with its vast retorts and alembics takes the life of benevolence out of God’s Word, and sends a fiery sanction of sin to be drunk in the place of it. Your Tract Society adopts this swill, and your executive committees bandage the great cow, and hold her up with pullies that run through the pockets of your…churches and merchants. And then the milk is handed to the Doctors of Divinity for analysis, and they make affidavit that it is the very milk of human kindness, and that any outcry against it, is a base conspiracy against the Word of God, and…that this milk is milk for babes, missionary milk, the very stuff to teach masters and servant the moral duties that grow out of the existence of the Great Institution, the Domestic Missionary Institution of Slavery.