The Minnesotan Connection

My connection to Minnesota began in a nursing home when I was about five years old.

The first Minnesotan I ever met was a lady by the name of Miss Cece. She worked at the front desk of the nursing home where I spent a great deal of time as a child.

She was probably the first person I ever heard speak with that unmistakable Minnesotan twang and likely the first person I had ever even heard use the word “Minnesotan.”

One afternoon, while roaming the halls, I noticed an elderly woman sitting quietly in the corner of her room. Her door was open. She was awake, but just staring silently across the room. Something about her seemed deeply lonely.

Wanting to know more about her, I wandered over to the front desk and proceeded to ask Miss Cece a million questions the way little kids do. I remember one of the questions I asked was whether it would be alright for me to talk to her.

Miss Cece smiled warmly and said, “Her name is Miss Lucille. She doesn’t speak much anymore. She’s a fellow Minnesotan, and I’m sure she would love some company.”

No sooner had the word “Minnesotan” left Miss Cece’s mouth than I turned on my heels, headed straight for the nursing home library, and grabbed the encyclopedia I had already discovered during my earlier exploring.

I walked back to Miss Lucille’s room and gently knocked on the already open door so I would not startle her. Then I proudly announced that I was there to read to her about Minnesota, marched right in, sat down, opened the encyclopedia, and started reading like only a determined little kid can.

As I walked toward her with that encyclopedia tucked under my arm, I could already see something changing in her expression. It was almost as if she began lighting up before I had even sat down. Looking back now, it felt like she had been waiting a very long time for someone to simply visit and spend time with her.

Over the next several months, I continued reading to Miss Lucille about Minnesota, often from the very same encyclopedia over and over again.

Every once in a while, Miss Cece would hand me a book, magazine, newspaper clipping, or article about Minnesota for me to read to her.

Then one day, I walked into Miss Lucille’s room and she was not there. Instead, a younger woman was sitting quietly in her chair crying.

Like any little kid walking into a situation they did not understand, I immediately started asking questions. Who was she? Why was she crying? Where was Miss Lucille? Was she coming back?

The woman looked up at me through tears, smiled softly, and said, “Oh… you must be the little boy I’ve been hearing so much about.”

She explained that she was Miss Evelyn, Miss Lucille’s daughter, and as gently as she could, she tried to explain to me that Miss Lucille had gone to heaven.

I remember quietly telling her that I was sorry. Then, like only a little kid would do, I introduced myself and said, “My name’s Little Ernie.” At the time, I genuinely thought that was my name because that is what my whole family called me.

Miss Evelyn thanked me for spending so much time with her mother, and I remember telling her that I enjoyed spending time with Miss Lucille too. Then, like only a little kid trying to help could do, I asked if she wanted me to read her a story to help cheer her up.

Miss Evelyn smiled warmly and told me she was already starting to feel a little better. Then she asked if I wanted to go get some ice cream with her in the cafeteria.

While we were sitting there together, I pointed across the room and proudly told her, “That’s my mommy over there.”

As it turned out, Miss Evelyn already knew exactly who my mother was. She handed me my ice cream, smiled, and said she was going to talk with my mom for a little while.

That was the last time I ever had to be babysat at a nursing home.

My mother eventually came over, smiled, and told me, “You’re going with Miss Evelyn. She’ll take good care of you and bring you home later.”

And just like that, I gained another grandma.

Throughout the years I knew Miss Evelyn, I spent countless Christmases, birthdays, holidays, and ordinary afternoons at her home listening to stories about Minnesota, St. Olaf, and life up north.

Some of my favorite memories were sitting in her living room watching The Golden Girls while she argued with Rose Nylund on television about what was true, exaggerated, or complete nonsense about Minnesota and St. Olaf.

I was also introduced to Minnesota cooking during those years, especially Lefse. I do not know if covering it in butter and pancake syrup is even remotely traditional, but as a little boy, that was the only way I wanted to eat it, and I absolutely loved it.

On the other hand, my lifelong feud with Lutefisk started almost immediately. Even as a little boy, one smell of it coming from the kitchen was enough to send me running, and even now as an adult, I still will not touch the stuff.

Life was not always easy growing up, and there was a period of time when I ended up in foster care. Even then, Miss Evelyn never disappeared from my life. She would sometimes come with my mother during visits just so she could still see me, and years later she told me she had fought hard to try to keep me.

More importantly, she helped my mother get stable enough for me to eventually come back home.

Sometime after I finally came back home, a group from church was planning a summer trip to Minnesota.

Most families were figuring out how they were going to cover travel expenses and lodging for their kids to attend, but my family simply could not afford it. Once again, Miss Evelyn stepped in and took me with her.

By that point I was around eleven years old, but an eleven-year-old still is not very tall, and the first time I walked into Mall of America, I felt like a tiny little ant wandering through a giant maze.

Miss Evelyn spent that summer taking me all over Minnesota, showing me where she grew up, introducing me to places I had only heard stories about for years.

She took me to Camp Snoopy, the very first theme park I had ever seen in my life.

The first time I ever saw Minnehaha Falls, I stood there at eleven years old staring up at it in complete awe. Years later, after returning as an adult, I remember looking at it again and realizing it was somehow much smaller than I remembered as a child.

The first time I ever ate at Mickey's Dining Car, I think I ate nearly six eggs by myself.

Up until then, most of Minnesota had only existed in stories, books, television shows, and my imagination. Suddenly, all of it was real.

Over the years, life slowly carried us in different directions, and eventually I lost touch with Miss Evelyn.

At the time, I never could have imagined that one day I would eventually find my way back to Minnesota, not as a visitor, but as someone who would one day call it home.

Yet here I am.