Boomers . . . and How They Got That Way

Epistle 4 – Small Towns

Brewster’s Mill is a small town in the northern Midwest. It’s not Lake Wobegon, but it’s close. It’s also home. When I was a lad, I was sure it was right at the edge of the earth because nobody who left town ever came back. Nobody knows who Brewster was or what he milled, for that matter.

My guess would be gin, since there were 6 saloons that I could hit with a rock from our front stoop. One such establishment, that also housed the town’s 4-lane bowling alley, was directly across the street from our house. Having no curb or lawn to defend us, every now and then one of the patrons would pay us a visit at closing time by backing into our bedroom wall.

Of course, there were also several town drunks afoot who added color to the scene. There was Geronimo, who worked for the railroad and always had a red and white checked bandana around his head. On second thought, maybe he owned the railroad. There was Big Shoe who always directed traffic in the middle of the main intersection whenever there was a fire.

The volunteer fire truck and cars whizzed by, spinning him like a top but somehow never running over him. Finally, he just fell down after all the excitement. And there was Big Shoe’s cousin, Gopher, who had a very hard time every night crossing the street at closing time and finding the right heading for home. His concerned friends even went to the trouble to erect a tasteful sign alerting passing motorists to “Beware – Gopher Crossing”.

How many Boomers grew up in small towns, you ask? I have no idea but I do know most of them in the northern Midwest were Germans or Swedes. A mixed marriage was a Catholic and a Lutheran, and every social event included beer. Most nonsocial events included beer also.

But it was an idyllic place for a child. I know that because the locals perpetuated the myth that Brewster’s Mill was in “God’s Country”. How they knew that God preferred tundra south to Phoenix or Florida, I have no idea. But they certainly didn’t want us to think there was anything better elsewhere.

My mother was a Yooper and considered Brewster’s Mill downright tropical. If she was still alive I’d have her arrested for child abuse just for raising me there. She stayed alive an extra 15 years just to watch me drag the storms windows around in the wind and rain twice a year.

I supposed I could have resisted but Boomers were not allowed to be “sportin’ a tude” with their elders. Had we tried there wouldn’t have been a wet spot where we stood.

Filed under: Boomers . . . and How They Got That Way

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