Why Minnesota?
My mom was born in Spokane, Washington but she grew up in Spring Valley, Wisconsin. Her parents had a log home near the Eau Galle River, pronounced Oh Galley. She and her brother and sister attended school in a one-room schoolhouse. And as the story goes, no, they did not walk uphill in the snow both ways, but they did run from cow pie to cow pie to keep their feet warm. And my mom told stories about playing in the freshwater spring on their property. She reminisced about the delicious, fresh, cold water. And god’s honest truth, it wasn’t until this very moment, as I was writing this, did it occur to me that the name of the town was Spring Valley. How did I miss that?
Wisconsin…Minnesota…like there’s this huge difference. That is, unless you are a Packers fan, a Vikings fan, or a resident of either state. And for out of staters the only things your minds will conjure are ice-fishing and long, cold winters. And maybe cheese, in the case of Wisconsin, and corn in the case of Minnesota. And then ya, sure, you betcha, you’ll be makin’ fun of the way they speak, don’cha know. I say “they” because I will forever be known as “the gal from California.” You can never be a Minnesotan if you aren’t born here. My reach only extends to “I live in Minnesota. My mom was from Wisconsin.” I throw that it because I feel it makes me seem more legit. It doesn’t.
When people ask why I ended up in Minnesota—and geez there are a lot of folks who do—I tell them how I had been hunting for Stars Hollow, the idyllic fictional town in The Gilmore Girls. I found myself poking around in Zillow-Spring Valley hoping my mom’s old homestead might be listed for sale.
Years prior, she and I had flown to Wisconsin to attend her millionth year reunion of Spring Valley High. We found her old house, right where she left it. We drove up the driveway a little bit and turned around because rude much? I returned years later, alone this time, and I drove all the way up the driveway—and a man came out to greet me in the kindest way. I told him about my grandparents who lived in this very house from the early 1920’s to the 40’s.
He was very happy to share all he had done to maintain and restore the old log cabin, today called Seven Pines, despite the fact there are no pines any more—but No Pines is a dumb name. He replaced the foundation logs and gave it a new metal roof. All the wonderful history and style, updated with his own expert carpentry and craftsmanship, has been lovingly preserved—including the old one-room schoolhouse my mom, her brother, and sister had attended. He had bought it at auction and moved it to the property to become a kennel for Bernese Mountain Dogs—my favorite dog of all time. My name is on the list for a first right of refusal if ever he decides to sell.
Okay fine, but Spring Valley is in Wisconsin. What about Minnesota? I’m not sure how Zillow’s algorithm led me to Minnesota but what really caught my attention was a house for sale for $9,000. Oh my god, I thought. I could put it on my Visa! Two bedroom, one bath, old but livable, on a “city” lot in the town of Walnut Grove—yes, the town of Little House on the Prairie fame. When a housing market is depressed, there is always a reason. I was relieved to discover that the town was just fine. Good folks, good schools, no crime—it wasn’t the town at all, it was just that Grandpa had died, and the kids who inherited the house didn’t want it. Also, homes in rural southwest Minnesota are affordable to begin with. I didn’t buy that house—but it did sell, within days. Instead, I bought “my” house.
The woman who decorated the house I live in today had delightfully rustic taste. Primitives, antiques, a vintage butcher block in the kitchen, quilts hanging on the rungs of an old ladder…it was so cool and yet so warm. After days of non-stop obsession over the images on Zillow, I convinced myself the only way out was to fly out. I would take a look, boots on the ground style, and hunt for deal-breakers. I even hired an appraiser who met me at the house and we sniffed around everywhere, looking for red flags, deal-breakers, and any morsel of psychic relief from my insane curiosity.
After I got back, I didn’t delay much before putting in an offer. After a bit of haggling, it was mine. Escrow closed in September 2017 but I wouldn’t see the house again until I drove up on the afternoon of December 13, 2017.
