"War and Peace" or "Anna Karenina"

June 18, 2016

Lake Bronson State Park, Minnesota

The license plates say "Friendly Manitoba" but, aside from restaurant, hotel and retail staff--who are required to be friendly--I can't say I experienced much of that friendliness. I found Manitobans to be fairly aloof, and I thought it was pretty ironic that the friendliest person I met in Manitoba was a German.

Who am I to judge? I'm not particularly outgoing myself. I almost never go out of my way to strike up a conversation with a stranger, though if a stranger strikes up a conversation with me I am happy to engage. No, my standard for "friendliness" is substantially lower. It is nothing more than returning a smile or a wave. I smile and wave all the time while riding and I've never been snubbed as often as I have in friendly Manitoba. Oh well, whaddya do?

There were seven little towns on Highway 59 between Winnipeg and the U.S. border. I would venture to guess that none of them had a population of more than 500. There's not much in those villages, yet I wouldn't call them "underdeveloped" or "depressed." They're just small. And the people seem to like it that way. They don't care one bit that they don't have a WalMart or a McDonald's or a Tim Horton's. They can get better food at the local cafe, and best of all, they can order a custom cut roast from the local butcher--in French.

I had to squint my eyes to distinguish those bison from cows. Unfortunately, you can squint at this photo all you want and they'll still look like cows.

Thankfully, the traffic deteriorated in direct correlation to the deterioration of Highway 59's shoulder.

The last of the little Canadian towns before the U.S. border is named Tolstoi. Tolstoi! Sometimes I like to IMAGINE the origin of a town's name rather than take the time to actually look it up. It's more fun to imagine. So let me tell you the story about how Tolstoi, Manitoba came to be:

The first man who settled the area was a Russian immigrant who was looking for a new home after the tsarist government was overthrown. After months of searching, he finally settled on this part of Canada because it brought back fond remembrances of the brutally cold Siberian winters. He was a domineering husband and father who forced the culture of Mother Russia upon his family.

He had a weird obsession with Leo Tolstoi, and had ONLY the works of that giant of Russian literature on his bookshelf. Every evening, after a hard day's work in the fields, he would sit in his uncomfortable wooden chair and read.

"Everything you need to know about life, you will find in Tolstoi's books," he told his children.
"Please, papa, " the children would plead, "we are in the Americas now. We want to read Melville and Whitman."
"Nonsense! You will read 'War and Peace' or you will read 'Anna Karenina.' Those are your choices."
"We have already read those books."
"You will read them again and again until you truly UNDERSTAND them. And you will read them in the original Russian language, not in some inferior English translation."
"Can't we at least read some Dostoyevski?"
"Nyet!"

In the same obsessive way, the father named his settlement "Tolstoi," eschewing the the Americanized "Tolstoy."

Not the busiest of U.S. Customs offices.

Soon after Tolstoi I was back in the land of Whitman and Melville. Actually it might be more appropriate to say the land of F. Scott Fitzgerald and Sinclair Lewis--a couple of classic writers with Minnesota ties.

My home for tonight is the campground at Lake Bronson State Park. Other than spotting the tiniest fawn I have ever seen, there is nothing remarkable to say about this park.

The little fawn (in the center of the picture) is SO young it does not yet know enough to be afraid of me. It's mother is hiding in the woods saying, "get back here Junior. Nothing positive will come from trusting a human being."

Today's ride: 51 miles (82 km)
Total: 837 miles (1,347 km)

Rate this entry's writing	Heart	3
Comment on this entry	Comment	0