"Where Fillmore County News Comes First"
Online Edition
Saturday, May 25th, 2013
Volume ∞ Issue ∞
- 11:44:26, May 21st 2013 - airmaxs52274 - Have you ever thought about adding a little bit more than just your a ... [Read More]
- 5:56:33, May 18th 2013 - modgudur - I guess the child is anti-gun control since Obama went to all that trouble ... [Read More]
- 9:27:41, May 16th 2013 - caal girl - Nice outfit on you. I loved some of the dresses but am holding my breath ... [Read More]
- 2:03:34, May 14th 2013 - - Thanks for sharing the trip with us! ... [Read More]
- 4:12:01, May 9th 2013 - Amanda Ziebell - Wow! Thanks to the Fillmore County Journal for this kind story. For a ... [Read More]
- 11:47:30, May 7th 2013 - EW - ramble.....ramble.....ramble..... ... [Read More]
- 10:25:25, May 7th 2013 - Thunder6 - Great article! I love to see the Youth of Fillmore County receiveing acco ... [Read More]
- 6:52:10, May 6th 2013 - Jason Sethre, Publisher of Fillmore County Journal & Olmsted County Journal - Maryh, ... [Read More]
- 7:29:56, May 5th 2013 - maryh - Where are OCJ's available for pickup...other than at the new office? ... [Read More]
- 2:41:47, May 3rd 2013 - Remark1976 - Mrs. Buckbee, I just looked up Senate File 796 and in it there are said p ... [Read More]
Vanishing America
Comments
Monday, August 7, 2000
Ever since I read about Lilly and her general store in his book, Jailhouse Stories, I’ve been asking Neil Haugerud to take me over to the little burg of Amherst for a visit.
"You’ve never met Lilly?" Neil always responds with surprise. "Everybody’s met Lilly."
Well, I haven’t.
This summer, after encountering several people, including a former Minnesota state legislator and three slightly unbalanced New York bankers, who were each going through a bout of severe Midwestern culture shock, and after learning that Neil had taken them all to visit Lilly, I insisted that it was my turn next. And last week, the former sheriff finally agreed.
Neil had described Lilly in his book as "a diminutive craggy-faced woman of considerable character". He wrote of the time when Lilly would not sell a customer the last three loaves of bread from her sparsely stocked shelves because the customer "had to leave some for the others".
That anecdote was one of the most refreshing and appealing things I could remember reading anywhere. Lilly sounded like a throwback to another era, a true remnant of a vanishing America. Lilly was more in synch with 19th century sensibilities than those of the 21st. And when she was gone there would be absolutely nobody who would be able to take her place.
Last Wednesday afternoon when Neil and I pulled up to Lilly’s Amherst store there were four pickups parked out front. "I’ve never seen this place so crowded," Neil commented.
Inside a few local farmers and loggers were sitting on chairs and well-worn couches talking about the previous night’s thunderstorm.
Neil introduced me to Lilly, who promptly told me that her back was bothering her.
"I’m 85 years old, you know," she said. "I started running this store on April 1, 1954. That’s forty-six years ago."
LILLY standing outside of her Amherst general store.
I commented on the uniqueness of the country grocery store in today’s world. I knew that Highland, just up the road, still had a grocery store but I couldn’t think of any others around the county. I told Lilly that when I was a kid, Greenleafton, a town of fifty, had two grocery stores, as did Cherry Grove, another town of fifty, only four miles to the west.
Lilly said that within a few miles of Amherst, there had once been grocery stores in Newburg, Lenora, Tawney, Choice, Bratsberg, and Henrytown. Back in those days, the bread and grocery trucks would stop by twice a week on their rounds.
"The grocery business is harder than it used to be," Lilly said. "Now just the Schwans truck and the milk man make stops here."
Still, she enjoys the company, the people who stop in every day to say hello and sit for awhile. "I’m open seven days a week, ten hours a day, " Lilly said. "Sundays are my best day. A lot of people are out driving around and they stop in."
Lilly said that her husband died in 1961. She pointed out the window at her house, a short walking distance away, and said that she didn’t spend much time there. "It gets too lonely sitting in the house alone. I do my living right here."
Bruce Hanson, one of the local fellows who had been sitting around talking, stood up to go. "I stop here every day. It’s a tradition," he said. "I’ve already been here over an hour and a half today. I don’t know where the time’s gone."
After Bruce left, I reminded Lilly that she had gone before the Fillmore County Board of Commissioners a couple years back, when they were considering raising the price of a tobacco vendor’s license to $250. Lilly, who previously had been paying $12 a year, told the board that the new fee would make her "get off selling cigarettes." The board eventually agreed on a license fee of $125 per year.
I saw that there were a half dozen packs of cigarettes on a shelf and I asked if the county had ever sent an underaged person in to try to buy cigarettes as part of their state-mandated sting operation.
"I don’t like trouble," Lilly said. "But this boy comes walking in and asks if he can buy a pack of cigarettes and I said you don’t look old enough, you’ve got to be eighteen, and he said he was sixteen. And he left and went out to a van that was waiting for him. They’ve done that four times now."
"Did Neil ever pull any of that sort of stuff back when he was sheriff?" I asked.
"God, no," Lilly said. "But you know, times have changed."
Neil and I nodded in agreement.
"Yup, nothing’s the same any more," Lilly said. "It’s just like night and day."
Ever since I read about Lilly and her general store in his book, Jailhouse Stories, I’ve been asking Neil Haugerud to take me over to the little burg of Amherst for a visit.
"You’ve never met Lilly?" Neil always responds with surprise. "Everybody’s met Lilly."
Well, I haven’t.
This summer, after encountering several people, including a former Minnesota state legislator and three slightly unbalanced New York bankers, who were each going through a bout of severe Midwestern culture shock, and after learning that Neil had taken them all to visit Lilly, I insisted that it was my turn next. And last week, the former sheriff finally agreed.
Neil had described Lilly in his book as "a diminutive craggy-faced woman of considerable character". He wrote of the time when Lilly would not sell a customer the last three loaves of bread from her sparsely stocked shelves because the customer "had to leave some for the others".
That anecdote was one of the most refreshing and appealing things I could remember reading anywhere. Lilly sounded like a throwback to another era, a true remnant of a vanishing America. Lilly was more in synch with 19th century sensibilities than those of the 21st. And when she was gone there would be absolutely nobody who would be able to take her place.
Last Wednesday afternoon when Neil and I pulled up to Lilly’s Amherst store there were four pickups parked out front. "I’ve never seen this place so crowded," Neil commented.
Inside a few local farmers and loggers were sitting on chairs and well-worn couches talking about the previous night’s thunderstorm.
Neil introduced me to Lilly, who promptly told me that her back was bothering her.
"I’m 85 years old, you know," she said. "I started running this store on April 1, 1954. That’s forty-six years ago."
I commented on the uniqueness of the country grocery store in today’s world. I knew that Highland, just up the road, still had a grocery store but I couldn’t think of any others around the county. I told Lilly that when I was a kid, Greenleafton, a town of fifty, had two grocery stores, as did Cherry Grove, another town of fifty, only four miles to the west.
Lilly said that within a few miles of Amherst, there had once been grocery stores in Newburg, Lenora, Tawney, Choice, Bratsberg, and Henrytown. Back in those days, the bread and grocery trucks would stop by twice a week on their rounds.
"The grocery business is harder than it used to be," Lilly said. "Now just the Schwans truck and the milk man make stops here."
Still, she enjoys the company, the people who stop in every day to say hello and sit for awhile. "I’m open seven days a week, ten hours a day, " Lilly said. "Sundays are my best day. A lot of people are out driving around and they stop in."
Lilly said that her husband died in 1961. She pointed out the window at her house, a short walking distance away, and said that she didn’t spend much time there. "It gets too lonely sitting in the house alone. I do my living right here."
Bruce Hanson, one of the local fellows who had been sitting around talking, stood up to go. "I stop here every day. It’s a tradition," he said. "I’ve already been here over an hour and a half today. I don’t know where the time’s gone."
After Bruce left, I reminded Lilly that she had gone before the Fillmore County Board of Commissioners a couple years back, when they were considering raising the price of a tobacco vendor’s license to $250. Lilly, who previously had been paying $12 a year, told the board that the new fee would make her "get off selling cigarettes." The board eventually agreed on a license fee of $125 per year.
I saw that there were a half dozen packs of cigarettes on a shelf and I asked if the county had ever sent an underaged person in to try to buy cigarettes as part of their state-mandated sting operation.
"I don’t like trouble," Lilly said. "But this boy comes walking in and asks if he can buy a pack of cigarettes and I said you don’t look old enough, you’ve got to be eighteen, and he said he was sixteen. And he left and went out to a van that was waiting for him. They’ve done that four times now."
"Did Neil ever pull any of that sort of stuff back when he was sheriff?" I asked.
"God, no," Lilly said. "But you know, times have changed."
Neil and I nodded in agreement.
"Yup, nothing’s the same any more," Lilly said. "It’s just like night and day."