We’re nearing the end of this special series featuring essays shared by writers at First Monday, First Person, my “salon” for memoir writers held at the Pinney Branch Library in Madison.

By Loriann Knapton

Flom Minnesota, Population 183 (according to the 2020 census), located in Northwest Minnesota, was settled in 1880 and named after early settler Hans Erik Flom. Today this little town with proud Scandinavian roots boasts several businesses lined up across from one another between Minnesota Highway 38, including the Flom Pub, the Flom Café, Johnson’s Market, Max’s barbershop, the Flom Insurance Agency which competes with the Flom Region Mutual Insurance Company, Lunde Blade and Gravel, and the Flom Post Office.

My Mother grew up three miles north of Flom on the east side of the gravel road leading into the center of town. When she was a girl in the 1930s and ’40s Flom was the center of her family life. In Flom, groceries were purchased at the general store, the family’s beef and pigs were butchered, processed, and stored at the Flom meat locker, gas for the car and the farm tractor were purchased from the Flom CO-OP, and Grandpa enjoyed a beer (always Grain Belt) or two from the Flom Pub. Most Saturday nights there was a dance and sometimes a movie in the summer shown on the whitewashed side of the general store. Folks would bring their chairs and blankets to sit out below the stars and watch the free show munching on snacks purchased beforehand from the store. The locals, mostly farm families, all knew each other well and Flom was their gathering place to catch up, jaw up, and get full up when they needed supplies.

As a child, I remember spending many happy days during summer vacations eating freshly made pie at the Flom café with big scoops of fresh ice cream churned at the Flom creamery just across the street. I also remember going to the community center dances where polka or “old time” music, as it was always referred to by my grandparents, was king. The dancers didn’t have to be good to whirl around the floor and it didn’t matter if you had a partner or not because unpartnered ladies danced with each other and unattached men weren’t afraid to jig about the perimeter of the floor solo if all of the ladies had partners. Open-faced sandwiches of ground-up wieners or chicken mixed with mayonnaise were served by the Flom ladies’ aid society along with gallons of lemonade and coffee. The lunch was supported by donations from the crowd with the profits going to the women of the church. A farmer in the crowd would volunteer his Massey Ferguson baseball hat to pass round several times during the evening for donations to sponsor the band.  

As a child I loved to go to Flom when we visited my grandparents, and I would often beg to ride my aunt’s rickety two wheeled bike the three miles to buy a treat from the general store. Three miles didn’t seem so far to a bored eight-year-old, but that gravel road served as a very bumpy ride on a decrepit two wheeler with a rusty chain, and the adults were concerned that the dust churned up from the tires of an oncoming car or tractor might render me invisible to the driver, so unless Grandpa or Mom had an errand in “town” I didn’t get there. Nonetheless, a trip to Flom was always a great adventure and I eagerly waited for my chance to go whenever we visited.

Several years ago, on a trip back to visit my Minnesota family I was trying to explain the allure of Flom Minnesota to my husband during a day trip with my mom, her brother, and sister-in-law to see the old homestead.  The property had long since been sold for farmland, but the house was still standing, abandoned when my grandparents moved to Pelican Rapids in 1978. Many years of abuse by harsh Minnesota winters had left the little house sad and forlorn, stripped of its paint, standing stark and alone except for an equally dilapidated outhouse.  I was glad we had come that day but I was also saddened by the now broken-down house where so much of my childhood was centered. Staring at the scene I closed my eyes and could hear voices in the wind; the laughter of my grandpa after being dealt a good hand of cards, the sounds of my grandmother pouring water from the dipper to make nectar (her word for Kool-Aid) for our meals, the voice of my mom saying don’t waste the water Loriann or you’ll be making the next trip to the spring.” I could hear it all.

On our way back to Pelican we decided lunch would be the perfect ending to our day, so we turned out of the driveway and traveled the three miles down the dusty gravel road leading south until we pulled up in front of The Flom Café.  Through the large windows on either side of the screen door we could see the place was empty except for two old timers sitting at the counter stools. The modest counter had space for four more people on the stools next to those occupied by the older men and along the outer wall four small Formica-topped tables were set with placemats. The walls and counter were plain, painted white and well-scrubbed. Various foodservice equipment stood on a prep counter behind the service counter including a shake machine, toaster, a small glassed-in fridge holding a variety of sodas, and stainless-steel bowls of various sizes. The year’s Co-op calendar was hanging on the wall next to the coffee station, a glossy photo of the newest Farm-All tractor gracing its top.

A burly chested man, probably in his mid 50s, white apron covering an ample stomach and a soda jerk cap on his head, stood in the kitchen doorway, pancake spatula in his right hand which he waved cordially in our direction as the seven of us, my husband, myself, my mother, and my mother’s aunt, and uncle who had met us in town, all crowded into the place.  “Have a seat anywhere, just put a couple of tables together. I’ll be right with you,” he said, before going back to the grill. We did as we were instructed, pushing three of the tables together and organizing the chairs to make seating for all of us.

Once seated, it wasn’t long before the man came out of the back, refilling the coffee cups of the men sitting at the counter on his way, and approached our table.  “Nice to see you folks,” then speaking directly to my Great Aunt Nolda and Uncle Bill, longtime Flom residents, he said “Hello Bill — I see you brought company – Are you here for lunch or just coffee and pie?” In his mid 80s at the time, Uncle Bill, known for his dry Minnesota wit, told the man he was sorry for the big crowd on a Tuesday afternoon, but we were hoping that there weren’t too many for lunch. The cook smiled and said “we weren’t expecting a party, but we’ll take care of you. What can I get everybody to drink?” We gave our drink order, sodas and coffees, each in our turn, and then every one of us ordered hamburgers, three with cheese, five orders of French Fries, and two Potato Salads (homemade of course).

As soon as we ordered he headed behind the counter to get the drinks, coming back quickly to deposit Cokes and coffee, silverware and napkins, and squeeze bottles of ketchup and mustard on our table with a smile before heading back into the kitchen, where he removed his apron and the soda jerk hat and exchanged them for a light jacket and baseball cap with Flom Café printed on it, from a hook near the back wall. Sticking his sleeve through the jacket he came out front, put the hat on, opened the cash register, removed some cash, and strode out the front door. My husband just looked at me and started to say something when my Uncle Bill said in his quiet Minnesota drawl, “It’s alright, he’ll be back.”

And soon enough we saw him strolling back to the café from across the street, a large package wrapped in freezer paper under his arm. He entered the café without a word and headed to the kitchen, stopping only long enough to hang his jacket and cap back on the hook, replacing it with the chef’s apron and paper hat before sliding through the kitchen door.  We could hear running water as he washed his hands and the rustle of the freezer paper as he opened the package to start forming the beef patties from the ground meat he had just purchased from the general store, to make seven hamburgers. He called over his shoulder as he worked. “Sorry about the wait – I wasn’t prepared for a big crowd today, but the food will be up shortly.”  Hearing this, my husband turned and looked at me sideways in disbelief. “It’s Flom,” I told him with a grin.

It was good to be back.          

©  2023 Loriann Knapton

Loriann Knapton recently retired from the Wisconsin Department of Public Instruction where she served as a child nutrition consultant and trainer. Although unpublished, she has been none the less a writer all of her life, starting with silly rhymes and short stories in grade school and moving on to countless poems, personal essays and eulogies for family members and friends.  In retirement she is delighted to finally have the time to work on completing a memoir of growing up on the “wrong side of the tracks” in the 1960s with a disabled dad.