Thief River Falls

May Day was a time of awakening in Thief River Falls for we could shrug off winter, knowing true springtime would eventually arrive. Dandelions sprouted next to the house and in the nearby woods, pink Mayflowers gave way to white Trillium and purple Dogwood Violets. Spring was in the air and so was anticipation of delivering May Baskets filled with candy and maybe a few wild flowers.

Each year, my other crafted baskets with items from her pantry. First she attached fluted cupcake liners on lacy paper dollies and filed the center with jellybeans and gun drops. The pretty little baskets were flimsy, so they were wrapped in a paper napkin and secured with ribbon. Off we went. The boys and girls in our neighborhood scooted from house to house leaving baskets, ringing the doorbell and running quickly away. Like the Gingerbread boy, we chanted “catch me if you can!” Custom dictated that if the recipient spied the basket giver, they would give chase and try to steal a kiss. My brother-in-law, Paul said he hadn’t heard of that custom, if he had, he would have given more May Baskets.

Jimmy Lindberg didn’t live near me, so his father dropped him off about a half block from my house and waited for him across the street from the First Presbyterian Church. I must have expected Jimmy because after he left the basket and rang the bell, I sprang from the porch and gave chase. I caught him and gave him a big kiss. I didn’t win the Third-grade Field Day race for nothing.

That fall, we moved eighteen miles away to Viking, a village on the prairie and settled into one of the five company houses built for Lake head Pipeline employees. I forgot about Jimmy, but not Thief River Falls, a small town built on the confluence of the Red River and Thief River where once an ancient community thrived.

Legend had it that a lone murderous Dakota horse thief lived near the two rivers. The truth isn’t as colorful but yet it’s name is eerily prophetic.  On the night of November 12, 1955, the Northern State Bank was robbed and teller Kenneth Lindberg, father of four, was kidnapped. It was reported that he called home late that evening and told his wife he would be home soon. In the call he uttered a cryptic message: Soon there would be a lot of hunting. On November 26, in a field about fifty miles away, three young brothers hunting for rabbits found his body partially covered by snow. He had been brutally beaten to death.

In my mind I still see the grey car parked across the street from the First Presbyterian Church and a father waiting.