Little Town in the Driftless: Lanesboro, part 2
Lanesboro, Minnesota looks like a picture postcard come to life – which is to say, it reminds me a little of Chautuaqua, New York. I’ve been to the latter once or twice, many years ago now. Although there is an ordinary town there, it is primarily identified with the Chautauqua Institution, built in the 1870’s as a summer camp for the training of Sunday school teachers. It costs money to get in, even if you own a residence within the walls of the Institution – as of 2025, $113 for a single day, and over three grand for the whole 9 week summer season. And, like Lanesboro, its a popular vacation getaway.
Driving out to Lanesboro takes you through the rolling countryside of the Driftless, an area of the Upper Midwest not flattened out by glaciers back in the ice ages. The region, sometimes called Bluff Country on account of the prominent bluff and cliffs formed in the river valleys, covers a good deal of western Wisconsin, and parts of Illinois, Iowa, and Minnesota. It’s farming country to be sure, and the fields all had the familiar dark brown of recently planted earth, but hilly, unlike the flat land I’m accustomed to, having lived out in the Illinois prairie for a decade now.
The town is tucked into a river valley, and it’s one of those odd places that’s simultaneously far away from everything and but also conveniently located. According to Google Maps, it was at least a 30 minute drive to any other town – but Rochester, Minnesota, home of the world-famous Mayo Clinic, is just up the road, 45 minutes away, and beautiful La Crosse, Wisconsin is about the same distance in the other direction. Lanesboro itself has a population of 724 but feels slightly bigger on account of the many tourists it attracts. The downtown area is roughly three square blocks situated to the east of the south branch of the Root River, and there’s a broad street running through where most of the town’s businesses are located. There’s a rather steep hill right in the middle of town topped by a pair of churches (Lutheran and Catholic, naturally) with a converted parochial school (now condos) between them, overlooking Sylvan Park and campgrounds.
My stay started out in those campgrounds, but I only stayed there one night. I had arrived the day before the gathering began to ensure that I’d find a good spot to camp. The day following was beautiful and sunny, but unusually windy. I spent the morning in the local coffee shop finishing up some work, and then over to the library in the afternoon getting my review of the Rhiannon Giddens show done. The gathering was scheduled to begin with a potluck in the Sons of Norway Hall, adjacent to Sylvan Park. I had only just arrived when someone said to me “I think I saw your tent rolling…”
Despite the wind, my tent had held firm all day, a fact I had noted with some pride. What a good tent! It turned out this was hubris: my tent ended up in the little fishing pond I had set up next to, soaking the contents and getting the gathering off to a rocky start for me.
Fortunately my backpack (with my computer and notebooks) and instruments were all in the car at the time of the incident. Finding the tent half sunk into the mossy pond water, I dragged it out, drained the water, and removed my belongings from within. As I struggled to wring out what I could and throw it into my car’s trunk, the inflatable mattress I’d slept on the night previous blew into the neighboring pond. I wasn’t going to wade in to retrieve it, so I returned to getting everything else into the trunk. When I turned around, the mattress had disappeared. I looked about for it, but, not seeing it anywhere, I returned to the potluck (I never did find it).
After I explained to my friend Aaron what had occurred, he made arrangements for me to stay in the big house he was sharing with a bunch of friends. There was a laundry machine there, so I was able to get my clothes and gear washed. And it turned out Aaron was sharing a house with all the best people.
Paul and Gail (Paul’s partner, not to be confused with Bob Bovee’s departed partner, who was also named Gail) were there, and I had stopped over earlier that day to say “hello.” Chirps, the fiddle player who had been Paul’s bandmate in the Volo Bogtrotters, and his partner Dot, a dance caller of some renown, were staying there as well, and another dozen folks besides. Everyone welcomed me into the fold, and I would share meals and impromptu jams with them over the following two days. That first night we had a good, long jam on the back patio, with Patt Plunkett stopping by with her keyboard to add a little heft to the rhythm. I went to sleep that night smiling, despite the tent debacle.
One of the really appealing things about old-time music is the openness and inclusivity of the scene. There’s always room for one more in the circle. And the joy of communal music making has been very helpful to me in facing the deluge of concerning political and economic news of the past year. As I’ve written before, I’m deeply grateful for all the friendships I’ve made playing old-time, and I look forward to participating in this community for years to come. I do, however, want to return to the Chautauqua movement for a moment here.
The town of Chautauqua, New York was, in addition to being a summer camp for Sunday school teachers, the epicenter of a broader social movement in the late 19th century. Emerging from the populist currents of the era, Chautauqua hosted various lectures and performances, and gave rise to a host of summertime events throughout the US featuring social reformers and gospel-inspired folk arts. The Fisk Jubilee Singers, a still-extant African-American choir based in the Fisk University in Nashville, was among the early featured performances in Chautauqua, and audiences there were impressed by seeing Black performers who were not part of a Minstrel show. Popular lecturers included settlement house pioneer Jane Addams, Wisconsin Governor Robert “Fighting Bob” La Follette, and prison reform advocate Maud Ballington Booth. On the other hand, Chautauqua’s most popular lecture in the late 19th century was made by Russell Conwell (who frequently shared bills with William Jennings Bryan), and included the exhortation: “Get rich, young man, for money is power and power ought to be in the hands of good people. I say you have no right to be poor.”
Today, Chautauqua retains much of its character as a creation of reform-minded New England Victorians. (It’s worth recalling that upstate New York was once known as the “Burned Over District” – a hotbed of Christian revivalism during the early 19th century, and the birthplace of the Church of Latter Day Saints, the Seventh Day Adventists, and other American Protestant traditions). While many of the people there have admirable qualities, they’re also well-heeled moralists – precisely the sort of people who become wealthy through exploitative employment practices and then criticize folks living in poverty for lacking moral rectitude. The very fact that they enjoy picturesque summer holidays engaging in philosophical discussions, practicing yoga and getting rose-water enemas or whatever, while using their money to keep out anyone who might have reason to criticize them, kind of makes my teeth grind.
Lanesboro may not exactly be a Chautauqua, but the vibe was unmistakable. I’m not sure I saw a single non-white person the whole time I was there – and that doesn’t mean anything was wrong with anyone who was there, but it is the kind of thing I notice. The coffee shop I spent much of my Thursday in was, as they say, bougie. It was very nice, clean, full of crafts for sale – paintings of local species of fish, locally sourced honey, and various local-themed knick-knacks and memorabilia – and featured a menu of slightly pricey espresso drinks and delicious brunch offerings. And it was of a piece with the rest of the town – its all very nice...on account of the regular flow of tourists with plenty of disposable income.
It’s not that there’s anything necessarily wrong with being prosperous. But in a scenario that excludes those without sufficient financial resources, I find myself wondering if we create spaces like this so that we can pretend that this is what ordinary life is supposed to look like. Most people don’t have the time or money to spend long weekends in small, picturesque towns playing (usually not inexpensive) instruments and dancing. I do, and I’m fortunate that I’m able to do these sorts of things. Americans (myself included) don’t usually like to think of themselves as elites, even (perhaps especially) the elites.
Things get even weirder if you stop to consider the sort of people who are venerated in old-time circles: ordinary folks. Many of the great fiddlers of the past century and a half were also farmers, craftsmen, and housewives. Perhaps not people who could have gone a few hundred miles for a weekend getaway with any sort of regularity.
Funnily enough, thinking about all this reminded me of an economics paper I heard about awhile back that looked at the effect of regular cultural events (religious festivals in particular) in rural areas. What the researchers found was that the popularity of holidays during the planting and/or harvest seasons is inverse to household incomes. However, the presence of religious festivals appears to increase the level of social capital (i.e., the value of interpersonal relationships) and decrease the level of income inequality. In other words, engaging in community building activities comes at a cost to the individual financial incentives, but results in stronger, more resilient social networks. Hardly surprising, I suppose, but it’s nice to put hard data behind these sorts of things.
I often wonder if we Americans think of community engagement as something that should be available only to people above a certain income threshold - which is to say, having friends is a privilege and not a right. But experience tells me that friendship and community is most valuable amidst instability, and it’s people at the margins who will put the most effort into building strong social networks. It would be easy to dismiss an old-time gathering as merely bourgeois gratification - something closer to well-to-do kids partying on the weekend, trying to dance the emptiness away - but in my more optimistic moments, I think we’re all straining towards those deeper roots of community mindedness. I came to Lanesboro to play music, to learn, to meet people - but I think also, I’m trying to find a way past the pervasive cynicism of our age. When you’re trying to find your way towards the light, sometimes it’s enough just to know you’re not alone.