With the recent passage of a “public safety” referendum in our St. Croix County, with just over 54 percent voting “yes,” I was pleased to see that among the nine new positions created there were two “mental health co-respondents.”
That’s a good start. As is, to a maybe lesser degree as you will see, having two corrections deputies. And a recently elected district attorney who ran, in part, on a platform of keeping the mental health of all county citizens, and those whom they come into contact with, in mind.
Ours is a growing county with a newer and diverse, (and often rowdy or worse), influx of people, especially late-night, from surrounding areas, to deal with. But we also have other concerns with personnel position issues.

– Forteen precincts, so little time. As the polls would close in just minutes as 8 p.m. neared on April 2, and already tables were being torn down and chairs hauled off at this town site, to prep in advance of a quick-paced count of hundreds and hundreds of paper ballots.
There were more than two dozen voting booths, open at the back but facing a wall and having big wooden slats on the sides for voter privacy, about two booths for every precinct along all of the main side wall in this, the still growing township of Hudson, and more than a dozen other compartments set in a row ahead of them, of similar size, the first to be dismantled starting at 10 minutes prior to the hour.
About a dozen election officials were glancing quickly — some a bit faster than others — at the one-sheet paper ballots, with the race of the most concern being president, setting them in one of two stacks adjacent to each other.
A bin of very scant use was labeled as bad ballots, and one other that was not used and ushered away, was termed “dog licenses.” Most of the tallying was done in a bit over a halfhour.
I had been signed in, and ID verified, as an election observer and given chair No. 4, even though I was the only one who showed up in this capacity, and that hint at apathy is a little appalling. My employer for the night, the Associated Press, had me going to this second site in the county first, because of the gravity of the election. The main site weighed in at 56 precincts.
From my scant observance, it seemed likely the a ballot or two could on rare occasian be mis-filed, before the ultimate cavassing, but I highly doubt these would be anywhere near as high in number as Trump is often alleging. –

But back to the main piece, and first the backstory: A few years back, when suffering through time with a violent and abusive and mentally ill and deadbeat renter who was an in-law, and the various fallout that went with that experience, (such things are always a two-way street, although in this one the lanes were quite clearly defined), I got to see briefly these inner workings at the jail. I could say much more, but for now will stay on-topic.
(And there were some positive moments or more than just moments, from the occasional compassionate or helpful or even fun deputy, to that judge who took some extra time out of a busy court calendar to talk to a group of observing students, for again, more than a moment or two. But that should be expected, not extraordinary.)
The most glaring need I saw was for a 24/7 nurse. As it is, or was, if you are ushered into the jail on a Friday night, despite their repeated protestations to the contrary, you will almost certainly be without any of your medication, even if prescribed, until Monday morning, and in practice that might mean closer to noon.
The nurse has to approve all dispensing of medication, when she comes in after the weekend, or weekday evening. What do they do with someone who has a serious need for insulin, for example? If nothing else, the prospect of liability concerns should scare the lawyer out of you. And people have died in the care of the county jail.
I myself was repeatedly denied meds for my Tourette Syndrome, which can have very serious consequences.
Jail staff may have concluded that my massive symptoms, which were plainly shown, were from some other illegal factor and not a lack of prescriptions, but they are not doctors and aren’t qualified to make this call.
As it was, a mental health nurse, even if the medical matter is not mentally oriented, often brought in to make assessments of alleged offender wellbeing, actually said to me: Tourette’s, that’s just a bunch of muscle jerks and bad words, right.
Many first year medical students know its much broader then that. She did not and would not be corrected. I told her there are five steps that will now play out with me, with the last being cardiac arrest. As it was, I was rushed to the hospital, but only upon my release from custody, and the ER doctor made the diagnosis of “significant cardiac incident of unknown origin.” But I know. And knew.
During my time there, I saw many people with tics, some severe. I saw two people who were relatively new arrivals quickly from stress develop severe coprolalia, the involuntary utterance of obscenities that effects an estimated 40 percent of Touretter’s — and you could imagine how well that played with deputies. In a bizarre twist, I shouted instructions over a loudspeaker from my cell to deputies on how to give the effected people meds. One deputy even thanked me for my service. The national Tourette Syndrome Association says, regretably, that many of its tens of thousands of members end up in squabbles with often ill-informed officers.
Obvious, if just for liability concerns, the jail also could use a this time, part-time consultant on neurological issues and also its sometimes flagrant violations — I have more I could tell — of (quite minor) sexual harrasment and (major) the Americans With Disalities Act. What, you can’t hold onto a phone because you are ticking so badly and can’t maintain “control” of it. No one phone call for you. What a liberal judge would do with such cases!
And frankly, from what I saw at the jail, deputies weren’t that terribly busy. (So they could just use a bit of added training, or cross-training. More on that in a future post.)
But it doesn’t stop there. Nor do I. Ever see at the parking lot of the local cop shop, a bunch of those many new squad cars just … sitting there. Always, you can see at least one, usually more, while at least at some times as an explanation, the officers are inside with other duties. Obviously, scheduling the use of those cars to keep them all in actual service more frequently would be a VERY big, though apparently needed job. A part-time scheduling person might even save taxpayer money. (It should be said that now with new deputies, at least for that department, there may be more feet on the floor to patrol with them.) And one driver who acts as a partial observer points out that there is a need to have some of these squads sitting in the lot as a backup, if only at times when other units are being serviced for repairs. So need newer news that aren’t in the shop much?
And we’ve all seen those squads who just didn’t seem that busy, even when there is a big county to cover. Case in point, one seen driving through Second Street in Hudson, then diverting slowly east for a block, then go around in little rush the whole block, and minutes later back north again on the main drag. Who knows, maybe needed to be on the phone about … something? There will be such things in law enforcement.
I will back off from an earlier position I have taken, where I’ve advocated that agencies stick to their juristictions and not “roam.” This could be especially true with the State Patrol, and maybe they should stick to Interstate 94, known to be a large drug corridor, not drift through a few close-by neighborhoods and than back to the freeway. In particular, I in an earlier year saw one drive past a few people leaving the then-Pudge’s Bar and walking slowly across the street to their car. The squad drove a couple of blocks down and then back again, and questioned the bunch, without incident. And again, going out of its way to follow, turn by turn through town, a car with hippie-like decals on its sides. I don’t know, maybe that was reason enough to suspect something.
Anyway, with so many greater patrolling needs, maybe its now time for such agencies to help each other out as needed, not make sure they stick to a spot. But if there is such mutual aid, should it be officially run past oversight groups like the Hudson City Council?
And to the officer who I saw come to a full stop on Second Street, then say to a small group of young men, apparently going to their car in the middle of a big block, “don’t you jaywalk in our town …” Buddy, even though there has been some even violent behavior to combat, do you really have to be that confrontational? Don’t be like their neighboring Minneapolis. Not exactly spreading good will.
So then, a reason to write columns like this.

Easter Sunday, coming as the third day, is followed by April Fool’s Day Monday. So HudsonWiNightlife will hit them both, in one fell swoop, with one sweeping post.
So be cautious about how much truth you read into what you read here. Some, truth be told, but not most.
To do a flip, the Lenten fish fries were bested by fish boils, it would be shown. A metro TV station had listed its complete run of all the region’s fish dinners, fried and otherwise, and aired it one last time, but there were so many, with possible omissions, that they decided to roll it out like a German Polka barrel all through April, also. OK, I made that last part of it up. But you know, Easter in most years is actually held near the end of that time period … And for that in-church tomb image you view at corner, you can see one lone man scuttling in to join many others — and they would all donate their Easter eggs to those who were having to do without because of the new outbreak of Bird Flu in chickens. OK, just kidding.
The gigantic under-contract rabbit appeared at my dad’s nursing home to give away whatever candy they had on sale at my Target, and not its more discount competitor, weighing or pulling in at a full six feet tall. Could be seven feet with ears included. If at eight-foot would not be able to get in the low-rise, low-budget roof and door.
To slip on dad’s slippers over his own big feet, more than once as one kept falling off, would be akin to the washing of feet on the Good Friday before. Fasting might be easier to stomach. Even as he waited to fall fast asleep later and was worried about said feet hanging over the edge of the bed.
Later in the day at church, there were so many people exiting from the previous service that they were clogging the space to get in for the next one. At certain times, methinks too much, especially at holiday seasons. I was wondering if there was a similar situation when Christ rose from the dead about 2,000 years ago, and those three not-little women came to anoint his body with spices. Would they have not passed each other somewhere along the path to the tomb? Walking backwards in reverse? Dinner discussion focused on the fact that one of the women, from an apparently obscure Scripture, was named Joanna. Coulda been the remake of Jolene, these days more prominent via the Easter-ish release from Beyonce. Cowboy Carter made complete.
The gloom and rain at some points of Easter proved to be better served for Good Friday, since it seemed the fish would have caused a flap were it to be fully forged, as this would be the Sixth Day running for such, as per weather reports, on this a Seventh Day.
With the bevy of bunnies bestowed, they are one report said to have too much cadmium, and on this day would be too much, phonetically, like a Cadbury or even Canterbury.
To feed them, eventually I go, and usher in the insane online deals of Fleet Farm. Offered are kitchen offers you can heat up, including pizza ovens … just don’t tell the Zonk from Domino’s and the crazy deals it used to chase in years old commercials, while in traffic. Hit your burgeoning head.
And also, hammer away at supplying your live chicken supplies. With their (accompanying?) bird seed and various nuts sales. Odd bedfellows?
The last of such, are being in cahoots about whole oats and batteries.
I think there has to be a way to have them all in cahoots with another major marketing plan, with its centerpiece on this holiday, a big stone ornament more than the size of that Easter bunny at the nursing home that was closer to the start of this piece, a veritable head as from fittingly, Easter Island. It is displayed in the front corner of someone’s lawn. And there lies the rub, as if to wipe the smirk off its face. Local authorities nixed any such cross-marketing for usage in an ad, saying that it would violate zoning rules. OK I made that up.
Sponge Bob, though, did make his way into that competitor of Target, cornering the market on the selection of flip-flops, not just bunny slippers, even on this cool Easter season. He also was shown prominently on some Square Pants briefs.
And these would not be baseball spikes, although my favorite Brewers team had its opener slated, then rained out in not The Windy City, but The Big Apple. So it would seem, the next day they would play two?!? A player was shown with big smudged crosses, not just lines, under his eyes, rather than forehead, to block the sun on this revered holiday. And Marquette across town from The Crew, showed up in the Sweet 16 of NCAA basketball, but even though favored, the result was sour as they ending up bowing out on bad shooting.
Lastly, and this might prove to be The End, a solar eclipse of the sun and/or moon is coming up soon. Weather reports showed not only rain and sleet, but also as these progressed northward, “Cities In The Path Of Totality.” They did not include the place where most of those revered Old School heavy metal bands came from, The Black Country in England. That would have to be left to a real cool title for the next metal CD.

This is the Thank God It’s Good Friday that was.
Or was it …
Where in the holy mackerel was the fish? Can we take a stab at salmon with our silverware? Where’s the beef takes on even more importance. Best take in the choir at left, as it thus becomes important, too.
So I start with Wendy’s, a block or two down. They had hawked a breakfast burrito on their not so chilly outdoor sign. Bean burrito, no. It was heavy on Applewood bacon. And no fish offering, even walleye, on their five screens.
I ordered it anyway, just past brunch-time. But they were out, as breakfast had passed. So this was much like a fast. But even at the next place referenced, given in a small basket and wrapped much like at Christmas, there would be Easter eggs aplenty, along with a single boiled and then decorated egg, and one that was just plastic but filled with more candy, to mess up your fasting blood sugar.
Back at my dad’s nursing home, for fish, and not one run by nuns, but maybe by Thrivent, I swore I saw some gravy with some lumps of meat on a plate or two, at lunch, (to be speared by a trident?) But for dinner, a ray bit of hope as we smelled — or smelt as it is in the annual northern Wisconsin spawning run and followup feast of about this time — fried stuff from two rooms away. (Mom the consummate cook said this joke was too bad to tell.) Could there be fish, soon, even called calamari, if the chicken was checked at the locked door.
I guess they cast their net on the wrong side of the boat, even on this day, as Jesus was otherwise very importantly occupied. And the pope was feeling a bit too punk for too much prayer, unfortunately, so he also cut short his usual Good Friday activities, and did not do the Stations of the Cross walk. At least he had a good reason. So, what we were smelling was more beef chunks. Braised? And the next day, Saturday, it was tacos with two small churros for your sugar level, although my mom did find a fast food fish sandwich, via McDonald’s this time, that was way too big to call it fasting. Tartar sauce pushed it over the limit. It did give dad something other then Tex-Mex, if only for a few bites, like nibbles on a fishing line.
But more hope, as a sign for an Old School supper club noted that they on Easter Sunday will continue serving
brunch-like fare, with multiple forms of fish to be found too, I’m sure, until 5 p.m. Its got to stay until 5 p.m. somewhere.

Where’s the beef? It is here. My sister-in-law went far beyond the usual ham for a meaty holiday dinner.
But no ham? Or even turkey? But one then two then three meals, so wait … As its now been 40 days. But this would not be vegan.
Over the course of The Most Recent Major Holiday Gathering, and it is not Valentine’s or St. Patrick’s Day, there was every kind of fish or other fowl, filleted, big-bodied or small, or cow- or pig-based meat you could imagine, from all parts of the animal(s), and I think even hind-quarters and butt-steak are great. Ham was in hock. You just had to wait patiently, like a child putting their hyperness on hold while waiting for presents, which just might need to include Adderal, a 90-day supply from the pharmacist so to last until an early Easter, barely, depending on how you weigh New Year’s, with possibly more sugar-based candy. Like was abundant on all fronts, even by the TV stand, not standing alone.

(But what does stand alone, sorta but related as you will see, for food as we speak and you may need some added tips after or if you went to a Seder meal, these days appropriate, is Easter does a take with lefse and hummus, and brings in Tex-Mex. See the Picks Of The Week department.)

– The last storm, possibly, in its second part, of the seasonal slideoff of bar traffic left Minnesconsinites stranded — at home. On Sunday night, the north end in particular was a no-show, as Mallory’s said on its door, “closed due to the #@*&%$#& weather,” and the newly falling from favor Moose had its doors shut before 11:30 p.m. It was almost as much of a ghost town to the south, but at least Hudson Tap had one person playing pinball, two people at the bar-rail, three playing darts and a gang of four came in around midnight.
At Dick’s there about that many total people in attendance, but at least a few cars on the side-street, and before 1 a.m. a kinder-gentler mosh pit broke out via a new arrival to the dire darts diving area. The previous night, at the height of the snowstorm, only Dick’s and The Tap were open for business, their bartenders said. –

Back on the main topic, at least one beef and/or pork dish was even topped with bacon, so another pig offered its life, using a name brand — in what was an accompaniment and not just in The Eve church services, as she freely offered meat topping and the like over other meat — so cutting full strips and not just bits, and not just on the side. Double your pleasure. Meat that was manly, along the lines of prime rib, or at least prime pork, was included beneath it that I’m sure was braised, or you could also say marinated. But herring showed, her signature, if not salmon. Garnishes too, and maybe a few slices/nuggets of fruit and not just apples and oranges on it? And there were at least three types of it, “plain,” offered with each meal maybe with carmel topping, if again apples, as the holidays wore on.
(A black buddy of mine was just getting off his retail store shift, working for The Man until 5 p.m. He was calling home to the missus, when I approached his counter, saying that he was just yearning for her trademark scalloped potatoes with her trademark thick-cut bacon added, (he motioned with his fingers). But she was at church, doing the choir rehearsal thing for the upcoming Easter and its full religious season. So it would have to be Wendy’s and whatever mash-up of such type of grub they had. He seemed OK with it. But the upshot of this tangent? My sister-in-law offered all of the above, if I remember right, but woulda been minus Wendy’s and there beef, at her main meal of many, over the last (full) holiday of 2023.)
So on Christmas Eve, the first day, served up was the first dish from a four-legged animal, probably locally raised in our state known for such in its farming, and including beef. It was again, not the usual holiday grub. More creative in its ingredients. And thank God no lefse (that’s for another post) or lutefisk. I think we went tenderloin over sirloin.
But there was also a “snack” later that night, and it went beyond Christmas cookies and related candy, gotta love chocolate covered cherries, although there was that too. More meat, although the individual chunks were closer to bite-size. (See below as such a possibility.) I recall that some of it was even served on a stick. Sauced small party weenies? Coulda been half a hot dog.
And on Christmas Day, when back again for a third trip, and not needing a buffet line, there was more killer calories protein. This completed, so to speak, the whole enchilada. But not too spicy, or with the roast beast too rare, for the oldsters. And now, at last, ham even showed up, aplenty! I’d been wondering if that would, eventually, come along, from the get-go. All that was vetoed was veal.
From the start of the two-day-or-more celebration, everything you could possibly expect was there, except maybe there was veggie offering in absense, so not to pay total homage to that one of the many main food groups. For some reason I was fully assuming I would see green beans and silver almond slivers, or can of corn, Old School farm term with varied meanings. But there was a reason, as the 25th wound down, to keep the same number uniform …
More meat. And room for it on the dining room table, or countertop that was the abyss between the main eating or cooking areas. And that staple can of corn, and other veggies, reigned king.
And now a meatball joke, and not from the movie. My brother in high school got really sick after a holiday-time night of … you know. But he blamed it on consuming way too many of mom’s heavy-on-sauce-and-brown-sugar-cinammon BBQ meatballs. We still don’t know if mom ever figured it out, or maybe just played it coy — for years. Buy now I guess I’m outing him.

What is in a name? And what follows may be like this exercise, a bit longer than more four-letter words, but maybe just as “foul” …
I “went” on a “walk” through a lot of cars in park last year, when I saw the (pink as per an employee and her decked out car) sign on an auto bumper sticker, Cast Your Ballot For Vivek, now outed by vote.
I didn’t know who he was at the time, or Nikki Haley, a fire-brand as in the comet, to pick a more prominent one, but I immediately thought that hey, we’ve had other five-letter names as schmuck for our president. I’ll take some of the recent ones in reverse order, Biden, Trump, Obama and Bushs, (I made up that last one, to fit the theme, in part because there were two of them, so twice.) Double your digit folly. And Nixon beforehand. Vivek’s second name is too “wordy.”

– With this last blizzard, that didn’t really show, go figure — and more play with numbers follows — we were supposed to have 13 inches, I was told, and we got about half a foot, so six or seven inches if you’re counting, give or take a half-inch. More flurries could follow, we’ll have to see, to save meteorologicalician’s ass. Mom in Milwaukee said the same, first decreeing like Pontius Pilate as one season ends and another begins, that there would be much more, then really dwindling it off. Few people said five (inches), like the above.
It has been a winter of guys at times sporting flip-flops and arm-less T-shirts as temps hit fifties, yielding on a few days to parkas and we have needed windbreakers, partying women who got used to the warm climes and lack of glaze and forgot how to walk fast in heels, fewer cases of big boots with killer clunky ankle areas, parties of Minnesotans who still could not find their cars or clubs or party buses, and despite having lack of such to occupy their minds didn’t know which state they were in, but still coming up with quips on being in a quandary about lost locations and lack of snow … here it’s just the state of things. And before the supposed killer storm, by all accounts, I saw a mom in boots and a younger teen daughter (trying to extend her youth?) wearing bunny slippers.
Signs were still found above bathroom stalls and such about icy yard plowing and snow removal and spring muck cleaning before spring came — a bad winter for such business until, maybe in short form, now. Another basically bad, was after St. Patrick’s Day a bunch of vomit was on a doorstep and into the sidewalk downtown, looking the same pink color as the new and I guess cheaper way to combat ice with salt on streets, that got cleaned up in stages, like a snow plow crew going at it more then multiple days, like this snowstorm was to be. First was sand-piled on top a measure that covered the much of it, then shoveling came about and took most of the rest, leaving a space next to the rise of the first step, but then snow covered every last lingering bit that was there. The cleaners must have followed the forecast(s). –

Clinton was by most any name an exception, a red-letter day, although you might name him Billy, and have Trump go by Donny, or you could call him Barak, but then but for a one-digit departure, we have had Reagan and Carter, (Jimmy), and even two by the way of George. Ah more of the convenience of typos, and I could say Ronnie (Ronny?) before Reagan. I will milk more typos later. But God, we might need five different main parties, not just ass of “horse” and “phant.” And independent would make it six.
God, invoke his name again for the point of politics and you could use the term Jesus or Allah, or Christ or Yahweh, or even Buddah or getting close Ghandi, but as more of an exception to the theme — Kennedy is close — you have to go back as far as Eisenhower or Roosevelt. Red-letter Satan and/or the Devil though, is not on the ballot, losing out to The Lord in the squared-rings of the primaries. “Hades” is his one precinct. And what about, again going red, Lenin or Stalin. Even I as Joseph Winter could fit the letter of the bill, to be on the ballot as a write-in, as these days who wins the race for president is subjective, even when by vote and its chads, to get the number exact. The Buena Vista building — which found pols giving out leaflets, or just say hanging them on doorknobs on Saturday morning — could become my White House, four uses of five-letter words, as I write my campaign flyer.
And since this is the Badger State I write from, we also have to tab Gov. Evers too. But his first name as Tony cannot by misconstrued to fit with fives.
To bring in local elections, going north, we have Kerry again this non-national time around as a first name, last name Ries. And Kruze, noteworthy as not Cruz. And if we make Kate into Katie, as in Garza, more fits, exactly, the lettered bill. And for local “board” of more than one type, there is Maria Rudie, again double your fun if you are a politics/language junkie sort, Gavin and David and Bobby (not Bobbie) and Randy and Molly …
And for New Richmond mayor, Horne, with a first name of Fred or Freddy, and I suppose I could spell it Fredy.
A sign posted next to his said for sale or to-be-bred cows, as in “polled” Herefords, so get those sheep out to vote to the polls. Like David Mustaine sang, “go ask the sheep about their beliefs.” And don’t let a muzzle be put upon you. Although if you are of this belief, you could indeed “censor” me.
Going back to flips of fours and sixes — all five letters — a last sign said as its start Sora, to get out the Spanish-speaking vote, (hire more interpreters), which I think would resonate with my niece Hannah. She worked at a club or pub for a summer job, twice, and like in many cases, the cook was Hispanic, and had a crush or shine on her. Orders yet again needed to be called out in Spanish, I assume, and have witnessed in other bar and grill venues, and even Burger King. Since she spoke Spanish, she was The Queen, especially for the drama of complicated orders, like all those people who will die it they get any MSG or gluten, or peanuts, or XYZ.
Just don’t fill out the order ticket of a guest, in English.

There was little after-party, as it was early on St. Patrick’s Day that revelers in downtown Hudson got bombed, literally. Come noon you had to hump it to New Richmond or River Falls, or nowhere in the western part of St. Croix County — or run with your tail between your legs, sorta, to St. Paul. But even by mid-day, as the big parade was yesterday’s news, you could tell in role-reversal that about every third car parked on the main street had Minnesota plates, if any at all, at least in front. In a stroll after midnight, a lone squad was about the only car in sight, rushing to chase down someone and going fast enough for two drivers. Behind not far, a car made a questionable U-turn, then sliced toward a side-street to find an open bar. Note all the bad bombed-out car gags. Holy Wars and the punishment due to drivers from out-of-state making poor choices.

– With the coming of spring, a string of spaced red shoe-shaped strips (but not ruby slippers) could have signaled foot traffic as they spread throughout the sidewalks of the business district, up and down most of the blocks, around corners and meandering closer to shops and then nearer to the street, block after block after block — as our Minnesconsin (who has a greater claim to this non-fame?) transportation repair season, the second of two, begins anew. These were guides for construction crews to find stuff below the pavement, a few also written in yellow actual numbers or letters. But the stripe spaces were like those made by a Genesis-type or sci-fi giant, judging by the distance between the left and right. The average length between them, measured on foot, was three or four strides.
First sign, leading to others, on the frequent wind of this spring, as it begins to unwind.
The most applicable sign of an effected business, it must be made of cardboard, like one of those that wouldn’t stand the test of time — when you punch a hole beneath a pair of those hanging hooks with the end of your scissors — first the right end fell down off the top pole, and then dangled, then the left, then both dropped. So the sign was laid out by the swirling wind on a small patch of lawn, then pulled completely away, and put away.
The written chalk outline, its that season again for children to play outside and draw since there’s not snow, outside another shop looked like, and bore the etching markings of, a bad cartoon character on a beer bottle, from either the craft brewery across the street or Oliphant or its ilk, from neighboring Somerset.
The signs in, and of, spring are blowing in the wind. –

So as the Irish approached, check out the gig where it’s always the after-party venue of choice in the downtown, going right to their later-than-on-most-weekdays (Sunday included now that Jeff Loven only plays there in summer) last call — Dick’s Bar and Grill. It’s more the bar portion at this time of night, and is the last pit-stop before calling it an evening in a several-block area, and a spot where local bartenders give it their all, minutes after a long-last shutdown of their own establishments until nextday. Traffic has always tended to move northward in town to catch that last drink at last call.
On this night it looks like you will not see much if any after-bar outtings, but here is what I saw at Dick’s for the grand finale, such as it was. (As this being just an hour into the essentially fourth day running of St. Pat’s, and as late Sunday yielded to Monday’s early morning, there was more about fitting-this-all-in to be told, especially by all of those few regular revelers who were pushing the limit Sunday night, and the brave who can go that long.)
But at Dick’s come 1 a.m. there were only four people, all bar workers, half still on the job and the other half lingering frontside after being cut from duty, and surviving. Dick’s had a few Irish ditties being played on the jukebox and/or music TV stations, if you consider the likes of Oasis to be Irish.
It had been that way since before midnight, and not much better in most of the earlier hours, they said. But in the a.m. there were a lot more people, who forsook the usual Bloody Mary’s and got loaded with Irish Car Bombs and corned beef hash.
But not long before THEIR last call, one of them loaded the jukebox one last time. Would there be more Irish music? He seemed quite ambivalent, but then a bit receptive. Meanwhile, the others conversed about their varied ratios of Irish blood, with one saying he was unsure and another that there existed a name back in his lineage that after exiting Ireland was green to the core. Kilt-like clothing was congured. I countered that I am 100 percent German. Ouch! (I a bit later saw a guy I knew, and asked him if his Packer jacket was meant to be GREEN and Gold, not shamrock green, but again uncertainty. He then claimed Irishness based on his last name, but first said he is largely German. Another one? For what reason was he unsure.)
You don’t really want to go home, but no reason to stay here. But as I exited a couple came in who looked Hispanic. And out on the side-street, there were more cars parked, all in a row, then the sprinkling I’d seen earlier, and two guys from Minnesota, I’m assuming, crossed said street. One had a skip in his step, and the other sported funny ear things on springs, meant to be Irish-looking not earrings, as they were higher placed on the pate. At least they were green. A fifth man came running by, and they all had Dick’s in their sights.
And that was that …
So I guess New Richmond was the place to be. My source, checking out his first parade there, said that the weather was cold enough to chase more than just snakes away, but was still fairly well attended. “It was cute,” he said, adding the parade was mostly for the wee little ones, who gathered candy thrown like it was Easter, but also had all the same usual trappings of things flow past you. After 20 minutes, he and crew were off to Mallard’s for a drink or two. They noted the difference in the two places, although both lie in St. Croix County, if near its edges.
So despite its last call patronage in just one spot, there was likely no after-bar in Hudson. But an after-parade in New Richmond.

The little town of Erin Prairie is as Irish as the Midwest gets, with those two Wisconsin staples making up the bulk of what’s in town, an ethnic-based pub and the numerous Irish Catholic churchgoers (see its frontlawn tomb image at left) from just up the road who have historically been the vast majority of its typically each Sunday afternoon, regular patrons. The church census lists only a wee amount fewer people than the town itself.
But just on the very eve of St. Patrick’s Day, metamorphically speaking, all that took a historically strange turn like an old and narrow and winding Ireland road. Even St. Patrick, though he could be the ultimate snake charmer and get them out of the isles, could not save the day. An old Irish institution waned for a time, as the decades-long pub as a social club has now become even more of a history, right before the Irish are famously out and about, so they were unable to milk more money out of what would normally be a large pot of Guinness and green-beer gold. That will likely raise the ire of those who are now crying in their beer, most of them parishioners at what’s fitting named St. Patrick’s. Mere days before what’s become the Irish national holiday, if only as celebrated not in the Irish State but in The States, the online data that pops up front and center said this to try to clear up the status of the tavern, known at Mary’s Erin Corners: Closed. But that was an online mistake! It had a few months back gained new owners, following in those big green footsteps of the old-time parishioner who started the place decades ago, from a business team that also runs a tavern across-county in Hammond. They would now call the place The Bases Loaded Bar, as there is an adjacent ballfield.
Still, Erin Prairie goes back in time as far as the arrival of Europeans in the Badger State, like Milwaukee and its non-green beer, even though on the Wisconsin’s far west end, so a few hundred miles of added travel was involved for the immigrants, unless they would take the long portage from Lake Superior to the point where it nearly connects with the at-that-point-narrow St. Croix River. That is what gave birth to Erin Prairie and the nearby towns, via the looming lumber industry floating logs down the now-large river (more on that below). Thereby, its only church and sole Irish pub would soon co-mingle.
The history, too, starts with the local town hall, about the only other thing to be found in Erin Prairie. The small hall looks like many back in the historic day, relatively small and cube shaped with a second story, and much like an old country church. The hall thus resembles that in another town a few miles west, that of Richmond.
Many of the Irish descendants of those who settled Erin Prairie still worship here. The longtime companion pub had been shifted to be called the Bases Loaded Saloon, and the new owners had pledged to keep up all those local traditions that had sprung from being Irish Catholic. A goal had been to be open for business on a more consistent basis, with expanded hours, and also bring in live music that was purposely planned to have varying styles, including on Sunday afternoons such as St. Patrick’s Day was, they say.
The old, original church cemetery is dozens of times larger, compared to the church building itself, and is surrounded by small woodlots, an old farmhouse and a bigger and more modern farm. Wood hewn signs propped up on poles greet visitors. Spectators at the pub’s adjoining ballfield still can use a series of bleachers made solely of wooden logs, and a small press box built of the same. The pub’s ceiling, also, was all log-made.
Music at the church, true to form, has long been provided by the Erin Prairie Folk Group, John and Maureen Brunner, and Heather Bolton and Marie Helgersen. The names are noteworthy, for reasons of ethnicity.
Bolton family history, is a name of Anglo-Saxon descent spreading to the Celtic countries of Ireland, Scotland and Wales in early times and is found in many medieval manuscripts throughout the above islands. The Helgersen surname, depending on which of its six derivatives, also has an Irish lilt.
Deacons have been Michael Germain and Mel Riel. Historically, such surnames evolved as a way to sort people into groups — by occupation, place of origin, clan affiliation, patronage, parentage, adoption and even physical characteristics like red hair. Many of these modern surnames, like the deacons, in the dictionary can be traced back to Britain and Ireland. Historically, Jean-Baptiste Riel was apparently born in about 1650 in “St Pierre,” Limerick, taken to be St. Peters, lineage online records indicate.
Only three Minnesota cities across the way, for comparison, are above 20 percent Irish and almost all are small in population. At last measure, it’s at 15.2 percent Irish in Erin Prairie, among the 700-plus residents in town. Irish lineage averages at 3.6 percent across the state as a whole.
Several employees from Immaculate Conception in New Richmond, on the other side of that community about ten miles away from Erin Prairie, and has a joint main pastor in Fr. John Anderson — and he knew about the pub right off the bat — have noted that many parishioners have frequented there, making it in that way a true Ireland-style community pub. The former owners also were well-known to be local parishioners, it was verified.
There are many transportation dynamics in the formation of the town. Erin Prairie is a rural, agricultural community located approximately 45 miles from the Twin Cities.
As a piece of historical trivia about the area bars, Rooster’s Roadhouse (formerly Fatt Matt’s Bar & Grill and long before that the Red Rooster) is located near the railroad tracks in what is often called Jewitt Mills. This is a town where, with its founders, the streets were plotted and plans made for development but because of changes in the east-west railroad, that in large part fed off the lumbering that was a area chief employer, before the turn of the century (twice now) the larger-scale development never came. Jewitt is the name for a founder who actively worked with the lumbering industry on the St. Croix and Chippewa rivers, bookends to Erin Prairie, floating logs by the thousands southward, to the point of obscuring sight of the wide waters.

What, it’s not quite St. Paddy’s Day yet?!? The Irish are already out and about, green garb and red hair and the pot of gold standard, even early as in this afternoon. The classic, Irish laden and ladeled out like corn beef, St. Paul parade is in the books, as per the just-hit-the-newsstands Irish Gazette, (find them, via me, at 17 western Wisconsin locations near you), but it is still 5 O’Clock somewhere, actually more like 4 p.m. Sunday in New Richmond as per the coming time of their own decades-long-annual city parade. So there is a wee bit of time left (my Irish folk I hope will forgive the overuse of the term) to again, as another overused term, get your Irish out. With it falling on a Sunday, that makes for a full three-day party.
What until then? Paddy Ryan’s Pub and Boxty House (both) in downtown River Falls kicks it into high as in highlands gear tonight, that being Saturday, (always have to specify), with their latest music offering, from the Chris Silver band, which is bluegrass enough as to be close to being Irish, (lilt and maybe lyrics compared). They are iconic, as per Irish and beyond, so get it going early. Bloody Mary’s on Sunday can wait. Irish whiskey can’t. But you can return for Irish grub on the next day.
Over at Johnnie’s a Gospel Choir singer was kickin’ it from the corner stage, and one of his mates was appreciatively listening at the first table sitting in front, in another pre-party. Come Sunday at 5 p.m. at the Wild Badger up in New Richmond, there would be a single deejay on from then until close. That’s a lot of hours to put in, much like an old Irish farmer. At the parade an hour before, a couple of newbies to New Richmond planned to take it in, not yet a couple in a complete sense, but gathering over the Irish in becoming so.
Which brings me to such divinity, as this is a more-or-less sacred Sunday, at Devine’s Liquors on the north end of River Falls, down or up, depending on how you take it, from Paddy Ryan’s. They are known for their Irish spirits, as per the-above-mentioned whiskey, although they may be sold out right now. So keep your St. Pat’s Day rager going, and thus continue it forward, by hitting them up when they are fully restocked. And while there, check out the latest copy of the Irish Gazette, letting all know what’s going on as such in these parts and across the pond with Irish politics and more, which is as interesting as here. And filling up its back page, full page, as such pages are a thing, see a dealie of what Charlie’s Pub in Stillwater has to offer, as the 17th comes to fore.
Irish grub at a Sub House? They have a sandwich board for such sandwiches, at their downtown Hudson location, and right now you will find their staple of the holiday, featuring (noted as warm) both sauerkraut and corned beef, also noted as you’re getting two portions. So forego potato famine.
But from it, out and about, and thin as a wisp and sporting the famously orange-red hair, are the Irish lasses, to be seen at places from bars (and crossing the streets across traffic to get to them), to convenience and grocery stores to get cabbage to yes, WalMart and especially Target, flooding as one out the door and its turnstyles, I think. At a local coffee shop where I happened to be, again, just prior to high noon, dropping off some Irish Gazettes, I saw in line in front of me a lass with such decorated hair. She was being waited on by another with such look, bobs on top and all, and then venturing past with her cup of Joe in hand fresh from the grinder was a third, who, and I just had to ask this, said she was indeed Irish. I had spotted her when first coming in the double-edged front door. And so it goes, just prior to This Day.
If this was another year — and I will help out the local Chambers of Commerce — we would be seeing the stamp-card promotion for area businesses, Irish and less so, where if you filled out all 31 days of March, in its Ides, you would get a prize. Not getting far away from our now chilly temps by going to the Bahamas, mind you, but still cool indeed.
Despite that, I did spy a single sprout of clover with a trio of buds springing from a crack in the sidewalk in front of one of those businesses, a foot from the wall, back early in the month already, with many more to come. And now as I look out my window into the dawn of St. Patrick’s Day, there are a wee bit of snow flurries being blown about by the wind. I realize this prose is all a little much, and laid on thick, but hey, it is St. Pat’s Day!

I will now offer a running or should I say marching joke of more than, see the headline of the post below, “Gee, a wee bit of McGee,” about Upper Midwest parades that glamly bleed Irish green — going both east and west statewise from the Twin Cities. So you could call this a “yarn,” another four-letter word. I don’t know if posted inside the Irish Gazette, which I contributed to, publisher Brooks found a way to get around to this yet, or if he for sure will because of multiple health considerations that go way past what most humans face, and that’s a huge statement, but he took special effort to pen a piece about a parade that rivals what you will see crowded into St. Paul. This being set in of all places sparse South Dakota, I think in Sioux Falls — Fargo too was mentioned — but regardless, it should soon be in his online edition of the Gazette. (Both versions include all things Irish you need to know. And this website, too, is packed with more St. Pat’s info, some of which you can already see below.)
This parade-and-more data, broadly, amazes me, along the lines of what you’ll see written on this site and hopefully also in the Gazette, because these places that are like River Falls and New Richmond in western Wisconsin, even if lacking the tens of thousands in their metro area — if they even have a metro area — still have lineups that will see thousands lining the streets to watch. Dressed all in green and seeing, parading in front of them, more green, of so many shades it approaches gold, on the streets themselves. Shamrocks and such will put parades of other holidays to shame.
So if you are in Minneapolis, boring on St. Pat’s Day as opposed to St. Paul, and don’t want to stay put too far, consider straying and making a road trip east or west — whether it takes mere minutes or several hours, as I freely make comparisons. Forego foraying north or south, and then there’s North versus South Dakota, so Iowa and the Iron Range loose out.
OK, I will now name my man that started this, being my charade written in a department inside this website, of words running on, because it is oh so Irish. His name is Fenn.
And the referenced names of O’Connor and O’Connell, as a lettered postlude past The Story of O, start with six. And as I also referenced four-letter-words — beginning but not ending with my main doorway, but no, not backdoor man — the band Motley Crue, embodying both lengths, and led by musician Nikki Sixx, although it could be Thin Lizzy. And is there not an Irish name Sinn? And between those first numbers, namely five, there are those in “music lover,” in both its words, and one of those is the just shorter Fenn, who is forever tied in my mind to Dibbo. The “icon rock club,” more letters that are four invoked, after five and six.

But where does all this health consideration stuff weigh in? The wife of Brooks known as Mary Sue, his editor, has penned a big part of her stroke of a journey — I’ll let it speak for herself, as the first-person story is on the newsstands now via the Irish Gazette — and she is the Distinguished Irish Woman of the St. Paul parade. The other half of this regional “power couple,” five and six letters again, has kept himself as busy with being a caregiver to her, as he has been putting out the latest Irish paper edition. Just as much, Brooks said that on the production end of things is something he has not seen in 37 years in his position — for you newbies that goes back as far as Reagan and Carter, more six letter words — were woe after woe, and he really feels for the guy he’s worked with for that long who had now been working away as best he could through his own health difficulties, minute by minute, to do more than a journeyman’s job. It seems for Brooks and Crew, more such letters, although not complaining, one health problem after another confronts them. And has in one form or another, for years.
That is the short story of where you will find what, on holiday parades and the like, in both of our publications, whether in print or online. (More of my stuff was supposed to get in, there as well, but ended up getting axed because the number of pages were cut in half. So from a selfish standpoint, this is a guide on where to find my posts.) And the Irish Gazette is on the stands all around the metro, and will soon include the Hudson area, after my nap, as your starting point to this journey — even though you are reading about the ideas first in the instantaneousness of being online.

A last way to salvage my “bad dad joke” online, inside material. River Falls until 2020 had bed races as part of its annual Irish extravanganza. Many of the each-room hospital kind. Can they adjust neck versus leg height from the tile floor, or pavement, for reason of comfort or competition?
My dad has had to shift nursing homes, and that’s no joke. And not funny. But what is, is the (back)story of simply making the bed you sleep in, as in you have to possess one to make it. Where he was, the bed came with the (astronomical) price. Where he is going to, provide your own. Or rent one of there’s, for a daily rate that rivals what you’d pay monthly for apartment rent. To defray? Go through Medicare or Caid? Go figure. To arrange for one — in what should not be rocket science to have one where you can raise your feet, as opposed to the rest of you, different in their provision — you might be on the phone for hours with someone from a country where most people sleep on a mat on the floor. Shifting your voice that no one will hear or understand anyway, from one operator to the next. And the supervisor is out until April.
The ending joke to this rant? If mom and dad invest enough money to get the Gonzo 5000 version hospital bed, they could recoup their costs by winning the River Falls bed races in all categories — including the appearance one, as my stringingly-legged old dad is still as attractive as myself his son, and that’s non-jokingly an ouch, although we just did the joint photo-cover-shoot for Bed-Ridden Quarterly — but wait, that would require further investment in time travel, as the races became deceased in 2020! All full 5000 circa 2020? More four-letter words.

In both River Falls and New Richmond, although 20 miles apart south to north, as you well know, the many thousands in their populations will be matched in number only by those on their main streets — even if not termed so — on St. Patrick’s Day, which itself goes basically by one name, to become one with the Irish and those who wish they were. So they’ll be mashed, as in McGuinnessed, so close together that they need to rub elbows while trying not to spill beer. Like at that old club in Hudson that people still ask about, like just yesterday, Dibbo’s, run for many years by a guy named McGee.
And running the trek up and down county highways, the G and A and UU or V — although exit from E as it goes only east-west in western Wisconsin, there are venues between, with parades and potato chowder contests. Such include the ghost found-in-a-strip-mall of the past Paddy Ryan’s Pub in the matchingly bigger town of Hudson, as it’s now located in River Falls. And go tinier in Mary’s Corners in Erin Prairie, the epitome of a small and cozy neighborhood Irish Pub in an even smaller town. Don’t dilly dally on your drive, and thus don’t forget squeezing in Meister’s in Boardman, which is not only offering the usual Irish-American fare, but the more rare corned beef chowder (see below), which is described at length online as being tinged with bacon and dijon mustard, although we don’t know the exact recipe on County A, the highway this time. The server agreed about the novelty of the ingredients, although needing a little prodding. This is not the soup-style of many an Irish stew — and I’d be lamb-basted if I did not lament about its lamb, forego the regular beef — or fish or seafood chowder and/or all those many other corned beef-based combos, although you can find them also, if you go hard online, by looking for the aforementioned soup. You won’t even find corned beef chowder listed, exactly, among the 27 most favorite Irish entrees. But its also recommended to try this main one, and all of the above, with soda bread or brown bread dressed in butter, too.

Back south at the St. Croix-Pierce County Line, in River Falls, being joined virtually at the hip will also be the case.
“By the time it’s noon, it will be shoulder to shoulder in here and you won’t even be able to get in the door,” said a bartender at Johnnie’s, which was also known originally as The Linehans, and is an Irish pub. The server then rushed off to pour a two-dollar beer for a pack-them-in pre-St. Patrick’s Day patron. On The 17th itself, and 18th too, they will offer free corned beef and cabbage on local hard rolls while it lasts, and they are sure to make a lot, as this part of the event, like the total picture, sells itself. So no need to charge for it. Specials on Irish whiskey and other drinks also will be offered, with stained glass windows as a backdrop.
The bartender said that on this day, like a select few others in town each year, people can buy a wrist-band-type-thing and take themselves and their drinks to the streets, and be allowed to roam more sidewalks and enter other venues to look for — more leprechaun-type things for possible prizes? And they will have music also, Irish themed and otherwise, starting early at 2 p.m.
In addition they call it, for the lucky, the Get Lucky Leprechaun Hunt, and there are many more than a wee allotment. Fifty-plus numbered “leprechauns” are currently hiding in businesses across River Falls. You have March 1-17 to find at least 30 of them. Bring your completed entry (available at all 50 or maybe even 55 locations) to Veterans Park on Sunday, March 17 between 1-5 p.m. for your chance to win $500, $300 or $200 in local gift cards.
But wait, the same prize numbers await for the potato soup crawl, described below. But you must vote.
No purchase is necessary at any locations, for both, but certainly welcomed. That’s how these businesses approach their pot of gold. It’s open to all ages, not just Guinness drinkers.
Here are the rules (condensed): The leprechauns are hidden across River Falls, not limited to downtown or retail locations, but don’t look too hard amidst the nearby clover fields. Each location will have a green leprechaun sign on their front door, or window, letting people know they are participating.
The leprechauns are on big, bright green cups and on them bear the look of the leprechaun pictured for the event, complete with their signature and dominating mustache. The cups are 16 ounces, for holding your favorite Irish draft, and have a number on which to look listed to the right of it. Put your business name on it … duh.
“For example, if you are in business ABC and find leprechaun #4, you will write ABC next to #4 on your card,” the rules elaborate.
Find at least 30 of the leprechauns, that’s about half, and write the correct business names next to their corresponding numbers on the card.
Return to Veterans Park, not quite like a trek up a castle’s hill, at 6 p.m. for the drawing. You must be present to win.
“Please do not share leprechaun numbers with others,” as that would bring bad luck.
A link to all participating locations will be posted.
In a photo for the contest, two bearded men are shown with a medallion-style, like-wooden-coin much bigger than the width of an oak tree. One’s locks dripping down inches from his chin are bright Irish red.
As for the soups to sample, there are about 20 businesses strutting their stuff, from smoked and otherwise corn beef, spicy or not, and bacon potato varieties, and more. You can try them out, and be present to win if a voter, at the same times and places as the leprechaun hunt. You must stomach at least ten to be eligible for cash cards.
“It’s free to participate and you don’t even have to (sign up to) enter,” said spokesperson Mei Mei Abdouch, of the River Falls Business Leaders group. Her cookie business is located off of Main Street on Elm, but although “quieter,” she said they’ll still expect 1,000 more visitors. There could be several times more than that on the main drag.
The city holiday had been focused in large part around bed races, careening about, until the wheels came off in 2020, when the River Falls Area Chamber of Commerce and Tourism Bureau pulled funding. Apparently there was no room left at the inns those came from. Other city events, most notably the River Dazzle spectacle, had featured a parade, but any St. Patrick’s Day version has long since fizzled.

That is anything but true about New Richmond. Their popular long-annual parade, with people by the many hundreds several deep along the wide-sidewalked route complete with curbside bump outs for seating, careens for several blocks through the city, bending abruptly westward and happening past McCabe’s Shamrock Club. They again this year are featuring a food cart outside, and it is of ethnic varieties that expand beyond Irish, like last time around in River Falls with a venue featuring Mexican food. The exact menu is still to be determined. (The same is true with the publicizing of fare at Paddy Ryan’s Pub and Boxty House back down in River Falls, located in the midst of the madness, although it is sure to feature some of its annual favorites. Guinness specials, of course, and other drinks such as Irish whiskey discounted. They continue their venture into new territory, with a band on Saturday evening. Paddy’s Pub doing its take on P.D. Pappy’s.)

Less costly at McCabe’s …
But also, we toast McCabe’s, as there can be brews for as little as $1.25 and also featuring Johnny “Blood,” McNally Red Ale. Also offered is the more newly added World Whiskies Awards Ireland Blended Winner named Red Locks, from Brooklyn Park, a triple distilled over-the-course-of-four-years all in Ireland, curated blend using four different casks, available also at a rarity for even western Wisconsin, a drive-through liquor store open until midnight. A sign on the door between the main pub and the drive-through shop reads Cead Mile Fance, so very Irish. Another says, The parade starts here, (at 4 p.m. Sunday), and above it are five photos of such parade, (which began in 1977), one showing a tall man in the middle, and there’s another showcasing a such lad up closer to the tall ceiling. The parade lineup is in order of arrival, outside McCabe’s at 3 p.m. Also along the wall: Guinness celebrating 200 years in America. And then: Brewed For The Lucky.
And the original proprietor does not go unsigned, and she as an Irish lass parlays praise in a pair of photos for her namessake, founded back in 1944, (theme here?) Nearby, the walls are shared by two opposing shamrocks, large and small, and to frame the time, there also sits a pix of the biggest watch you’ll ever see, longer than a leprechaun’s wooded leg.
Up the street, also Irish, near the parade starting point, is Nootz and Oz Pub, which a few months ago added on the south wall of the building a big mural — like the smaller ones shown on the sidewalk bump outs — the length of two ten-yard lines as a sports bar, depicting the varied history of New Richmond.