Fact about Ely

There are many four-way intersections in town, and very few stop signs.
Uniformly, intersections three blocks away from the main strip do not have stop signs. I noticed this in the fall and asked someone about it.
"I guess everybody in town just knows which streets don't have them and keeps an eye out."
This answer did not explain how a lack of stop signs could possibly be legal, or why an army of wild-eyed local mothers have not yet marched on town hall. I played a harrowing game of XY axis chicken with a UPS truck yesterday. (I won, but I don't feel good about it.) After a minor car accident last year, I have given up the giddy teenage driver phase and moved straight into the 72-year-old grandmother of nine driver phase, and will gladly join the stop sign revolution whenever it begins.
Though actually I would get a few Out-of-Towner points knocked off my reputation if my car lost a game of chicken and looked less like a 2006 cutesy novelty-SUV and more like it was built by Orcs and stored underwater two months a year, like most other Ely vehicles. One of my first lessons in town was to unlock my car door by hand and not with the beeper on my keychain.

MUKLUK BALL '010!

This past weekend I attended the Mukluk Ball, an annual charity dance that is the premier winter social event on The Range. People flocked to the casino in Tower (pop 502) from hundreds of miles around. Even a celebrity newscaster from the Twin Cities showed up to be the overly tanned Emcee.
Where to begin. The evening was ridiculous. My face was sore by the end of the evening from laughing, and my boss was hobbling around the office the next day because she danced so hard (really, so hard. And she's in her 60s). I wore a modest skirt with long johns and Bean boots (see above) and found myself overdressed. The dance floor was dominated by flannel, denim workshirts, camouflage vests, stone-washed jeans, glittery matronly sweaters, and mukluks, the extremely heavy duty snowboots Ely is famous for. Also a skunk pelt hat which was appeared to be stitched together with twine. The bullethole was still visible.
I went with my boss and some of her friends and had a fantastic time. There was a blues band and a cash bar and an appetizer buffet stocked almost entirely with cheddar cheese cubes and sweet n' sour meatballs. ("Wasn't that buffet nice?" "I was just going to say that the buffet was so nice!" "It was so nice! Just delicious.") I definitely saw Phyllis from The Office in attendance.
I danced a bit, but mostly spectated. Having come straight from college dances, where the trend these days is entirely too much hip movement, watching middle-aged Minnesotan couples dance together was a refreshing, and surprisingly tender, change of pace. All these people who have forgotten what their own skin looks like under their winter clothes were now wearing sweaters with a hint of a neckline and rediscovering their joints in public. ("Knees? Ok got the knees. She's moving her elbows- I should do that too. Maybe even my shoulders? I'll wait until the next song for the shoulders.") There were women who clamped their arms to their sides and shuffled sideways across the dance floor at great speed, because that was what came naturally to them. The whole thing was embarrassing and heartwarming and joyful all at once.
There was one couple, however, who knew exactly what they were doing. They looked like everyone else while they were coming through the door and entering the raffle, but when they took the floor it was clear they were in a league of their own. The man wore a slimming black suit with a silver bolo, and the woman tore away her parka to reveal what appeared to be one of Tara Lipinski's cast-offs. Skin-tight red lycra, one sleeve, a slit up to there, perm, coke-bottle glasses, sensible shoes. They proceeded to dance as if giving a celebrity performance on Dancing With The Stars--twirling, dipping, lunging in unison, maintaining smoldering eye contact. Just absolutely steamboating all over the floor.
"Looks like those community dance lessons really paid off," the women next to me murmured in admiration.
Yes, it was quite the evening. I didn't mention that I'd also been up since 6:15 that morning to work our booth at the community craft fair, and had to listen to the man across from us play seven hours worth of 'Amazing Grace' and 'My Heart Will Go On' on his panflute. Also that the previous evening I'd watched a high school marching band/local bagpipe band play a duet. This was just one heckuva northland weekend.

Listen Up Minnesota

You did not invent winter. Other places have it too.
My patience is gradually fraying with the "colder than thou" mentality I so often come across. When I say I grew up in Maine, the correct response is something like "My! What a lovely coastline!" and not "Hoo boy, you better get ready for some cold!" My jaw has started to clench during these interactions. Many Minnesotans seem to think that every other state is populated by flamingos and they are the only state which knows what snow looks like. I'll give it to you, Minnesota. You truly do have vicious winters. But you're not the only state which sells winter coats, so stop telling me to go buy myself one. I have ice-skated on the Atlantic Ocean because it was cold enough to freeze over. I am well versed in frostbite. I know what long underwear is and am likely wearing some right now. I'm not intimidated by the temperatures until they hit about -20, because in my experience (again, experience) that's when my eyeball liquid starts to freeze. I may be from out of state and need to puff my inhaler before stepping outside, but when I comment on the cold it's because I am a human with a functioning nervous system and probably not because I left the house in my underwear, as you seem to be implying.
Plus you don't have anything close to a respectable ski mountain, so pfffft.


I have needed to get this off my chest since the day I arrived.