A few weeks ago a member of the board of the McLeod Museum visited with my folks who gave to the museum their gift of several of Dad's carved farm scenes. Dad has wanted to visit the museum since then, so on Saturday we took them there. The doors were locked, but a quick cell phone call to Clayton Johnson brought him over to gladly open up for us. The membership of that museum has done a great job in collecting and displaying a large variety of historical items in several buildings. Those buildings and the grounds are maintained well, and for such a small community, it is an attractive collection of history. A drizzling rain whipped by a strong northwest wind threatened a rodeo set up on the north side of town, but as we drove by, it looked like those hardy souls intended to go on in spite of it.
I never did go into McLeod much in my running-around years except for an occasional drive through, maybe to hang around their now defunct feeder calf sale or attend the Calf Dance held in a small hall on main street. We passed by where the sale barn still stands and memories came back of those times, including the fresh smells of strong coffee and barbecues on a bun mixed in with the cries of the auctioneer Col. Fahlsing pleading for just a bit more. I've never forgotten one incident when my friend Jens and I went to one of the dances. While he sat in his car, he'd gotten into some sort of altercation with one of the local toughs who punched him with his fist through the open window. Just Jens and I were there, but the other fellow had a small gang hanging with him. Somehow our placid sheriff Ray O. caught word of trouble and slowly strode over to us. As he walked to the scene I fell in behind him. As luck had it the bad guy was right beside me in lockstep behind the sheriff, too. Those were the days when I was haybale haulin' strong, and since I was agitated and wanted retribution, I took advantage of the opportunity and jabbed my elbow into his side, and then, with a muscled shoulder assist, shoved him over so that he stumbled and almost fell. I kept walking nonchalantly along, and the sheriff didn't even know what I had done, but we never had any more trouble for the rest of the evening, either.
Wife Mary had acquired a bit of the McLeod flavor when she worked in Learning Disabilities and called regularly on the small school which had Mrs. Herbranson as its teacher, she being the one who achieved national notoriety as being the lowest paid teacher in the United States. As limited as the school's resources were, Mary always had positive comments about the school and the job that was being done there.
The Sandune Saloon still operates, and I confess to having patronized it a couple of times. A combination store and post office round out the business establishments, but as the town's brochure says, the population of the town is only 23 residents with another 100 residing in the rural area. There are not enough people to support more businesses.
Before we left the museum, I asked one of our hosts, Ken Kensinger, to lay a museum membership on me. They have plans to expand the museum, and I was sure they would welcome the extra money. I always enjoy driving through the hilly grasslands surrounding McLeod and hope to visit again.
