Winnie Deschaines dropped two suitcases on the back seat of her Jeep Liberty and rolled north from greater Kansas City on I-29. Pushing six-cylinders of Detroit iron for ten hours, she reached the Milbank, South Dakota exit and turned east toward Big Stone Lake, crossed the south flowage to Ortonville, then banked north on Rural Route 7. Beyond the junction with Route 28, she looked for a sign spelling out the Institute for Total Life Skills. She found it near the head of the long finger lake.
The vehicle threaded a narrow wash in a ridgeline angling north/south, bumping along slowly over two miles of narrow, uninviting gravel-base lane. A cluster of structures and farm fields nosed through the silver maple and black walnut. A registration sign and an arrow appeared pointing to an eight-sided structure with a cone-like roofline. A placard announced the name of the building: First Day Hall.
Entering the octagonal creation, Winnie wandered into a gallery lobby crammed with riotous, polychrome artwork, paintings, photos, batik pieces, sculpture and mobiles. The dimensions shimmered with festive color warmed by recorded acoustic guitar and flute music drifting in the airy interior spaces. A handful of people milled about at a set of tables. “Hello, my good lady,” said a middle-aged man seated before an array of folders, papers, and nametags. “Are you here for the institute classes?”
“Yes,” nodded Winnie. “I’m Winnie Deschaines, from Kansas City.”
“Winnie, welcome to you. Let’s see. Ah, here you are. Here is a packet of information for you. There’s a map of the community in there as well as a schedule for the week, right down to your meals. It’s all very comprehensive.”
“Thank you.”
“Are you here for the week?”
“No, actually, I’m going to be here for a two-week session now and have enrolled in another this winter.”
“Oh, that’s right. You’re the one. You’re a bit of a celebrity around here already. I think they say you’re the very first person to enroll in four sessions.”
A young girl burst into the room and raced to the table. “I’m ready for someone else, Elton.”
The man introduced the new arrival to the youngster. “Ms. Deschaines, this is Pelee, the daughter of the gentleman who founded this town.”
“Are you Pelee Whittemore?” asked Winnie.
“Yes. Do you know what my name means?”
Winnie smiled at the spunky little one. “No, I don’t. Will you tell me?”
“Of course. I’m named after Pele, the goddess of volcanoes in Hawaii. Pele had hair of red-orange fire and gold eyes. I have an extra ‘e’ in my name, though.”
The woman from Missouri grinned broadly. “I like your name.”
“Okay, what’s your name?”
“Winnie, short for Winifred.”
“Okay, let’s go, Winnie.”
Winnie and her young guide pulled luggage from the car and walked across a broad village green to a row of small cottages. They entered one with the name Rough Diamond on the door plaque. Inside a small common room were a couch and stuffed chairs, a wood stove glowing with heat, a bookshelf, a few cover-worn titles and little else. Beyond the common room were two other small spaces. Each contained two double bunks, two trunks and pegs to hang clothing. There were no bathroom facilities visible.
“Pelee, where’s the bathroom?”
“It’s outside, through this door.” Pelee opened a door onto a narrow catwalk deck that ran sixteen feet to a small structure that looked like a large outhouse. “There it is.”
“Ahh, does it have a shower?”
“Nope. It’s a composting toilet. If you want to take a shower, you have to go to that building down there, the one that’s made of stone. It’s got everything in there.”
“Everything?”
“Mmm hmm. Showers, big baths, one for women, one for men and one for everybody. Dad says it’s like a Roman bath.”
The explanation sank into the flesh like a fishhook. “You mean, Pelee, that it’s a community bath? Everyone bathes together?”
“Yes, everybody.”
“Oh, I don’t think I brought a bathing suit.”
“Bathing suit? Nobody wears a bathing suit. If you don’t want the boys to see you, you can go in the women’s bath. No boys can go in there.”
Winnie smiled warmly at the youngster. “Which bath would you recommend, if I may ask?”
“Well,” said Pelee, “sometimes I like the common bath, sometimes I like the women’s bath. Some people are shy and don’t want to jump in with everybody. I’m not shy at all, are you?”
Winnie stood quietly for a long moment pondering the question. “You know, Pelee,” she said finally, “I guess I’ll have to find out.”
Pelee waved her charge goodbye, jumped out of the cottage and ran in full stride back across the village green, but this time to the CC, the village’s community center.
At 6:30 p.m., in the company of three other women who had taken a bunk in the cottage, Winnie walked into fall darkness and crossed the village green. Halfway along, the women stopped to admire the glittering stars and the gossamer Milky Way shroud wheeling above rural Minnesota.
A crowd mingled in the main hall of the center. The great room had the aura of a nineteenth-century meeting hall, right down to a vintage potbelly caboose stove in one corner. Most of the students who had come to the institute for the week were on hand. Servers offered samples of this goodie or that. Winnie sipped a glass of sparkling cider punch laced with floating strawberry slices.
The space pulsed with conversation. Winnie got caught up in rapid-fire talk when a fife and drum corps marched into the room in 1776 minuteman costumes. Their little tune and their thumping step jimmied the crowd to each side of the room, and the little troop moved steadfastly to a bank of doors at the north wall. At the portal, they halted, banging their heels down loudly on the floor. The doors swung open to yet another hall. In the doorway stood a tall lean man, wearing glasses that sported small circular lenses. He was dressed in blue jeans, a black collarless shirt and dusky wool tweed jacket. His ears were entombed in bushy sideburn hairs all flushed white. There was a light gray streak in the dark brown hair on his forehead. Strands spilled over his jacket collar. He had the countenance of a young, underpaid college professor laboring on a small campus.
The man raised his hands high and smiled. Suddenly, behind him, a dozen white greasepaint mime faces filled in the doorway opening around him. The mimes cranked their heads back and forth in exaggerated gestures, surveying those in the crowd.
“Welcome one and all to Independency, Minnesota. Welcome to the Institute for Total Life Skills. And welcome, most of all, to dinner.” The mines rubbed their tummies with both hands.
“It is that time, ladies and gentlemen.” Singing now, the man rang out, “Praise the Lord who praises me, it’s time for dinner, now let’s go eat!” Picking up the lyrics from an old Lyle Lovett honky-gospel tune, the fife and drum corps boomed: “We got some beans ‘n’ some good corn bread. Listen to what the preacher said.”
With that the corps commenced their marching and playing and slipped into the next hall. The whiteface characters motioned for everyone to follow.
The mimes helped the forty-eight students to reserved seats in a modest dining room and descended on each table with glasses and a heavy ceramic bottle. They poured a glass of amber nectar for each person. One mime brought a tumbler to a small podium at the head of the room and handed it to the man who had welcomed the guests.
The figure tapped his glass and the room fell silent. The mimes gathered to one side, each holding the left hand to the left ear as if trying to hear a bit better.
“Hello to you all and thank you for coming to us, to be with us and to learn with us. My name is Abel Whittemore. I will be your host tonight, but there are 110 of us here at Independency, and we will all be your hosts in the days ahead. Should you need anything, anything at all, please be sure to ask any of us.