Village of Whalan Included in New Book by CBS' Bill Geist
Courtesy Amazon.com

About the Author

BILL GEIST is an Emmy Award–winning correspondent and commentator for CBS News, appearing weekly on CBS News Sunday Morning and contributing to other programs such as the CBS Evening News and 48 Hours, as well as to CBS Sports coverage of  the Olympic Games, the SuperBowl, the World Series, and the Final Four. He is the bestselling author of six previous books: Little League Confidential; The Big Five-Oh! —Fearing, Facing, and Fighting 50; City Slickers; Fore! Play (it’s about golf); Monster Trucks and Hair-in-a-Can —Who Says America Doesn’t Make Anything Anymore?; and The Zucchini Plague and Other Tales of Suburbia. Geist and his wife, Jody, have two children, Willie and Libby, and live in New York City.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Standstill Parade

Whalan, Minnesota, Pop: 62

Whalan, Minnesota, is a bucolic little town. But you know what? Things can get a little too bucolic sometimes. The unlocked front doors, the peace and quiet, and the down–home neighborliness are all well and good, but from time to time folks want a little excitement for a change.

“Let’s have a parade!” proposed the young, vivacious, ponytailed local businessman and fairly new guy in town David Harrenstein. Hmmm. Nice idea, but next to impossible in a town where the population is sixty–two and dropping fast, numerically and quite literally.

Whalan has none of your essential parade elements, according to town council member Buddy Olson. A marching band? “No.” Fire truck? "No." Police car? "No." A queen of any kind? "No." Buddy isn’t going negative on us, just stating the facts. All of this is not to mention the biggest problem of all, parade–wise: the whole town’s only, at the most, two blocks long. A parade would be over before it began.

“Everybody loves a parade,” David says. “We’re just geographically challenged.” He admits to an ulterior motive. David owns the Overland Inn, one of the only buildings in town. It’s no longer an inn, but a small restaurant of sorts that serves ice cream and “world–famous pie”—world famous around here at least. He wanted to attract some people to town, people who like pie a la mode. Since purchasing the inn two years earlier, he’d found doing business without people around to be extremely challenging.

Townsfolk were skeptical, as small–town folk often are when it comes to new ideas. “We’ve never had a parade,” says Harley Olson, Buddy’s father. “At least not since ’43, when I got here. About, oooh, forty years ago we did have a carnival, but it’s been pretty quiet since.” Adeline Larson backed him up on that, saying she could not recollect a parade in her eighty–eight years here.

Then David came up with a breakthrough idea—maybe even a concept. To solve the paramount problem of a parade being too long for their short town, why not have the parade stand still—stay with him on this—and have the crowd walk around it? A standstill parade!

“We were gonna lock him up when he said that,” Buddy scoffs. But the more Buddy and others in town got to thinking about it, the more they thought: You know, it just might work.

Not to bring up a sore subject, but what would be in the parade?

You need a cop car with a siren and flashing lights, for openers. The Fillmore County sheriff had one and said he supposed he could send it over, since there really ought to be a police presence at a major public event like this.

You need a color guard. Old–timer Marvin Severson, commander of the local American Legion post, had to be convinced to deploy his forces. He said he was a little out of practice: “The last parade I was in was up in Black River Falls in ’52.” But Marvin came around. The flag–bearing Legionnaires would lead the parade, right behind the police car. They’re old, but they could still stand, which was all that would be required.

David named Adeline, the town’s oldest living resident, as grand marshal. She, too, resisted the honor. “I finally agreed after he told me I wouldn’t have to do anything,” she says. “I guess in this parade nobody does anything.”

You need smiling, waving politicians in a parade, but that’s never a problem. State Representative Greg Davids said sure, he’d be there. “I march in one or two parades every Saturday, and when I heard there was no walking involved in this one, I said, ‘Now this is a good parade.’ ”

As mentioned, Whalan has no queen; nary a corn queen or a soybean queen or any other royalty for that matter. So David invited the Lanesboro Beef Queen, whom he described as “quite slender, actually.”

Nearby Lanesboro, a major city in these parts (pop: 775), turned out to be a friendly neighbor in need, agreeing to send a fire truck, an ambulance, and the high school’s marching band, which could possibly be deprogrammed to not march.

Now we’re talking!

Word spread of this revolutionary new parade concept and David was besieged by entries: Boy Scouts, polka bands, dog groomers, you name it. The parade was becoming almost too big even to stand still within the Whalan city limits.

Locals began sprucing up the town, giving a small building on the main street a fresh coat of paint, mowing lawns, and sweeping sidewalks. Women began making lefse, a kind of a potato–dough tortilla, a Norwegian delicacy, not recommended by doctors, to sell at the parade. There are many Nordics in Minnesota. Many, many, many.

Parade day dawns a perfect, warm, sunny Saturday in May. Downtown Whalan is bustling with more people probably than had ever been here before—certainly at one time, and perhaps cumulatively (founded: 1876).David needs a walkie–talkie to coordinate the event. This being the worldwide premiere of the Concept, without a rehearsal, there are many questions: a fellow decked out in 1890s garb shows up riding one of those antique tall–wheeled unicycles. How is he supposed to ride it in the parade if he has to remain motionless?

“Does it have a kickstand?” David asks helpfully.

A theatrical troupe asks for an official ruling on this question: With this being a standstill parade, were they allowed to do song-and-dance numbers? David decrees they can, so long as they stay within their designated space.

A barricade is set up in front of the parade. Then comes the sheriff’s car, followed by an impressive ten–Legionnaire color guard. Way to go Marvin! After that it was first come, first served in the parade lineup.

Now, how does a standstill parade start? “I don't know,” David replies. “We’re breaking new ground. I think it just sort of happens.”

And, sure enough, it does. The police car’s siren wails. The well–disciplined color guard stands still. The car carrying Grand Marshal Adeline Larson remains in “Park,” and she begins to wave, albeit to the same three people. And the fifteen–piece marching band becomes a band stand, striking up “It’s a Grand Old Flag.”

There are floats, not so much of the Rose Bowl Parade variety, but more in the tack–some–tinsel–to–the–edge–of–a–flatbed–truck style. There’s a bluegrass band, a white poodle in a hat and sunglasses having her nails painted in the back of a dog groomer’s truck, and seven Boy Scouts from—where else?—Lanesboro.

Two (not all that entertaining) people in the parade are just sitting on bales of hay, and complaining a little about their placement "over here by the septic system." And in a standstill parade, that is not about to change.

As usual, horses bring up the rear. “I guess they put us back here out of habit,” says one rider. “But it’s not necessary in this parade. No one’s going to step in anything.” The nature of the parade allows one participant, a professional masseuse, to set up her table and offer complimentary services.

Members of the unprecedented crowd have come from as far away as Wyzeta (150 miles) and now stand almost one deep all along the parade route. “We haven’t had this many people in Whalan since the bank closed in ’32,” says one member of a polka band “riding” in a classic old red convertible and promoting Das Wurst Haus in Lanesboro. Lanesboro really has it all.

But the crowd doesn’t quite get it. They’re standing still or sitting in lawn chairs, the way you would at a normal parade. When the band plays “Anchors Aweigh” the crowd remains anchored to the curb.

Finally, after some prompting and explanation, they slowly begin to stroll around the parade. (“Norwegians are slow learners,” quips a Swede.) A few stop to pet the horses or to chat with members of the parade, things you simply could not do within the old parade paradigm. Others actually meander among the parade units, going where no parade–goers have gone before.They’re eating David’s pie and ice cream. The lefse is selling like hotcakes, which they sort of are, as are copies of the best–selling book (here) 91 Ways to Serve Lefse.

A woman from Wyzeta takes it all in and says, “This is America”; to which George Judy, a local resident wearing a plaid shirt and denim overalls, replies, “It is now. Everybody’s getting goofy.”

He’s right about that, of course, and here everyone seems to be enjoying getting goofy and they’re giving the parade rave reviews. “It’s ecologically sound,” says one viewer, “and it’s easier to take pictures.” A man named Ernie, driving a stunning ’32 Packard—one of several antique cars in the lineup—notes that this is the first parade where he doesn’t have to worry about running out of gas or having an overheated engine.

Even before it’s over, David pronounces that there will definitely be a Second Annual Whalan Parade, and that it will be even better next year. “We need a reviewing stand. Maybe we could put it on a flatbed truck and drive it around the parade. Maybe put some of the audience on bleachers on a flatbed too.” The man is a parade savant! He figures he’d better put a cap on the number of parade entries next year, too, or enlarge the town. And, order more Porta–Johns.

So, how do you know when a standstill parade is over? When it moves!

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Article Published: 05-18-2007