By RuthAnn Wilson
Arriving in Westby after a winter away, I marvel again at this lovely town with its warm hospitality and stunning Norwegian décor. Now everyone is preparing for Syttende Mai events: parade floats are designed, rømmegrot is bubbling on the stove, and potatoes are peeled for lefse baking. Someone is no doubt baking strull – or is it krumkake?
Thoreson House is decked out and ready for the summer, the Stabbur is stocked with new tourist information and maps. Borgen’s has their menu planned, and Dregne’s is arrayed with Norwegian displays. Ole and Lena serve luscious ice cream flavors, the Westby House is flying flags, and the new Apotek (Pharmacy) looks more Norwegian than Norway! Evelyn Larson’s Nissen and trolls appear all over town!
Soon the new princess and her court will be selected, the Grandmother of the Year will be announced, and several thousand people will flock into town for the three-day weekend. This is all the result of Maggie’s Dream.
For many years the Westby Times ran a weekly column called Maggies’ Musings, written by our own Margaret Gulsvig. She published several books, including Through the Years With Maggie and Her Full Service Bank. On the back of that book she quotes her little nephew, “Not all the world is America. Part of it is Westby, Wisconsin!” Yes, Westby is a very special part of the world!
On June 8, 1967, Maggie described her dream; a dream that seemed nearly impossible at the time. Below you can read Maggie’s dream in her own words.
Today, as one walks (or drives) through Westby, one sees that many aspects of Maggie’s Dream have been realized. She died in January, 2010, but every Syttende Mai I will especially remember Maggie, be thankful for her dream, and be reminded once again that “if you can dream it, you can do it.”
Maggie’s Musings — Westby Times, June 8, 1967
There once was a little old lady in a little old town in Western Wisconsin who rose early on a Sunday morning. She speculated a while on how the pastor would develop the text for the day for this was a game she played every Sunday.
Since it was still early and no one was stirring in the house, she read the paper from the nearby Big City delivered to her front door by an ambitious lad who ran from house to house humming a happy tune. Within minutes the paper proper had been read from stem to stern so she turned to a supplement, added this Sunday, entitled “Recreation in the Coulee Region.” She opened the first page confident that very soon something of her little old town would be spread over one full page, possible two. There was nothing on the next few pages; nor the next; nor the next. Coming to the end she laughed and thought how foolish to have missed it. “I will have to go back and look again.”
The second time through she checked the story date lines looking for her town’s name. Much smaller towns merited write-ups; a far distant Norwegian community received lengthy appraisal. But still her town’s name was missing. The third time she found it in the fourth paragraph of a story primarily interested in the county seat of her county.
Since being ignored is an insult humans do not know how to handle, she was first angry with the newspaper; then she was angry with her town for letting itself be ignored. But her anger softened to a drumming sorrow which perplexed her the rest of that day and well into the next.
You see, this little old lady loved her town very much and did not like to think of ever leaving it. She took personal offense if anyone was overheard saying, “What a stupid town.” Negative thinking of any kind rankled her, for she saw positive possibilities in abundance. The town of peaceful and pretty. Beautiful new buildings spoke of ambition. A breathtakingly scenic highway made the town easily accessible.
But right at this town’s feet lay an untapped resource: its Norwegian ancestry and culture. Letters often came to this town requesting information on points of interest. “We have heard it is a very Norwegian community,” they wrote. But what could be specifically listed?
Friendly Norwegian signs would catch the eye of many a traveler. A chalet featuring Norwegian foods of unmatched delicacy would charm others. Gift shops featuring Norwegian imports would certainly be profitable. Rosemaling should be encouraged and taught. Norwegian nisei — Clever imps — could peak around corners. Native costumes should come out of trunks and be displayed, perhaps worn occasionally. Norwegian music could even be wafted periodically over a loud speaker. “Now I am dreaming foolish dreams,” laughed the little old lady. “I had better forget it.”
But she couldn’t. So she wrote it all down and sent it to the local newspaper to see what response it might bring from others.
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