Leafer Madness

With gas prices bouncing around like a caffeinated kangaroo and my old Impala drinking a tank a week and bombarding me with fix me messages, I started hunting for something cheaper, cleaner, and less moody. My regular routes — from Cushing to St. Croix Falls, Luck, Grantsburg, with occasional flings to Amery and Siren — didn’t need a space-age Electric Vehicle, just something that didn’t complain when I turned the key.

My electric obsession started in 2021 when I bought Margo, my wife, an electric golf cart. It was magical: no gas, no oil, no weird noises at startup. You just plugged it in, and it silently zipped around like a very polite robot. Meanwhile, every other vehicle on the farm was acting like it needed therapy or a new carburetor.

So, I began browsing for cheap used electric cars — mainly the Nissan Leaf. They came out in 2010 with 86 miles of range, but many used ones had been driven hard with barely 40 miles left in them. Still, if I could find one with 75 miles of range, I’d be golden for 90% of my driving. I set a goal: under $5,000, decent range, not too sketchy.

After two years of ad-stalking, one finally popped up: a 2015 Leaf, 36,000 miles, 12 bars of battery (that’s Leaf-speak for 80 miles), and listed at $4,000. Scott and I drove the 65 miles to meet the seller — a one-man dealership operating out of his yard with six cars and a strong “trust me” vibe.

“I don’t know much about electric cars,” he said cheerfully, which was oddly comforting. We took it for a spin. Everything worked, tires were new, battery looked good. I offered $3,800 cash. He said yes — as long as I handed him a wad of bills, which felt a little like buying a car and starring in a heist film at the same time.

The only hitch: the Leaf wasn’t fully charged. It had 60 miles left, and home was 65 away. So, Scott fired up an app and found a free charger at a Goodwill in Forest Lake. He drove the Leaf, I followed in the gas-guzzler. At the charger, we plugged it in, thrift-shopped for 15 minutes, then hit a drive-thru. When we got back, the Leaf had another 60 miles ready to go.

I drove it home, white-knuckled at first, but quickly grinning. It had a GPS, touch screen, backup camera, and about 50 mysterious buttons I still haven’t dared touch. “Something has to be wrong with it,” I said. “Maybe,” Scott replied. “But for $3,800, let’s just enjoy the mystery.”

I named her Leafer Madness — inspired by the old movie Reefer Madness, where one puff turns teens into maniacs.

I’ve now driven it over 1,000 miles. I plug it into a regular outlet, it charges overnight, and costs me about $2.60 for 70 miles. It’s quiet, smooth, and doesn’t demand oil, gas, or affection. The Impala’s collecting dust, and honestly, I don’t miss gas stations at all.

I'm hooked on my Nissan Leaf—high on kilowatts—like the couple in Reefer Madness, only my leaf gets me amped, not arrested.

My Salty Fair Lady

 

My Salty Fair Lady

Margo and her Grand
Champion Butter 

Margo Hanson loved county fairs. She grew up on a farm near West Bend, Wisconsin, where 4-H was as essential as Sunday church and mosquito spray. She could sew a zipper, bake a pie, and milk a cow before she was old enough to drive—fair material through and through.

When she married me in 1972, I introduced her to the Polk County Fair. Or rather, my mother Alberta did. Alberta was a seasoned fair veteran, hooked ever since the 1960s when her boys needed wrangling—and their 4-H entries needed help. She loved everything about the fair, except the sideshows. By then the bearded lady and two-headed calf were mostly retired, so she could stroll the barns and exhibit halls in peace.

Alberta took Margo under her wing. They’d haul in entries—paintings, flowers, cookies, apples—and always her trademark fruit-and-veggie boxes, decorated like miniature parade floats. But her real pride? Homemade butter.

In the 1990s, my brother Byron joined the fair board and gave us an alarming update: “Butter entries are down. If it keeps up, we might have to cancel the whole category.”

Now, back in the day, Polk County had over 30 creameries, and butter-making was a competitive sport. Win at the fair, and you might just get a raise—or at least bragging rights at the co-op.

So the Hansons leapt into action. That year, five of us entered: Alberta, Byron, his kids, and Margo. There were four categories—salted or unsalted, colored or uncolored—because butter, like life, comes in all varieties. Spring cows eating dandelions made rich yellow butter, but winter cows needed help, hence the coloring. And salt? It wasn’t just for flavor—it was preservation, the butter version of embalming.

Carl Johnson, a former buttermaker, judged the butter.  He liked it salty! 
Margo stands watching. 

Carl Johnson of Amery, a retired buttermaker, judged butter for years. He liked his butter like he liked his opinions: salty. “Salted butter should taste like salted butter,” he declared. “Two percent salt minimum!”

Margo took that to heart and ladled it in. For several glorious years, she was crowned Grand Champion Buttermaker. Then Carl died. The next judge? A health nut. His comment on Margo’s masterpiece: “Too salty.”

Making butter the easy way -- pour in cream, add some salt and 
mix, mix, mix, and more mixing.  

She laughed and entered again the next year cutting back on the salt.

In recent years, you’d find Margo at the Red Schoolhouse exhibit, parked behind the teacher’s desk, oxygen machine humming beside her scooter. She organized the volunteers for the local historical societies, ran the genealogy entries, and still made time to wave, chat, and sneak a funnel cake.

Even as her health declined, she showed up, grinning, butter in hand. The fair gave her something to look forward to, year after year. And if the judges didn’t appreciate her salted style, well, the neighbors sure did.

Margo wasn’t just a fairgoer. She was a fair fixture—part historian, part competitor, part parade marshal on wheels.

And though she’s gone now, I like to think heaven’s fair has a butter category. And somewhere up there, Carl’s holding a blue ribbon with her name on it.

Margo checking the tomato entries.  She generally entered flowers
and sometimes veggies. 

 

Judy and Margo in the Red School House as hosts.  Margo organized the 
volunteers for the school house for 15 years.