The Minnesota State Fair is still a wholesome event, but nothing else that I know of is . . . except maybe a Taylor Swift concert.

Krispy Kreme donuts once came to Minnesota. They were perfect; they flourished here. Then they abandoned us for Iowa. Go figure.

I lost in the 1952 “Name the Minnesota Highway 61 Contest.” Cedric Adams reported the winner, “Glacier Cut,” on his WCCO Radio Noontime News show. I thought my entry, “Superior Run” was pretty good, though.

I wonder. Can you get a hotdog at a Minnesota Twins game anymore? Jr. Gong Jerk Chicken Bowl, yes. Cochinita sliders, yes. Khao sen rice noodle bowl, yes. Peach cobbler, yes, yes. But an Oscar Meyer dog with sauerkraut?

Am I unpatriotic embracing winter and not much liking our humid summer?

In 1945, a WWII surplus Quonset hut began providing extra classroom space at the University of Minnesota. It was called “Temporary South of Folwell Hall”, yet I learned Spanish there in the 1970s.

Did you know that St. Olaf choir members hold hands while they sing in concert?

Why are obituaries so heavily larded with family names of the deceased, and so thin on how that person lived?

My dad served in the army during World War One. He once very solemnly told me, “You never forget the boys who died.” But never said anything more.

There is no such thing as a squirrel-proof birdfeeder. NADA! NUNCA!

Pointing to an ancient kerosene lamp, my mother told me, “You were my only child born in town in the hospital. Your sisters and brother were born on the farm by the light of this lamp.”

I remember the Studebaker automobile. Was it coming or going? Pointed at you or away”? Only the driver knows.

Climbing trees as a young girl, I’d say to myself “It’s just you and me sittin’ in a tree, contemplating thee” until the day I fell out of a tree. Then it was, “Owee! Owee!”

During the “Golden Age of the Stewardess” when every young woman wanted to be one, I flew for Northwest Airlines. I felt very special.

I can claim the bliss of sitting mosquito-free in the darkness on the screen porch of my family home on warm summer evenings, hearing night sounds, seeing fireflies. . . .

Life seems to be about repeating the same things all in their season, year after year.

Carol Hall lives in Woodbury. She’s a longtime freelance writer, a University of Minnesota graduate and a former Northwest Airlines stewardess.