There was a time in my life when I was capable of having fun—I mean, more fun, or enthusiasm, or whatever, than I am capable of having now.

Watching a parade in 2006

On an unseasonably cold Sunday afternoon in early September, 2006, my wife Wendy and I—I should note that we weren’t married or even engaged at this point; just two young people living in a very small apartment—along with a friend of hers from college, sat on uncomfortable metal bleachers, in the rain, and watched a three hour parade.

When I revisit this story now, so many years later, people ask why we sat in the rain the whole time? Like, why didn’t we get up and leave, or go inside, or something?

I don’t have a great answer—it wasn’t really raining that hard (more like a persistent drizzle) and we were dressed accordingly for the weather from what I can recall. Also, we had no clue the parade was going to be that long. So when people ask why we sat in the rain and watched a three-hour parade, the only thing I can respond with is, “We didn’t know any better? I mean, we were young then.”

Once the parade concluded and the crowds dispersed, we realized how cold and soggy we were; Wendy’s friend, who worked in a coffee shop at the time, made us hot chocolate. Later, by the time we got back to our apartment, we were still cold—but it was too early in the year, and the boilers in the building hadn’t been turned on yet.

We sat under a blanket, and let the rest of the afternoon drift away as the rain continued to fall softly outside, the gray late afternoon light pouring in from our window.

* * *

There’s no introductory course or informational session regarding the Defeat of Jesse James Days—if you’re born and raised in Northfield, Minnesota, you just know it. Year after year, from your childhood into adulthood, for a handful of days in early September, it is a part of you.

If you’re relatively new to the community—I had lived in Northfield for roughly four months before my first experience with the town’s annual fall festival—there’s nobody who is going to pull you aside and explain it to you.

It’s like, one day, the streets of downtown Northfield aren’t blocked off, and it’s relatively easy to get around; the next day, a bunch of the streets are closed, there is no place to park, there are myriad fried food stands stationed in the town square all serving some variation on the same thing, it’s literally impossible to get around, there are slow moving crowds every fucking where you turn, and there are people dressed in late 1800s garb, riding around on horseback.

The festival itself is really only two full days, with a half-day on Thursday, and then another half-day on Sunday. By Sunday evening, and into Monday morning, it’s all gone—things begin returning to normal. Streets are no longer blocked off, and the only traces of the Defeat of Jesse James Days festivities are the chemical toilets filled with human waste, the overflowing garbage cans filled with waste created by humans, and the grease stains that will never really fade away from nearly every square inch of sidewalk for, like, three city blocks.

* * *

On September 7th, 1876, Jesse James and his gang—commonly referred to as the James-Younger Gang, attempted to rob the First National Bank of Northfield.

It didn’t work, however, and this botched attempted robbery1 went so terribly wrong that it, according to lore, was the

Frank and Jesse before the ‘defeat’

beginning of the end of the James-Younger Gang. It also, for better or worse, became what Northfield, Minnesota is ‘known’ for. Along with the two very expensive liberal arts colleges housed within the community, and the Malt-O-Meal factory2 nestled next to the train tracks, filling the air with a sugary sweet aroma day after day—Northfield is known as the town that ‘defeated’ Jesse James.

But did the townspeople who happened to be present that day, who took up arms and defended themselves against the James-Younger Gang really ‘defeat’ Jesse James?

Once, a number of years ago, I made the mistake of calling the this festival simply ‘Jesse James Days,’ to which I was quickly and sternly corrected—I wish I could remember by whom. “It’s The Defeat of Jesse James Days,” they hissed. “We’re celebrating his defeat—not him!”

However, at least to me, the word ‘defeat’ implies that, like, James himself died in Northfield—and that’s just not the case. Two members of his gang—Clell Miller and Bill Stiles—were killed in the ensuing shoot out that occurred after the attempted robbery; other members of the gang were wounded—Jesse James himself is said to have been shot in the leg by a bullet3 as he fled the town on horseback.

The James-Younger Gang split up after escaping Northfield—the Younger brothers, along with Charlie Pitts, were caught (and Pitts was killed) near LaSalle, Minnesota, after being cornered by one of the countless groups out searching for them. Jesse James and his brother Frank, despite the manhunt, managed to escape and continued heading south toward Tennessee.

Jesse James would, of course, later be killed by Robert Ford, in 1882, as depicted4 in the film The Assassination of Jesse James by The Coward Robert Ford.

So, yes, I get it, the multi-day festival is not in celebration of James himself, but the townspeople of Northfield also didn’t exactly defeat him, either—he went on to perform additional robberies in his later years after assembling a new gang. A town defended itself against a famous outlaw—but I suppose ‘Thwarting a Robbery Days’ doesn’t roll of the tongue or sound as appealing when compared to the alliterative and snappy ‘Defeat of Jesse James Days,’ or ‘Defeat Days,’ or simply ‘DJJD’ as some call it.

* * *

There was a time in my life when I was capable of having fun—I mean, more fun, or enthusiasm, or whatever, than I am capable of having now.

By 2008, I think I had a better grasp on how to handle the Defeat of Jesse James Days—going to the parade was not one of the activities to take on, and we were best served attending the festivities on the Thursday evening—‘Townie Night,’ as it is called by the locals, representing a chance for them to enjoy the festival prior to the descent of people from out of town, pouring in on Friday morning.

At this point, Wendy and I were no longer living in a tiny apartment on the south end of town—far removed from the bustle of

A bunch of people standing around

the downtown part of Northfield; we were renting a charming duplex only blocks away from the heart of the town—a split level, full of character, but also a ton of flaws that we overlooked because the place came with hardwood floors and pocket doors.

That year, 2008, we attended ‘Townie Night’ with another couple—my friend Liz, and her husband, who is also named Kevin, along with a mutual friend to all of us, Jeff. Since we were living so close to the festival that year, they met at our place, and we walked down together, taking a lap through the town square where all of the food stands are clustered tightly together, then walking through the festival’s midway—set across from and along the edge of the Cannon River.

By the time we made a full lap through, and back around to the food—it isn’t really all that big of a festival—the sun had set, the sky was growing dark, and the bright neon lights of the midway rides and food stands surrounded us. There was a slight, autumnal chill in the air—nothing like the cold air and drizzle from two years ago, but it was a comforting, crisp sensation that I still return to often.

I wandered away from the group to get in a relatively long line for funnel cake, but I had apparently been gone for just too long—by the time I returned, our friend Jeff had departed5 while I was in line.

I stood awkwardly trying to hold my flimsy, hot plate of fried dough with one hand, and attempted to shovel parts of it into my mouth with the other.

The sky continued to darken; the cool breeze touched our skin.

* * *

These are the, for lack of a better expression, ‘good memories’ that I go to when the Defeat of Jesse James Days comes around every year—these idealized fragments of nostalgia, friendship, and weather you sometimes long for.

By the following year, we began to look at things a little less fondly.

Still living downtown in the charming, yet flawed, duplex, our outgoing mail was stolen—presumably by someone walking down our street to get back to their car. One of the charms of this place was that we had an actual mail flap—the letter carrier would open the flap up, and press the mail through into a basket6 in our living room. With our outgoing mail, we began clipping it to the flap, on the outside of the house, with a clothespin.

Naively believing, at the time, that people aren’t awful piles of garbage, we had clipped our Netflix DVD (it was 2009, after all) to the flap so it could be returned. However, the disc never made it back to the Netflix distribution center, and after about a

Doing it for the culture

week, we had to mark it as missing—we surmised that some upstanding individual saw a free Netflix DVD dangling from a clip, ran up, and grabbed it.

But the joke was on them—the envelope contained that 2004 biopic of Ray Charles, and you know what, despite the fact that Jamie Foxx won an Academy Award for his portrayal of Charles, that movie was not very good at all.

I have lived through 12 Defeat of Jesse James Days festivals, and with each subsequent weekend—always the weekend after Labor Day—my interest in having anything to do with the festival diminishes more and more. There are years where I have no special or nostalgic memories attached to that weekend—there were some years when we tried to leave town as much as possible if we were able to, simply to avoid the congestion, noise, and crowds.

There were years when Wendy and I would try to cobble together a lunch from the food available in the town’s square—but when you feel like total shit a few hours later, you realize that a little cardboard rectangle of fried cheese curds and a large plastic cup of lemonade isn’t really a ‘lunch.’ And after we went from being vegetarian to vegan, our options became even more limited.

Around four years ago, while I was at work, Wendy brought me a large cup of fries from the food stand that exclusively sells fries—I ate way too many of them, and later on, was convinced that I was dying, or that I needed to go the emergency room.

That is how bad my insides felt from indulging in that much grease.

* * *


During the time I worked for the newspaper, providing coverage to the Defeat of Jesse James Days was, as my editor at the time called it, an ‘all hands on deck’ situation.

In 2014, I had been on the job at the newspaper for, like, maybe two weeks, prior to the festival getting underway—since I was so new (and inexperienced) and because I had family coming into town specifically for Defeat Days, my contributions to coverage of the events were limited. On the Sunday morning, I was sent to the annual pancake breakfast at the VFW Hall—the lighting inside was atrocious, and I was barely capable of using the camera I had been handed, so none of the photos, even with tinkering in Photoshop, turned out very well—I don’t think any of them made the final cut for the ‘DJJD recap’ that was put together for the next edition of the paper.

Nobody really wanted to talk to me about pancakes, or the pancake breakfast, or the festival, or why the event was important—and a number of people, stern faced men, mostly, presumably former service members, were nervous about me taking photos, and asked that I not photograph them.

The following year, when my editor started talking about Defeat Days preparation, half in earnest, half in jest, I threw out the audacious suggestion that we just simply not cover the festival at all.

This was met with a small and sympathetic laugh, and followed quickly with a gentle reminder of how furious people in the community would be with the paper if it—or ‘we,’ the paper’s employees—simply did not show up to take photos during events, or write up blurbs regarding the weekend’s festivities.

Since this was an ‘all hands on deck’ situation for the newsroom, we were all assigned various areas of coverage, and that is how I found myself in the beer tent on a Friday night—attempting to take photos (I still hadn’t really gotten the hang of it, even after a year) of a band playing to what was, more or less, an empty beer tent. The band—The Key West Rejects—tackled, from what I can recall, mostly classic rock cover songs, while groups of disinterested people cluttered anywhere but near the stage.

Some sat outside of the tent at picnic tables, smoking, sipping what was presumably light beer out of flimsy plastic cups, enjoying the night air and the stale smell of the Cannon River; others huddled around the makeshift bar, their faces fixed onto the televisions that were mounted above, broadcasting a baseball game.

I was a little out of my element, and struggling to keep my anxiety in check while ‘on the clock,’ but observing this scene was among one of the saddest things I had ever witnessed.

In attempting to leave the newsroom after uploading the photos I took, a cluster of members from the Old Paths Baptist Church7 had set up shop in the driveway next to the newspaper’s parking lot—partially obstructing the sidewalk, making it difficult for people to walk by. Some of the members of the church were holding signs that talk about god’s judgment; one of them stood on an actual fucking soapbox, holding a bible, hurling verbal fire and brimstone at people just trying to walk back to their cars. It was a loud, and unsettling scene—coupled with the constant flickering of headlights passing by and the noise from the festival in the distance. The whole thing became a dizzying, surrealist nightmare.

The following year, when I was really looking hard for a new job in order to leave the paper, I had set a goal—it was in 2016, and I told myself that I needed to be out before the election8; but I was also hoping to be out before the Defeat of Jesse James Days rolled around again.

I left the paper with roughly two weeks to spare.

* * *


Somehow, I manage to avoid Defeat Days almost completely in both 2016 and 20179—only driving from home to work, and back again, and never venturing in the direction of the food stands or the midway.

I was almost on my way to avoiding it completely yet again for this year, but I began having a change of heart.

“You going down to…all that?,” my co-worker, Erik, asks me, as he motions his hand toward the food stands and low level of cacophony coming from downtown. I’m in the middle of inhaling my lunch, and he’s locking up his bike.

“Normally, I wouldn’t,” I begin. “But I don’t know—I think I’ll try to go either tonight or tomorrow. Like, as a joke.”

“A joke to who?”


* * *

There was a time in my life when I was capable of having fun—I mean, more fun, or enthusiasm, or whatever, than I am capable of having now.

After I get finished up with work, on a Saturday afternoon, my wife and I walk down to take in the Defeat of Jesse James Days.

Drinking a beer for the culture

We last all of two hours before we decide that we’ve seen enough—that we’ve had enough, and we walk back home. The entire time we’re out in the thick of it, I keep saying that we’re ‘doing it for the culture10,’ though I am 100% confident that nobody understands what I actually mean by that.

The first place we stop is one of the local, small breweries in town—one in particular11 is playing host to what I begin referring to as the ‘bougie beer tent.’ I look at the menu of drinks offered at the outdoors portion of this event, and realize I may have made a huge mistake—there’s nothing I really want to drink being served on tap.

“What—if it’s not a peanut butter porter, you’re too good for it?,” my wife chides me as she orders something lighter in color, taste, and texture—“No,” I respond immediately, but I also know that she’s right.

It’s hot and I can barely hear anything or anyone over the sound of the band playing on the outdoor stage, and my wife sees an acquaintance she’s made recently—we wander over and attempt a conversation with this acquaintance and her husband; their children, both very small, keep running around them in circles, and wrap paper napkins around both their wrists, as well as the wrists of their parents.

We’re doing it for the culture, I tell myself, as I assist Wendy with finishing her beer—she’s a slow drinker, and we have much more to see.

* * *

It’s a little after 5 p.m., and we encounter both a trashcan that is overflowing with garbage, and a drunken woman.

We’ve just finished walking through the annual art bazaar, coordinated by the community’s arts organization and held every year along the scenic river walk, in conjunction with the festival.

This trash is all of us, I think

We’re about to head into the town square, where all the food stands are, when I see the garbage can—it’s one of the city’s downtown garbage cans that gets closed off for the weekend with a large piece of plywood attached over the top, discouraging people from depositing their rubbish inside, and, instead, encouraging people to go find one of the countless, large, plastic garbage cans located, oh, I don’t know, just about anywhere you turn.

I fumble to get my phone out to take a photo of the trash that’s piled up, when a voice beckons to us.

Because this woman is slurring her words, a pitch perfect caricature of someone who has been day drinking and had entirely too much, I don’t understand her at first. As I’m taking the photo of the trash, I’m confident she asks, “Why are you doing that?”

I start to respond, “I’m doing it for the culture”—that should be obvious, and I almost want to tell her that this pile of rotting trash covered in insects is a harrowing allegory for the festival itself; however, my wife, who has much better hearing than I do, realizes this woman has asked, “Why are they doing that?”

The ‘they’ she is asking about refers to the wasps (the insects, not the White Anglo-Saxon Protestants) that are swarming around the half-empty cups of beer, and partially finished containers of food that have piled up on top of the trash can.

My wife, bless her heart, tries to make small talk with this woman about bees; the woman is practically incapable of following along and stumbles over her thoughts. She’s thin, and short, with chin-length brown hair. I can’t tell how old she is—maybe younger than us, and maybe time hasn’t been very kind; or maybe she’s older—in her 40s? She takes a long drag off of her cigarette and flicks her thumb against the filter, sending ash tumbling to the sidewalk.

We continue walking toward the food.

* * *

“Get your guns, boys—they’re robbing the bank!”

While we are trying to eat, there is a dramatic re-enactment of the failed bank raid taking place near the food stands—the old First National Bank of Northfield building still stands near the intersection of 4th and Division Street, only now it, conveniently, houses the Northfield Historical Society.

Eating corn for the culture

The re-enactments seem like they happen every hour, on the hour, but I know that there aren’t that many of them. They are way too elaborate and lengthy to happen that frequently. A well-choreographed dance, a dedicated and eclectic group of Northfield residents pull off these re-enactments year after year; crowds of festival attendees gather around and watch with baited breath as the robbery (performed inside the Historical Society building, where nobody can actually see it or hear it) spills out into the streets.

On cue, someone yells, “Get your guns, boys—they’re robbing the bank,” a thing that was, apparently, actually yelled during the attempted robbery. The entire scene descends into chaos and loud gunfire.

As rounds of blanks are fired off, my wife eats a piece of roasted corn, and we split a veggie burrito that literally tastes like nothing. A Northfield Police Officer wanders over and frightens two young children—a brother and sister, presumably—who are fighting. You can see the fear come over their young faces, but the officer attempts to put them at ease by handing them two police badge stickers.

On our walk back home, we see two women dressed up in western themed garb, headed toward the festival. Both of them are carrying open cans of Coors Light—they, too, apparently are doing it for the culture, though I’m not sure which one.]

Wendy later says, “Well, if they’d been stopped by the police, all that would have happened was they would have been handed stickers.”

* * *

The next morning, walking toward the employee entrance at work, there is an empty liquor bottle near the sidewalk—it’s for Fireball Cinnamon Whisky.

Later, as the morning nears into the lunch hour, I have a strange encounter with a man who, I presume, is in town for the festival. He greets me by complaining about the size of the heads of garlic we currently have at the store.

I look up from the Yukon Gold potatoes I am stuffing into a basket—he’s taller than me, maybe in his 50s, wearing jean shorts and flip flops, but also a lot of long chains around his neck, and a heavy leather jacket. As he complains about the size of the garlic heads, I’m taken aback by his accent—a thick, near-satirical New York dialect comes out of his mouth.

Good morning, losers

Like, this is the kind of exaggerated accent you hear in movies.

I explain to him that the heads of local garlic are all very small, and he takes a few steps closer to me and tells me that he usually buys two head of garlic, and then, he brings his head down ever so slightly, brings up his palm to his mouth, like he’s about to tell me a secret, and in a lower voice, says, “But I’m, ah….going out of town.”

A few moments later, he inquires as to if we have any arugula. I tell him that we do, showing him where the plastic five-ounce containers of salads are. He grabs a package of arugula, and while placing it in his shopping basket, tells me that his mother used to grow arugula; then, again, lowering his voice and bringing up his palm, says that she grew it, “around the side of the house.”

I don’t understand what that means, or what he’s trying to imply. And it’s at this point that the edge of his jacket lifts up slightly, and I see an empty holster attached to his waist.

At one point, he actually says, “fuggetaboutit.”

As I try to get back to my cart of potato boxes, and other produce that needed to be stocked, so I can wheel it to the backroom and seek refuge until my new from friend from New York, or wherever, leaves the store, he begins telling me about rapini.

Rapini, which I have not heard of, apparently has a lot of ‘healthy benefits’ according to this stranger, and again, as he begins winding down this third, brief monologue I have been regaled with in my short time assisting him in the store he leans in, and tells me, like it’s a secret, that rapini, “is also known as broccoli rabe.”

Much later, near the end of my day, I’m in the break room talking about the festival with two of my co-workers. I describe it as a chance for ‘trash people to come into town and leave their trash everywhere.’

Neither of my co-workers disagree.

* * *

When I still worked at the newspaper, and half in earnest, half in jest suggested that we just opt not to provide any coverage to the Defeat of Jesse James Days, I said it partially because I didn’t want to work the extra hours, in the evening, at an event I had no interest in going to—but mostly, I suggested it because nothing ever changes about this event—so what’s the point?12

The same food year after year

I’ve lived through 12 Defeat of Jesse James Days festivals and very little, if anything at all, changes from year to year. The same food vendors serve you the same food from the same food stand or truck that is parked in, give or take, the exact same location, year after year.

The same artisans sell the same jewelry and woodworking and soaps from the same tents along the riverfront bazaar.

The same transient rug salesperson sets up shop on the corner of Highway 3 and 2nd street, displaying their large, decorative rugs on elaborate stands, with a banner flying above it all reading, ‘Buy Rugs, Not Drugs.’

The same dilapidated carnival rides are assembled, presumably by the same operators, stationed in the same location13, and ridden by the same people. For a number of years, the Graviton-esque ride that anchors the midway—the ‘Starship 2000,’ was either missing part of its sign, or a large portion of it refused to light up with the rest of the ride.

This image—a partially illuminated sign reading ‘St____ip 2000,’—broken and damaged but still trying, is something that has really stuck with me.

Maybe the festival never changes, or rarely changes, because people don’t want change.

They want the same food served to them by the same vendors from the same truck or station, situated in the same location in the town’s square.

The same light beer served in the same flimsy plastic cups, consumed in the confines of the same tent while the same band plays the same song that isn’t being listened to.

The same re-enactments and the same artisans selling the same jewelry and carved wood knick-knacks.

The same midway rides with their partially illuminated signs—still damaged but still trying.

There’s no introductory course or informational session regarding the Defeat of Jesse James Days—if you’re born and raised in Northfield, Minnesota, you just know it. Year after year, from your childhood into adulthood, for a handful of days in early September, it is a part of you—and that’s why it stays the same. You don’t want it to change; you don’t want something to impact your nostalgia, or the way you’ve chosen to remember something.

If the pile of trash covered in insects is an allegory for how some of us—transplants to the community, or just people who are so very tired of the crowds and noise and gunfire—view this festival, the Starship 2000 sign is how we get through it—year after year, damaged but trying.



1– The robbery is, like, way to difficult to explain in its entirety within the context of this essay, but it is worth noting that, according to the limited amount of research I did for this piece, the James-Younger Gang selected the First Bank of Northfield because it was believed that a large deposit had recently been made at the bank, and they wanted that money. It also is worth nothing they did not get that money—the teller, Joseph Lee Heywood, refused to open the safe, and was killed. Heywood is honored every year during the town’s celebration with a graveside memorial, and an outstanding citizen in the town is given the Heywood Distinguished Service Award.

2– Malt-O-Meal was purchased by Post Holdings in 2015, but it will always be Malt-O-Meal to me.

3– I learned this in my limited amount of research for this piece—meaning I read the Wikipedia entry about the bank robbery.

4– Certainly historically accurate.

5– For a while, I took this very personally, like Jeff was mad that I was gone for too long and left because he was sick of waiting for me to come back from buying a funnel cake. It turns out he was, like, just ready to leave and it had nothing to do with me, but I used to give him shit about this regularly.

6– We never quite got the hang of this and the mail would often miss the basket completely, and just be in a heap on the living room floor.

7– The Old Paths Baptist Church were sharing the ‘good word’ again this year as well—this time, they set up shop at the end of crosswalk during the middle of the day, calling women who were simply trying to walk by their demonstration ‘members of the lowly gender.’

8– I had been on the job for three months when I found myself covering the 2014 election for the paper—staying in the newsroom until 11:30 p.m. to wait for results from across the county. It was awful, and I knew I couldn’t survive another night like that, especially with how big the 2016 election was.

9– As soon as I typed this, I realized it wasn’t the truth, but that’s part of the fun about ‘creative non-fiction.’ I had completely forgotten about how, in 2017, in a long tale of minor martial discourse, I was sent on an errand to get a growler of locally brewed beer, and angry walked through the entire festival in order to fetch it.

10– ‘Doing it for the culture’ can mean one of two things. I think most people took this as we were subjecting ourselves to the festival in order to take in the ‘culture’ of people who were at the festivities. So yes, it could mean that, but I was, perhaps foolishly, trying to use the slang or contemporary meaning of it—that refers to when a person does something they usually wouldn’t do just because, as Urban Dictionary states, ‘the thing they are doing is hyped.’

11– It seems worth noting that my benevolent editor is employed by this brewery.

12– But what is the point in anything, really.

13– A quick point of clarification—the midway was moved in 2016 and just this year in 2018, because the ground was either flooded by the Cannon River, or just too damp from excessive rain. In 2016, the midway was moved two miles down the road to the parking lot of an abandoned K-Mart; this year, it was crammed into the employee parking lots of the Malt-O-Meal factory.


Kevin Krein has been operating the award winning music blog Anhedonic Headphones, since 2013, and he contributed the back page column to the Southern Minn Scene magazine for roughly three years. He occasionally contributes to Bearded Gentlemen Music, and his writing has appeared in River Valley Woman and The Wagazine. Please follow him on ‘the socials’: @KevEFly (Twitter), or @kev_e_fly (Instagram.)

1 Comment

  1. Sandy V. on September 24, 2018 at 10:05 am

    Hi Kevin,
    As a member of the Defeat of Jesse James Days Committee for the past 35 years, I have to disagree with pretty much your entire take on DJJD. But that is ok, I respect that not all Northfield residents enjoy our annual festival. However, I do think it is important to point out one very important aspect of the DJJD festival that you are completely missing in your column. Last year the DJJD Committee donated nearly $40,000 directly to charities in Northfield. That does not include the more than $150,000 that charities made on their own using the DJJD celebration as a fundraiser — the majority of which comes back into the Northfield community. Without the DJJD celebration these fundraising opportunities would not be available to the many local non-profit groups and organizations that depend on the funds raised each year. While the festival may not be completely enjoyed by everyone, the funds raised by non-profit organizations is invaluable to this community. A suggestion for covering the celebration in the future would be to talk to the numerous local non-profits who are benefitting from this event and ask where they would get the funds for their programs if this opportunity were not available to them. We can provide a list of organizations and contacts for you if needed. Thanks for your column on Defeat of Jesse James Days, I’m sorry it has not been the most enjoyable part of living in Northfield for you!

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