If you're a city dweller, you may not go to a small town in Minnesota's lake country very often, unless you drive through a string of them on your way to the cabin.
Small towns are always changing, of course, but we like to imagine them as tidy, attractive, semi-bustling mini-cities, the kind you might come across in an old postcard.
You know, the "Mayberry R.F.D." kind of town — the bank with the Roman columns and a few stores with up-to-date metal facades draped over the old brick and a custom sign proclaiming the owners' name in script. (The locals knew Howard's was for women's clothes, Iverson's for men's.)
There might be a small department store, founded decades ago, where the farm kids were taken to get school clothes and uncomfortable shoes. It would have been an all-day trip, ending with a frosty pop at the drugstore counter, or perhaps a movie at the theater with the tall marquee.
If the town was big enough, there would be ambassadors from the world beyond: Rexall, an Ace or a True Value, a laundromat, a Zenith or Philco for appliance repair. If it were new enough, it would have a drive-in theater on the outskirts. If it were big enough, it would have its own paper. If it were old enough, it would have a graveyard where the names on the oldest stones had been almost erased by the wind.
But small towns have evolved, and Dale Mulfinger has watched that evolution. Mulfinger, a Minnesota architect and co-founder of SALA Architects, is a self-styled "cabinologist." He's written five books on cabins and he's driven the state — from small town to small town — to visit cabins, including his own.
How does he describe the change on Main Street in Small Town, Minn.?
"Some have died out, some have flourished, some changed in composition — that's the nature of small towns," he said. "They no longer have the hardware store. It closed, and then it was an inexpensive antique store."