Home: Then and Now

Fillmore is in the middle of nowhere, to be sure. It's 1,747 miles from New York City, 1,267 miles from Dallas, and 466 miles from Minneapolis. But it's in America, and I still call it my home. The town developed with the railroad 100 years ago this year. By the 1920s, the town had grown to some 100+ people. A dedicated committee of residents in the area is making preparations for the Fillmore Centennial & All School Reunion to be held this summer over the weekend following the Fourth of July.

Growing up, I used to tell strangers that we lived in the suburbs of Fillmore. At that time, there was a thriving population of about 10 people, and we lived just a mile away. I was such a proud kid when my dad was the president of the township board, the closest thing we had to a city council. I told people that he was the mayor of Fillmore.

Postcard mailed by my grandfather in 1914

During the summers, I would drive the three-wheeler into town to get the mail and buy milk. (We drink milk by the gallons in the country, so special trips are made.) The post office and grocery store were both in a trailer and run by the same woman, Lois. This is the place where we'd receive our boxes of bees each spring. The door was never locked and the individual mailboxes were always set to open. Every once in a while a kid would twirl all the dials and chaos ensued because no one knew their codes.

On the store side of the trailer, there were a few shelves, a refrigerator, and a counter. On the counter rested a notepad and a pen for customers to write down what items they'd taken so they could be billed each month. More importantly, the counter was also home to a bin of Tootsie Rolls. And I love Tootsie Rolls.

Back in its heyday, the town hall was home to basketball games between Fillmore and other tiny-opolises like Esmond. My neighbor, who went by the name Georgie then, and I would meet to shoot hoops with the deflated basketballs that were left there once upon a time. It was the first place I ever pretended to be athletic. Perhaps if those balls had actually been filled with air I would have joined a team and led it to victory. Or maybe I would have lost interest after 10 minutes as I did then.

Pete's Bar (left) - Photo courtesy of GhostsofNorthDakota.com

When I wanted a treat, I would take the three-wheeler to get a pop at Pete's Bar. "I'll have a Coke and you can put it on the ol' man's tab," I said once, getting tsked by Pete or a customer for my impertinence. This dilapidated delight had beer and a pool table, but no plumbing. The outhouse was probably just one reason Pete only kept it open during the summers those last few years.


It was a psychological shift for everyone when we lost our zip code in the '90s (yes, that happens). The sign indicating Fillmore's elevation disappeared around then, too. Suddenly we all received addresses with street names in the thousands, and a 911 system was implemented. I'd barely graduated from high school, but I was experiencing an identity crisis. One day I'm from Fillmore, the next I'm from... Esmond?

Looking back, I can't imagine that this experience is replicable and I find myself nostalgic. Sure, progress has its perks, but my childhood wasn't half bad.