1.29.12 Sign Day, Part Tveir

'Tveir' is how the number 2 was expressed in Old Norse, a nod this morning to the Scandinavian heritage that characterizes much of Minnesota. It is time to record the second half of Sign Day, as I travel up the eastern shore of Nicollet Island, camera in hand.

This is the Pillsbury's Best Flour sign that graces the old flour mill, on St. Anthony Main, right across the street from where Pillsbury's data center once stood, where yours truly once worked. So technically, the sign is not ON Nicollet Island, but clearly visible from many points on the island. Not a great picture due to the haze, and also one word is blocked, not to mention the picture's failure to reflect the sign's bright red color. But from a historical perspective, I couldn't very well omit this one from Sign Day. And yes, that is the eyesore of a condo apartment building on the left side which I have castigated in previous posts.

Here I am at the junction of where the Merriam Street Bridge connects to the island, which is most people's main point of entry, hence the informational sign. The sign, which is kiosklike, provides some historical lore about the island, as well as a map and some postings of current (or not so current) local events. Also welcoming visitors to the island, directly across the street from this sign, is the Nicollet Island Inn, a charming little bed and breakfast. Well, maybe not as charming as all that, but it's a nice place with fairly good food (yes, I've slept and eaten there--no complaints)--popular with the romantically-inclined and as a lunch/brunch spot for business meetings.


Here is one of the Nicollet Island Inn's signs (there are two)--looking at which now, I notice for the first time the announcement of Music Saturday Night in the lounge--well, what have I been missing? I guess I'll have to investigate on one of these Saturday nights when my social calendar is open--keep an eye out for my review. Since having moved to the island, I haven't entered the portals of this venerable institution, possibly because it always seems a bit too venerable for the likes of me. The clientele espied through the windows have appeared, on the whole, of a decidedly sedate and ... mature character. I've never been described as sedate, and while I may have been called a character, the word has yet to be qualified by the word mature.

While technically, in my view, this one qualifies more as a plaque than a sign, I felt obligated to include it, since it crowns the primary portal to Nicollet Island. I am less impressed by the name of The King Iron Bridge Co. (of Cleveland O.) than by the attractive fleur de lys ironwork ornamenting the overhead crossbar. The bridge, for the math averse, is now 125 years old.

This next signpost heralds the intersection of Merriam and Power Streets, which I found interesting because the so-called Power Street is not actually a street but the parking lot for the Nicollet Island Pavilion building, which itself is heralded on the lower sign along with its exact address (40 Power St.). The pavilion was built in 1893 as the William Brothers Boiler Works. Nearby was a large Island Power building, which was razed in 1937. It housed a variety of shops driven by a cable connected to a water-powered wheel near Hennepin Island. Hence, the origins of Power Street. But perhaps you'd like a little more detail on the modern day settlement of Nicollet Island, which led to the development that gave Power Street its name:


There are accounts of Indian (Native American, that is) maple sugar camps on the island in the early 19th century. Franklin Steele claimed the island when the east side was opened to white settlement in 1838.

Franklin Steele (1813 – September 9, 1880) was an early and significant settler of Minneapolis, Minnesota in the United States. Born in Chester County, Pennsylvania of Scottish descent, Steele worked in the Lancaster post-office as a young man, where he once met James Buchanan. With encouragement from his future brother-in-law Henry Hastings Sibley, Steele saw opportunities in the western frontier and traveled to Fort Snelling (Minnesota) where he became a storekeeper at the fort. At that time, the land on both sides of the Mississippi River at St. Anthony Falls was controlled by the U.S. Government as part of the Fort Snelling Reservation. However by 1837 over 150 squatters had staked unofficial claims on fort property. In 1838, the fort commander, Joseph Plympton convinced the government to release the east bank of the river for settlement, hoping to stake a personal claim on the valuable land closest to the Falls. But Steele surreptitiously staked the first claim on the choicest land before sunrise on the first day of legal settlement. He claimed a half-mile of east-bank riverfront, controlling half of the water power of St. Anthony Falls--and including Nicollet Island.

In 1865, William Eastman and John Merriam (namesake of Merriam St. and its bridge) bought Nicollet Island and offered to sell it to the city for a park. When the park proposal was turned down, Eastman and Merriam decided to develop the southern part of the island as an industrial center. In 1869, an attempt to bring waterpower to Nicollet Island failed disasterously when the tailrace tunnel under the river collapsed at the southern tip of the island, nearly destroying the Falls of St. Anthony. The tunnel break was eventually plugged, but no further attempts were made to bring waterpower directly to Nicollet Island.

In 1879, Eastman succeeded in bringing power to Nicollet Island by stringing a long, overhead cable to the island from the east channel dam, through an interchannel tower. It powered various industries housed in the Island Power Building, as well as several nearby factories. It would appear that Power Street received its name around this time, and as a result of this achievement.

Thus ends our history lesson of the day.

We now resume our tour of signs as we head up E. Island Ave, along the island's eastern shore. As you can see, the day is beginning to brighten up a bit, with sunshine and blue skies coming into the picture, so to speak. In the background of this shot, you can see the eastward-bound off ramp of the Hennepin Bridge, under which I will be passing in just a moment. By the way, when you cross the Merrian St. bridge to the St. Anthony Main side, there is a lovely restaurant called The Wilde Roast Cafe--Oscar Wilde themed and a cozy place to cuddle up on a couch or armchair with coffee and a book (or laptop). A great place to stop for breakfast or brunch during a visit to the Twin Cities.



If you do visit this area, you'll want to take note of this sign--and take it seriously. Are you familiar with the modern-day implement of torture--reserved for illegal parkers--known as the boot? I have firsthand experience, having been introduced to the boot during my early days in Minneapolis after parking my car illegally near the U. of M. (in the days when I worked on St. Anthony Main, in fact). They fasten a large steel object to one of your car's tires, effectively preventing you from operating your vehicle. You then have to pay a ransom before they will remove the boot. This is not a fun way to while away an afternoon--trust me. I think my ransom was $85.

Here is the next intersection I come to--E. Island Ave. and De La Salle Dr. And yes, that is De La Salle High School in the background. If I were in a car and turned onto De La Salle Drive, it would take me onto the Hennepin Ave. Bridge--so the street is effectively an on/off ramp to/from the bridge. Seems to me that De La Salle Dr. should be the street running in front of the high school, but in fact that street is Eastman Drive, as you may recall from Part One of our tour, when we were on the west side of the island. And yet, the school's offical address is One De La Salle Drive, even though the school is not fronted by the street of that name. Go figure. You will appreciate the eponymous basis for Eastman Dr. if you were paying attention during our history lesson.

This Overflow Parking sign, is located in a dirt lot opposite the high school's football field. I have observed, even way back in the days when I worked in the area, that people--at all hours of the day and night--will park in this lot and sit here in their cars. God only knows what they're thinking or doing there, but my observations suggest that these people are not associated with the high school. I guess certain people just know that this is a place where they can park with impunity and sit unobserved for as long as they like, with only the sheer bank of the river behind them. But I've got news for them--they are not as inconspicuous as they may think.

Although according to this plaque, Grove Street may once have connected the east and west sides of the island, it certainly no longer does. Instead, there is a football field between E. Island Ave. and Grove St. The plaque seems oddly misplaced, for the pedestrian reading its inscription would have a hard time descrying Grove St. anywhere in the immediate area. To reach Grove St., you would have to cross the football field. The only byway connecting east and west in this section of the island, aside from Eastman Dr. in front of the school, consists of the railroad tracks, along which most pedestrians do not travel. I can only assume that perhaps this plaque was placed here before the football field was built, which I understand was relatively recently.

OK -- thanks to Wikipedia, some answers to this riddle and another minor history lesson:

The school had sought to build a 750-seat football field and track, and in March of 2006 permission was granted by the city council. Work on the stadium was completed, despite objections from the Minneapolis Heritage Preservation Commission and Friends of the Mississippi River, who sought to preserve a 140-year old street [aha - the truncation of most of the original Grove Street!] that was removed to build the field. DeLaSalle Athletic Field has been open and in use as of September 2009.

I will spare you a repeat of the railroad crossing signs, which would merely be a duplication of the signs we visited on the west side of the island. However, I will share this one, encountered just after crossing the tracks, planted in the crotch of the crossroads where one must decide between the upper ground (continuing on E. Island Ave. until it curves around and becomes W. Island Ave.) and the lower ground, a dirt path that leads to the Tweedy-Loweth Bridge (described in previous posts and featured at the top of this blog's Home Page). Despite the sign, I have seen tire tracks in the snow along this dirt path, which, however, probably belonged to city vehicles such as the crew that was clearing shoreline timber in a previous post.

Which brings us to the street where we began this tour, Maple Place: a left turn at this sign brings me along a short block back to Nicollet and Maple, the precise point at which we began. And if I turn left at that intersection, I am facing an intra-island bridge which enables passage over the railroad tracks, from the NW side of the island to the SE, in the event a train happens to be passing. This next picture shows what I see as I hump my way over this bridge: away in the distance, the distinctive signs for Gold Medal Flour (left) and North Star Blankets (right). These signs are illuminated at night, the Gold Medal Flour sign blinking its three words on in sequence.

When I reached the center of this bridge, I looked off to my right, to downtown Minneapolis, and noticed that the sign for the new home of the Minnesota Twins (Target Field) is visible from the back. It occurs to me how much of Minneapolis' history and cultural character is reflected in signs visible both on and from Nicollet Island, and I realize how fortunate I am to have the chance to live here and experience it all firsthand. I may not be able to afford an apartment in the heart of Manhattan--but this, here and now, I can do.

Target Field is located in the Warehouse District west of downtown Minneapolis. The Twins moved to Target Field for the 2010 Major League Baseball season after 28 seasons at the Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome. The 2010 season was the first since 1936 in which the franchise (then known as the Washington Senators) did not share their home stadium with an NFL team. The first baseball game at the ballpark took place on March 27, 2010, with a college baseball game between the University of Minnesota and Louisiana Tech. The Twins played two preseason games against the St. Louis Cardinals on April 2 and 3, and their inaugural regular season game was played on April 12, 2010 against the Boston Red Sox.

As I reach the other side, I snap a picture of this plaque identifying the bridge only with a number, as if it were a prisoner: 27695. Evidently, the bridge was completed in 1996, two years before I moved to Minneapolis. The date on the plaque now causes me to view the bridge as though it were not a prisoner, but a corpse resting beneath a headstone. Maybe someday I too will have a plaque: D.E. Sievers, 1960-

But until that day, I will live as much as I can. Coming off this side of the bridge, I find myself on Grove Street--the street that was reduced by more than 50% of its length to make way for the athletic field. From where I stand, I can easily throw a stone the entire length of Grove Street so that it lands in the river. On the one hand of this street stand the historic Grove Street Flats, and on the other, the back of De La Salle High School. If I head toward the river, I will wind up at the intersection of Grove St. and W. Island Ave. But we have been there before, and Sign Day, Part Tveir has now come to an end. Though much of this post may have been on the dullish side, I enjoyed getting to know my island better through its signs. After all, we get to know other people better by studying their signs, do we not? And doctors diagnose our ills by examining our signs. However, some signs can be misleading--a good thing to remember as we attempt to evaluate people, places and things according to the signs they present.

Life flows on, in and around us--leaving its history behind--for where there is life there will always be history, and where there is history you are almost certain to find a sign.

D.E.S.

1.28.12 Sun, Trees & Me

A nice crisp, clear, sunny Saturday morning! Not much to say this morning, and I don't want to spend much time blogging because I want to get some painting done today. I'm working on a series of cartoon cats from the 1960's (in oil) and Felix is waiting for his finishing touches. No sign-gazing or fox sightings this morning, just a brisk walk around the perimeter of the island as the sun began its climb, smiling down through the trees on Nicollet Island.

Here is the first image that caught my eye--the sun rising in the east amidst a tetrad of smokestacks. I was standing in front of De La Salle High School, aiming my camera between the obliquely rising support beams of the Hennepin Bridge. Pollution can be quite lovely at times. It's pretty cold and handling the camera is no picnic, but it's above zero, so who am I to complain? It's very quiet, and passing underneath the bridge, I note that the mysterious stashed bundle remains where someone had left it.

I continue on toward the southerly (south-easterly, if truth be told) tip of the island, where I stop behind the Nicollet Island Pavilion, on the wooden deck of an outdoor patio that provides a very nice perspective on downtown, and on the inexorably flowing river's progress as it tumbles over its concrete spillway and onward to St. Paul and beyond.

And here's a little perspective on the appearance of yours truly this fine morning, aka 'The Masked Avenger.' In case you were wondering--yes, that getup really is necessary, especially the balaclava. The gloves are crap and I desperately need a new pair, but for the moment, they're better than nothing. I now sacrifice my comfort to give you the dubious pleasure of seeing the Avenger unmasked.

This is my early morning, pre-grooming hairdo, when I'm not expecting to run into anyone, or at least not while unmasked. I wouldn't want to give away my secret identity. There wasn't much danger of that this morning--there was no other sign of life afoot beyond a couple of joggers to whom I was all but invisible. Which was okay with me--I'll be more sociable after a shower.

My final picture is of this tender sapling-- a cool little tree. I know it's cool because the tag attached to one of its branches told me so ("Trees are Cool"). The tag also exhorted me to plant a tree, so perhaps while I am living on this island I will make a point of doing so. It's not the best shot, since the sun is shining in the background, but to my eye it does possess a quality of stark beauty, imbued meanwhile with the evidence of man's tamperings with nature. Why do we feel the need to tag trees? Bird's ankles? The necks of animals we strap with collars and call our pets? We have a proprietary bent, we humans. We like to think we can subjugate nature, control her, bend her to our will. Then a hurricane or tornado or earthquake comes along, and all of our tags are shaken to the ground or blown away in the winds, along with our airs of superiority and invulnerability. And the next day, we tag something new. And we survive.

Life flows on, in and around us--we can name it and put a tag on it, but nothing will prevent it from behaving in accordance with the law of its make.

D.E.S.

1.27.12 Reynard on Ice

This morning provided something of an adventure. No sooner had I begun walking along E. Island Avenue than my island stillness was shattered all to hell by a bunch of blackbirds. I peered over the bluff to the NW, where the river comes down from the north, and could see the authors of the cacophany flapping about over the water. I almost dismissed them, but when their shrieking continued I suspected something interesting might have been afoot (or a-wing). Sure enough, as I gazed out over the river and my eye followed my flapping feathered friends, I descried in the distance a form moving upon the ice, right in the very center of the river.

Even from a distance, I could tell what it was, and frantically scrabbled down the island's northern bluff to get as close as possible. You'll want to click on this picture to enlarge, so you can appreciate the plight of this foolhardy denizen of the island, and also so you can corroborate my sighting, which confirms my theory of a few days ago when attempting to identify the author of some footprints left in the snow.

Yes, this is indeed a fox wandering about in the middle of the Mississippi River. I managed to get this second picture while clinging to a slender tree on the side of the bluff. The blackbirds were giving the fox hell, swooping down at him and cackling like mad. He finally took the hint and started making his way upriver and toward the eastern shore. This was my cue to start running, to the extent I could do that over snow and ice.

I scrambled up the bluff and hurried back to the crude steps that led down to what I've dubbed the Tweedy-Loweth bridge (my favorite bridge, remember?). I rushed over the bridge and trotted up along the shore to the general area where the fox was headed, hoping for an up close and personal photo op. Alas, it was not to be. I reached a point known as Boom Island, though technically, it is no longer an island. There is a dock where a couple of riverboats collect tourists to take them on river cruises, and very close by, a small paved outcropping boasting a lighthouse. At the foot of the lighthouse, I gazed down to Nicollet Island, to the bluffs at its northernmost tip where I had so recently been when spotting the fox (left side of picture).

You can also see the railroad bridge, where at this moment, a train has begun crossing from the downtown Minneapolis side. The fox, however, was nowhere to be seen, which left me disappointed. I felt sure I would find him here, for I had once come upon him, or someone very like him, right in this very spot. I guess after being so unmercifully heckled by the blackbirds, he was not feeling very sociable and had sought privacy.

I snapped a picture of the lighthouse and headed back to my island, eyes peeled the entire way for my foxy friend, who never showed. While walking, I considered the blackbirds' frantic hectoring of the fox, and it occurred to me that maybe they hadn't been hectoring him at all but rather chastening him and attempting to drive him to safety. Were they concerned about the danger he had placed himself in? Or were they simply self-seeking, knowing that if the fox slipped beneath the ice he would not be able to one day furnish them a nice carrion meal? I will suspend cynicism and judgment until I can do some research on the behavior of blackbirds. And I will continue to keep an eye out for Reynard. I have a feeling I haven't seen the last of him.

Life flows on, in and around us--moving about in various forms we call species, which may contribute to each other's survival or demise. To which category to humans belong, do you think?

D.E.S.

1.26.12 What's Your Sign? Here Are Mine ...

Happy Sign Day! Today I decided to photograph all the signs on Nicollet Island. Why, you ask? Why not? I began with this one, the first I encounter each morning as I leave my home. I just so happen to live on the Odd Address Side of Street--a qualification that evidently merits a sign, for what purpose, if any, I'm afraid I can't say. As for exactly where I live, let's just say that it's either on Maple Place or Nicollet Street, and if I live on the Odd side, I guess that's not entirely out of character. Also, let me just say right now that, due to the apparently uncontrollable fetish for No Parking signs on the part of city planners, the island is awash in them, so I will NOT be posting pictures of them, unless they are unique in some way.


Here was my next stop, where I was able to nail four signs in a single blow: Maple Pl., W. Island Ave., the back of a STOP sign, and my personal favorite, the PEACE sign made of twisted branches on the side of the house in the background. In the evening, the PEACE sign is lit up, as some of you may recall from an earlier post. This intersection is on the northwestern side of the island, and from here I begin my walk southward along the island's western shore. The Mississippi River is on my right side and the front of the house in this picture is on my left--there are small trees in front of the house which are adorned with lights and Christmas balls. I'm really not sure if they will remain there year round.


Here, on my right hand, appears the railroad crossing sign, beneath which a small NO PARKING sign has managed to weasel its way in, and above that, the notable qualifier: NO TRAIN HORN. Which is interesting because, while there may indeed be no train horn, there IS a loud clanging bell that signals the approach of a train. I guess if you were in a car with the music turned up loud, you might not hear the bell, in which case you would be a fool for approaching the railroad crossing with anything less than extreme caution. And I suppose, in such an instance, it doesn't hurt to be reminded by a sign that you are approaching tracks upon which a train with NO HORN may be passing.


And now, sans car and loud music, I am approaching the tracks, of which there are 2 according to this official RAILROAD CROSSING sign. Here too is the barrier gate which descends when a train is approaching. And guess what happens as I am approaching the tracks? That's right, the bell starts clanging, prompting me to accelerate my pace so as not to get stuck waiting for an endless train to pass. Here, too, you can see the sun where it has recently risen in the east (so I'm really walking more east than south), and I don't mind saying that it is damn cold out and my fingers are already becoming very uncomfortably numb (to misquote Pink Floyd) when handling the camera.

After crossing the tracks, I turned around in time to see the barrier gate descending and thought a picture of that, and the flashing red light, would make a good picture. I then turned to face the river because there were a couple of signs there fronting the bridge--warning of danger and citing a statute--and so with frigid, trembling fingers I set about capturing their image.

I guess that while dallying to take this picture, I hadn't realized how close I still was to the tracks, upon which a train was at that moment approaching. When I finished taking my shot, I turned to see that I was on the inside of the barrier gate (oops!), so I looked down the tracks and there was the train, creeping forwards, as though perhaps it had been awaiting my pleasure. It seemed to accelerate after I moved beyond the gate, and proceeded over the bridge. I did see the engineer sitting in his compact apartment behind a window, and he didn't shake a scolding finger, so I guess maybe I had done no harm. I was, after all, a good five feet from the tracks, so no cause for concern.

A short distance ahead, I came upon one of the houseboats moored on the shore. I descended a crude staircase set into the steep riverbank, and found this sign posted in front of a short path leading to the gangplank providing access to the boat. It's a formidable sign, is it not? There is one even more formidable yet to come, associated with the other houseboat. Stay tuned!

Before reaching the other houseboat, I pass this intersection, the first of two. Here, at Grove Street and W. Island Avenue, I pass the Grove Street Flats, a block of attractive and historic row apartments (but then, isn't everything on this island historic? come to that, isn't everything everywhere historic?). You may recall these as the apartments featured in an earlier post, wherein I narrated my uninvited ascent to their rooftops. If I hang a left here, then another left at the end of the block, then cross a small intra-island bridge, I will arrive back at my home. My hands are frozen and I'm tempted, but I will tough it out. Today, after all, is Sign Day, which will only come once in my lifetime!

Well, maybe it'll come twice, as I may have to break this post into two--there are just so many damn signs! Here is the next intersection, which signals De La Salle High School. If I go left here, I will pass directly between the front of the high school and its parking lot. Upon reaching the end of Eastman Avenue, I can choose to go right, along a short upward-sloping ramp that delivers me onto the westward-bound side of the Hennepin Bridge, or bearing left, I would find myself on E. Island Avenue. Today, however, I do neither, but instead go straight, for on my right stands the most noteworthy sign on the island, which nobody can possibly overlook.

That's right, it's the Grain Belt Beer sign, which greets everyone who is traveling, on foot or by car, over the Henepin Bridge from downtown Minneapolis. I confess I did not take this picture today, but figured I should include a good full-frontal view, it being Sign Day and all. As I've mentioned before, this is an iconic sign here in the Twin Cities, whose image can be spotted in paintings and photos displayed in many restaurants, bars, shops, and other establishments throughout the Cities.

Today we venture in the footsteps of the person who parked on the sidewalk in yesterday's post, over the hillside and around to the front of the towering sign. As you can see by this sign, there are those who would restrict our freedom--but we will not be thwarted. As I scrabble across the hillside, I notice the second houseboat down at the shore, and think that its deck might make a nice spot from which to shoot a picture of the sign. So I venture a little a bit closer, sliding down in the snow amongst trees and roots, grabbing branches to keep balance. I wonder just whose and which Private Property this sign refers to: the houseboat, or the hillside between the boat and the hulking sign?



As I get closer, I spot a sign in one of the houseboat windows, which suggests that the deck of this boat may not be the optimal location from which to shoot a picture of the Grain Belt Beer sign after all. Regarding the houseboat, my web queries yield the following, posted by one Phyllis Kahn in February, 2011: "One of the houseboats is owned by John Kerwin, the developer who restored the Grove St. Flats on Nicollet Island that jumpstarted the revival of that area. He still owns and lives in one of the units there. Arguing some federal right to riparian owners, he built the docking space and got the city council and then the MPRB to agree. The owner of the other boat has some agreement with John."

I don't know if this boat is the one owned by Kerwin, nor for that matter do I vouch for the accuracy of Kahn's account. In any case, I forgo drawing any nearer the boat and instead scrabble up the hill a bit higher and shoot this picture of the island's most imposing sign, erected around 1940. For years, it flashed the letters in sequence ("G-R-A-I-N B-E-L-T BEER"), and IMHO it is a tragedy that this sign is no longer lit up at night.

It's a shame that the city of Minneapolis doesn't do more to maintain historical legacies such as this sign. Even the Nicollet Island Inn, a prominent establishment on the island and popular tourist destination, seems content to leave several letters of its neon-lit name unlit--can it be too costly or too much trouble to replace a few bulbs? WTF? That is the Inn slouching in the background of this photo featuring the Motorcycle Parking sign. It's also the side sporting the neon sign, although it's pretty inconspicuous in the daytime. I said I would refrain from posting Parking related signs, but included this one because it reminded me of an annual island event called the Blind Lizard Motorcycle Rally. From what I've been able to gather, the Blind Lizards Motorcycle Club was founded in Minneapolis in 1975 and meets exactly one day each year, when its members converge upon Nicollet Island (on Fathers Day). So there's another good reason to look forward to June!

After leaving the Grain Belt Beer sign and crossing underneath the Hennepin Bridge overpass (by the way, that bedroll tucked neatly under the bridge in yesterday's post is still there), I pass the parking lot adjacent to the Nicollet Island Inn, round the curving road which is Merriam Street where it becomes W. Island Avenue, and come to this intersection, which is merely the off ramp from the eastward-bound lanes of the Hennepin Bridge. Wilder Street is not much of a street--it is definitely a literal stone's throw in length. When you drive down this street from the bridge, you are facing the Nicollet Island Pavilion, and also this next sign.

The picture is dark because the sun is behind the subject, so you may wish to click on this to enlarge the commemoration of the 1990 Earth Day Celebration, which I gather must have been quite the shindig to merit a sign so stately and permanent. Behind the sign, you can see the white tent which has been affixed to the Nicollet Island Pavilion building (featured in an earlier post).

Well, I see you yawning, which I presume is a SIGN you are beginning to tire of this day's post. Since I featured the sign about not feeding the local wildlife in a previous post, I will spare you a repeat, and instead leave you with this one, not technically a sign but rather the unauthorized work of a local Banksy who evidently wanted to enhance our appreciation for the majestic stature of Mount Everest.

If you can't make out the words, here is what they are:

LOOK AT DOWNTOWN [clearly visible from this location] … MT. EVEREST FROM BASE CAMP TO SUMMIT IS 15X TALLER THAN THE IDS CENTER! PICTURE THAT! [followed by a picture of Everest]

I leave you to ruminate upon the height of Everest, while I do likewise. For those who were unaware, the IDS Center is the tallest building in the state of Minnesota, upon which you can find more information here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/IDS_Center

Sign Day, featuring the eastern side of the island, will be continued at a later date. Until then, here's a song for you: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UHOdzHoXUeI

Life flows on, in and around us--at times regulated by signs, which we may choose to heed or ignore, at our pleasure or peril.

D.E.S.

1.25.12 Minutiae Looming Large

Slow news day on the island. So today will be a quickie. The scene of today's observations was underneath the overpass (of the Hennepin Bridge), not long after I had set out. This is the overpass on the western side of the island, facing downtown Minneapolis. While passing under, I noticed this bundle which someone had clearly gone to some trouble to store up on top of the stone wall in the picture. It would take some effort to climb up there, although the bundle might also have simply been chucked up. At first, the sight was a bit alarming, and I thought it might have been an actual person, but on closer inspection it appears to be a bedroll, stored by someone I am assuming to have been a homeless person. As some of you may recall from an earlier post, this is not the first time I have come across a bundle stored underneath this overpass--it must be a favorite spot.

What was this person's story? Of what does this bundle consist, why store it here of all places, and will the person be back to retrieve it? It seems to me that it is all too easy to overlook life's minutiae--the small and seemingly insignificant things we pass by each day and often ignore. Part of my life on this island, thus far, has consisted in taking the time to notice and question life's minutiae. Like yesterday's sign cleaner. Like the venerable tree stump and the crimson leaf in the snow of a couple of days hence. Often, it's the minutiae that has the power to add a spark of uniqueness or beauty or excitement to our day, and we may come away wiser, happier, or more appreciative of our lives than we had previously been. I believe this phenomenon has also been called taking the time to smell the roses.

As I turned to go, after photographing the bundle, I noticed something I hadn't noticed before. An SUV was parked behind one of the large stone bridge pillars--on the sidewalk. WTF? This was not a clearly marked city vehicle, so I wondered whose it was and why it was there. I quickly pulled out the camera again and snapped a picture of it. And although I hadn't noticed while taking the picture, you can just make out the figure of a person emerging over the hill in the background. Apparently, my hand was not steady, so the resulting photo is appropriately fuzzy, like all those famous Bigfoot/Yeti snapshots. As I put away the camera and continued on my way, I did notice the person who had come stumbling down off the hill. He was coming from the area from which you can observe the cute little red houseboat where it is moored, just beneath the Grain Belt Beer sign, and I imagine that this was exactly what this person had been doing. A little unusual to pull your vehicle onto the sidewalk to do so, and not sure that I would have (yeah, I would have), but I guess leaving the vehicle in the road would have consituted a hazard for other vehicles (not there there is much traffic along that road in the busiest of times).

Was this person indeed observing the houseboat? Or was he gawking up at the front of the Grain Belt Beer sign? And whatever he was doing, what was his reason for doing it? Just another of life's minutiae, observed while strolling around Nicollet Island this fine morning, prompting me to ask: what minute phenomena, if any, have you noticed lately while going about your life?

Life flows on, in and around us--replete with minutiae which may or may not have something of value to tell us--if we but pause to look and listen; after all, to someone else, we ourselves may constitute merely one of his or her life's countless minutiae to be noticed--or overlooked.

D.E.S.

1.24.12 Clearing Away the Gray

Today was a day
that was thoroughly gray
and there's really not anything
further to say

Nevertheless, I will endeavor to say a few things. You may recall from yesterday's post my mention of an architectural obscenity polluting the air beside the old Pillsbury Flour Mill. The picture I'd snapped of both had somehow vanished yesterday, so today I snapped a new one, in spite of the gloominess permeating the sky and unfurling a shroud of unspeakable dullness over everything.

There, on the left side of the picture, seemingly sprouting from the Central Avenue bridge, is the condo apartment featured in yesterday's post. With all due respect to the architect for all his/her hard work and good intentions, I'm afraid the best thing I can say about this building is that, by contrast, it makes the Pillsbury sign look like an unparalleled triumph of aesthetic brilliance. I find it ironic (dontcha hate that phrase?) that the building provides an observation deck (for the chosen few) from which one may admire various architectural achievements that are attractive and interesting in ways that the observatory itself is not.

On my way back home, walking up the eastern edge of the island, I noticed a man doing something by the bus stop underneath the east side off-ramp of the Hennepin Bridge. There is almost always a bus sitting here at the curb, resting between excursions, a sort of in-between place, a place where, if the driver is a smoker, he or she will be standing outside the bus puffing away. The man, who had emerged from a white Metro Transit vehicle, seemed to be fiddling with the sign. When I drew up beside him, I saw that he was scrubbing the sign that read SHUT ENGINES OFF.

I continued walking, immediately regretting that I had not snapped a picture of him from the back--note to self: be more quick thinking! I was thinking to myself: how dirty can the sign be, that it requires someone come out specially to clean it? I soon came upon another identical sign, which showed me just how dirty it could be. This time I did pull out the camera. As you can see, it is indeed dirty (though I've seen worse), and I assumed that this sign would be next on the cleaner's itinerary. Before I'd gone much further, I heard the truck's engine behind me, and sure enough, there he was, diligently scrubbing the second sign. I wished I'd stopped to interview him about his job.

Next time I encounter someone doing something unusual, I'll try to be more quick thinking, so that I may turn the encounter into something more meaningful and blogworthy. At any rate, my observation of this morning prompted the idea to feature island signs in a future post. There are quite a collection of them, and many are rather interesting.

Life flows on, in and around us--sometimes it must be regulated by signs, and sometimes all a dreary gray day requires is a good scrubbing.

D.E.S.

1.23.12 The Best Laid Plans ...

All right, I'm really irked now. I took quite a few pictures this morning which have somehow disappeared from the camera. The purchase of a new memory chip for this device is long overdue, so I guess I have myself to blame. As a result, I have only two shots to share today. I decided to venture off the island and hike over to the Central Avenue bridge, so as to take some shots of the island from that vantage point. Which I did. And which have now vanished from the camera. Aaarrgghhh!!

Before leaving the island, I had taken a shot of the Pillsbury Flour sign on top of the old Pillsbury Mill, which is in the St. Anthony Main area and right across the street from where I used to work, when Pillsbury maintained a data center there. It was a nice picture of the sign--before it mysteriously vanished!

Anyway, I hiked over to the movie theater on St. Anthony Main, and adjacent to the theater climbed the steep stone spiral staircase (how's that for alliterating!) to the east side of the bridge, then headed out to the midpoint where I snapped some pics of the island's southern tip--now all gone. I then decided it might be nice to get some shots looking south, from the OTHER side of the bridge, on the other side of the traffic that was schussing back and forth across it, so I trudged back to the eastern side of the bridge and crossed over, then went back to the midpoint. Here is the picture I took, in poor visibility, with the snow flying about my head, of the river's southbound journey.

If you click on the picture to enlarge it, and look very closely, you may be able to discern not only the historic Stone Arch Bridge in the foreground but also the 35W bridge farther downriver. The 35W bridge is the one that made national headlines by collapsing on August 1, 2007, and has since been rebuilt. The bridge collapsed during the evening rush hour, killing 13 people and injuring 145. The bridge was (and I assume still is) Minnesota's fifth busiest, carrying 140,000 vehicles daily. I used to drive over it myself all the time prior to the collapse, and still do nowadays.

Here is the second picture I took, of the river currents being churned southward. St. Anthony Falls, just north of the churning cascades in this photo, was the only natural major waterfall on the Upper Mississippi River. The natural falls was replaced by a concrete overflow spillway (also called an "apron") after it partially collapsed in 1869. Later, in the 1950s and 1960s, a series of locks and dams were constructed to extend navigation to points upstream.

Seen from another angle, the concrete apron over St. Anthony Falls is engineered to produce the pronounced hydraulic jump evident in this photo (which I pulled from the Web).

All in all, it's a pretty awesome spectacle, and a juncture of the Mississippi with a rich and interesting history. I headed back to St. Anthony Main, noticing as I did the architectural obscenity, a condo apartment building, which replaced the old Pillsbury Data Center (where I once worked). I noticed the top floor which looked as if it might be an observation deck providing some breathtaking views, so I made a mental note to one day attempt to reach that vantage point. When I descended the staircase back to St. Anthony Main, I realized the condo was just a half block away, so figured why not go check it out now as part of my morning adventure?

The front door inside the condo's foyer was locked and I saw only a well-dressed older gentleman (actually, I now question whether he was a gentleman) standing in the lobby, as though waiting for someone. He wore a black beret, so I figured he was either an artist or a revolutionary. I saw a receptionist sitting behind a counter in the distance. I gestured that I was interested in coming in, to which she responded with a series of hand gestures and oral pantomimes that prompted me to fiddle with the electronic call box in the foyer. She never did answer me on the intercom, but did buzz me in. I told her I was interested in obtaining more information about the condos and the cost of them. She was quick to inform me that they were for purchase and NOT for rent (guess I appeared the renting type), and pointed to some cards on the counter that had a phone number I could call. By this time, I had scuttled the idea of somehow finding my way to the observation deck, and this scuttling was further sealed as I read on the card that the cost of a condo apartment was between $350K and $4M. I guess gaining access to the foyer alone had been a significant triumph of infiltration.

I skulked past Mr. Beret with my tail tucked firmly between my legs, and returned to the cobblestone streets outside where the commoners fought over scraps and eked out a living. It's funny to think that I had worked right where that receptionist (misnomer!) was sitting, before the building had been built. But it's a funny old life, isn't it? I was soon back home on Nicollet Island, with all the beautiful scenery I could ever desire.

Life flows on, in and around us--sometimes taking away that which we have had, other times holding up before us that which we will never have--the moral: remain content with what we do have and manage to keep.

D.E.S.

1.22.12 Eye of the Beholder

As usual, I left the house this morning with no idea what thoughts and observations might accompany me home and comprise the content of the day's blog post. I simply trudged off with eyes and mind and heart open to my surroundings and let them suggest what they would. I didn't have long to wait. Not even a stone's throw from my home, this sturdy fellow reared up to hail me. Normally I breeze right past him, but this morning he caught my eye and compelled my interest, as though he has something to tell me. What I think he said was: "I was here before you were born." To which I could offer no rebuttal. He was surely right. Whether he would still be here after I was gone, however, was another matter. Time would tell.

As I went on my way, I mused upon how the perception of beauty differs from one person to another. You may see beauty in something or someone that I simply cannot see or appreciate. This, I guess, is as it should be. And yet, all too often people are swayed by the opinions of others, siding with them unquestioningly and unhesitatingly, as though their biases and judgments were beyond reproach, as though they had enough brains and taste to speak for us all. I think the world would be a much better place if every person trusted and acted upon his or her own thoughts and instincts only, if we each were brave and confident enough to speak our minds and challenge views with which we do not agree. It's okay to learn from others, even necessary, but there is a difference between thoughtful learning and blind obedience. How did a tree stump ever get me to thinking about such things? Wise old stump.


Why do I see beauty in an old fencepost someone once painted yellow, now dirty and rusted and corroded? I'm not sure I can say, I only know that I do. It has sturdiness and character, like the tree stump. It testifies of someone long ago who cared enough to install and paint it. It has weathered seasons and endured. What was its original purpose, I wonder, and how long has it stood there beside the Mississippi?

Here I am on the other side of the island now, taking note of something else bearing a residuum of yellow paint--part of a fence or other structure, it peers out from underneath a wooden platform that has been built on top of it, as if to say: "Look at me, I'm still here!" Was its coat of yellow paint applied by the same hand that painted the fencepost? My deductive and imaginative faculties say yes.

Standing in the same position, I shift my glance so that it travels past the Merriam Street Bridge toward St. Anthony Main, and there on the hill stands Our Lady of Lourdes, injecting the pale and sickly sky with its long sharp steeple. It may be a dull day, but I see beauty in this image. The angle of the bridge beam, the angle of the building on the right, the church's imposing ascension between both--it is like a prayer tossed up to heaven, not casually but with force and direction and purpose. Other elements contribute to the beauty: the river kneeling at the church's feet, the STOP sign, the American flag blowing in the breeze, the dusting of snow like a sprinkling of powdered sugar, and the wispy tree branches that hang limply above me. They bake and sell meat pies out of that church--an odd factoid I just happen to know (though I've never tasted one).

Here, a shot of ruby red in the snow seizes my eye and demands a photograph. Upon close inspection, it appears to be a leaf, prompting an internal WTF? Everywhere the trees are dormant and their leaves either long gone or dead, yet here is a brilliant red leaf in the snow. It must have been waiting just for me. This instance of beauty alone was worth my walk in the cold.

This picture could and should have been better. The slight fuzziness shows that I hadn't held perfectly still (I must work on that), yet the picture still reflects the crystalline and slightly cakey texture of the snow, while also showing the contrast between this brilliant leaf and the other forms of flora--brown and withered--which haven't fared so well. I title this picture: Snow White & Rose Red.

My next aha moment comes as I am crossing the railroad tracks: the image of a rail and a spike arrests my eye. The spike protrudes farther than it should, as if it has awakened and poked its head out of the snow to check on the rail, to ensure it is doing its job. The rail imparts a sense of movement to the shot, while the spike represents a state of permanence. The spike says stay, the rail says go.

I wish this shot had come out brighter because it doesn't quite convey the neon green brilliance of this post someone has stuck in the ground and spray-painted. To the unschooled eye (i.e., non-Minnesota resident), this post in the ground may appear to have no purpose. Actually, I suspect it is intended as a marker for indicating the parameters of the path where it stands, which leads to my home. You see, it may be difficult to judge where the path lies when covered by a three or four foot deep (or more) blanket of snow. For the same reason, fire hydrants, electrical boxes, generators and the like, are usually equipped with a tall antennalike marker, so that they may be located when buried.

A few steps farther and my attention was captured by this last stubborn leaf clinging for dear life to its moorings. It struck a poetic note to the aesthetic of this lone wanderer, and so I took its image with me. I suspect it will not last the night. Like all things, it will have been here for a time, and then no longer. Things are always on the move, it seems, whether living or not. Even the yellow fencepost and the trees in its midst will one day take their leave. The subject of my final picture is on the move at this very moment. Who and what is he, and where is he now?

I'm no zoologist, and certainly no expert on animal tracks, but they don't look like rabbit tracks to me. Neither do they look like the tracks of a four-footed animal such as a dog or a deer. Two prints close together, separated by a distance of perhaps 12-14 inches. Bigfoot? I wish someone would help me out because it's really puzzling me! Maybe I need to get up and out earlier in the morning, so as to catch these mysterious creatures unawares. Whoever or whatever left the tracks, I thank him (or her) for the pleasant stimulation they provided, a final trace of beauty with which to conclude my morning walk. I wonder if, at this moment, another creature is out there puzzling over my own tracks. Bigfoot indeed!

Life flows on, in and around us--filled with beauty for those with eyes to see it--while it lasts.

D.E.S.