The
Mississippi River gnaws its way through the Twin Cities like a dull knife on
bark. Sediment and ever-changing currents have maligned its banks for
centuries. Yet, much like my fascination with Lake Nokomis, I’ve always
harbored a deep affection for the better sister of ‘the Old Muddy.’
The
river is one of those icons that I can leave for a long time and yet return to
with the same affection and emotions that it draws out of me every time I
return to its sandy banks. The river has been with me my entire life. Just as I
have grown and changed and meandered in different life directions, so too has
this mighty river.
It
played a subtle yet important role during my ‘lost years’ when I found solace, comfort,
and companionship along its ever-changing shoreline. It was, at once, a place
to go to get lost, to engage in worldly conversations, life-changing decisions
and distractions from the reality of the moment.
One
day, a visit to the river might mean a winter hike exploring its rocks and crevices
with a friend, coffee thermos close at hand. The conversation has long since
been forgotten; the cold not so much.
The
next time, it could be offering up my car hood as a solar blanket to keep my
girlfriend warm.
It
was a moment in time for silly things like that.
Other
times, it meant slipping down its rocky embankment for a solitary walk along
its shores.
While
I was working at Twin Cities Public Television, the station produced a
documentary on the river and its special draw to Minnesotans.
It highlighted the river’s long and storied history as a landing spot for fur traders and steamboats. The film chronicled its importance to the commerce and industry that fed both cities, but especially the small hamlet of Saint Paul.
It’s
been labeled the Port of Saint Paul and has long been a harbor for small boats
on Harriett Island.
All through high school, I would hitchhike everywhere I went. One familiar route was down along Sheppard Road; a route that bordered the Mississippi River all the way to downtown Saint Paul. There, along the banks of the old river, sat the shacks, hovels, and homes of generation upon generation of immigrants who worked the river and factories in the city. Those immigrants who collected along its shoreline below the High Bridge finally evolved into St. Paul’s own Little Italy before its demise after the floods of 1965.
Anyplace
along the river was always a great place to go on a date. Not just to make-out
if that was on the agenda but also to wander and wonder and philosophize about
anything under the moon.
The monument was just such a collective spot.
Once
known as Shadow Falls, the monument was erected to honor the soldiers of World
War I. Over the years, its surrounding landscape and accouterments have changed
and evolved with the times but its overlook never fails to impress even the
most familiar of visitors.
When
I was living in near-squalor by the University of Minnesota, I would sometimes
wander down to the riverbank across from downtown Minneapolis with Susan in
hand to look and imagine where we might be in the future.
Susan
and I would map out our lives, talk about our careers respectively in
television and nursing, our dysfunctional families and everything we had in common.
We would wax and wane philosophically about where we might be in ten years.
Those salons of hopeful dreams were exciting, fruitful, and fulfilling for the
moment, even though at least one of us knew, quite unspoken, that our future of
pastel colors and soothing flavors probably wouldn’t include the other person.
Now
fast forward almost fifty years and I’m once again wandering those Mississippi
shores. When Sharon goes to her art class in Norde East Minneapolis, I find
myself, once again, drawn to the river.
The times have changed, old friends come and gone, but the river remains constant. Old and sometimes slow like me, it continues its meandering down toward the gulf of Mexico but leaving behind all those wonderful old memories just piling up along its translucent transparent shores. It speaks to me of youth and inexperience, love, loss, success, failure, and most of all, longevity.
Nothing
remains the same, they say.
Yes,
I reply, but some things never change.
