Beginnings
October 2003. Neighborhood signposts emerge during a fall stroll beneath the canopy of trees north of Lake Street. The
Step out into the Light of Lake Street. Experience the commotion, buses, people and a sense of a community becoming. "Make mine a Cubana, Manny." Many faces, many colors. "En Que Piensas?" Lake Street murals: Lindstrom's, the Americas, South High, and Salvation Army evoke life, legends, and the spirit of the land.
Old Man Winter gives Fall the boot
Dusk stirs swarms of black crows whose silhouettes against the orange ball of a setting Minnesota sun are Escher patterns in motion. Brick buildings on Minnehaha glow with the warm colors of day's end as nearby houses snuggle against grain elevators, as if seeking shelter from the cutting winter wind. The din of machinery inside nearby flour mills experienced over a lifetime numbs a worker's senses even as it seeps into his dreams.
Frozen trails, winter's grip
My boots make a crunching sound in the snow as I wander the railroad tracks behind the flour mills and grain elevators. -14 degrees. Click. Photograph. Walk. A solitary worker atop a grain hopper car strains against an errant hatch.
Minnehaha's "laughing waters" flow beneath the Hiawatha Avenue bridge on a course destined for the Mississippi River and the long journey to the sea. Ha! Minnehaha's frozen serene goes unnoticed overhead where drivers of speeding cars rush to and fro. Nearby, a dale flush with golden winter grasses nestles in a crook of Minnehaha's banks. The laughter of children ice skating floats in the air only to be muffled by the roar of distant jets taking off at the airport. Swoosh, skate, laugh. Minnehaha.
Of gutter balls & bull pens
A man shuffles along Hiawatha Avenue beside the spiffy $675.4 million Light Rail project. Shaggy hair protrudes from underneath a well-worn ball cap. His powder blue cap matches the Minnesota sky. His jeans, soiled with shit, hang low -- poised to fall from his scrawny butt. Where does this man journey? Where are we going as we pass him by?
Two worlds
A young mixed-race couple slogs their way through deep snow between 26th and 28th Streets in a DMZ between the haves and have-nots of Hiawatha Avenue. The man has a large plastic bag full of belongings slung over his shoulder as he cradles a small cardboard box under one arm. The woman, her head bowed, struggles with a heavy suitcase.
Cars zip by. Everyone is going somewhere. I wonder. What destination does the young couple have in mind? What hopes and dreams do they see in the road ahead?
Spring flows
Breathe deep. Exhale. Breathe. Each breath released into the chill becomes a wispy cloud floating ever so lightly above the stream before dissolving into the pale mist. The fullness of the moment warmed by a flush of relaxation pushes away thoughts of city living. Breathe deep. Exhale. Minnehaha's laughing waters flow to the sea.
Change is electric
Shinny electric train cars speed in near silence upon tracks that point to a city seeking a new direction. A Hiawatha Light Rail train on a test run glides into view of my camera's viewfinder. The train car driver, sporting sun glasses and a ball cap pulled down low over his face, is all business as he directs the train into the station, giving me only a slight nod in response to my wave.
Hiawatha Rising
Hiawatha. The round sound of the word's four syllables rolls from the lips with a final flick of the tongue. Hiawatha. The word evokes the spirit of the land where Minnehaha Creek spills into the Mississippi River. Hiawatha songs rise with the mist into the Minnesota sky.
Cantos al pubelo
June 26, 2004. Dance, Quetzalcoatlicue. Bless this day with the spirit from the four winds. A dancer coaxes a deep moaning sound from a conch shell as smoke from a smudge pot drifts in the air. The clang of an approaching train signals the arrival of Hiawatha Light Rail's first passenger train. Thunder clouds roll over a landscape of forest, lakes, and a great river as a city celebrates itself.
Ye who love a nation's legends,
Love the ballads of a people,
That like voices from afar off
Call to us to pause and listen,
Speak in tones so plain and childlike,
Scarcely can the ear distinguish
Whether they are sung or spoken;-
Listen to this Indian Legend,
To this Song of Hiawatha!
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Author's Note
This marks the last dispatch from The Hiawatha Project, a nine-month volunteer effort to explore Hiawatha Avenue's landscape, people, and sense of place. Learn more about the project at http://hiawathaavenue.com