Deep blue Minnesota skies mark today's walk through the Hiawatha Avenue's grain elevator district. The crunching sound my boots make in the snow is a telltale sign of the artic temps that have gripped Minneapolis lately. But my spirits are warmed this morning by the sun and the prospect of an urban hike.
Grain elevators make my day. I enjoy the visual rhythm of their rounded forms jutting into the sky. Silos pregnant with harvest form a ridgeline of old economy stretching from downtown along the Mississippi to nearly the airport.
Suddenly and silently, four military jets flying in formation far overhead appear from the southeast. Their presence reminds us of the world beyond our own, as vapor trails scribe precise paths across the winter sky.
Minneapolis is not shy about claiming Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's lyrical characters, Hiawatha and Minnehaha, the mythic figures portrayed in "The Song of Hiawatha." Minnehaha Park, Minnehaha Creek; Hiawatha, Minnehaha, and Longfellow Avenues all owe their namesakes to a poet describing a place he never visited.
Minnehaha this, Hiawatha that. Hundreds of city businesses have named their enterprises after Minnehaha and Hiawatha. Yet the business connection to the mythology and spirit of the Longfellow's poetry remains hidden. Commercialism has adapted the names of Longfellow's characters in name only. The Songs of Hiawatha are long gone down the river. Walk the Hiawatha Corridor and one sees virtually no commercial signage, artwork, or architecture speaking to the imagery of Hiawatha or Minnehaha. Where's Hiawatha? Where's Minnehaha? The answer is more likely to be found in the natural presence of the land than it is in the signs of the times. Mother Earth is undettered by highways that crawl over her belly, by protestors in trees, or by the rumble of trains.
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 snuggles into a crook of Minnehaha's banks. The roar of distant jets at the airport muffles the sound of laughter floating in the air from children ice skating. Swoosh, skate, laugh. Minnehaha.
Yesterday's fortune. A sleek, new Hiawatha Light Rail train appears in my camera's viewfinder as I am photographing the 46th Station. It takes me a few moments to connect the image of the oncoming train on a test run with the sound in my ears. OK. I know that sound. It's a train whistle. And the clanging behind me? Of course, that's the railroad crossing warning on 46th street.
The train car driver, sporting sun glasses and a ball cap hat 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. The car stops. Doors open. "Hey, buddy, can I catch a ride to the airport," is what I should have said. Instead, I stand silent, awestruck like a young boy seeing his first locomotive.
Doors close. The electric car silently slips out of the station.
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.