Thursday, February 7, 2019

We Followed the The Tracks and Came Out in Minneapolis Without Crossing the River.


I start with the end of the autobiographical sketch: There Were Worlds Under Bushes
“ Heading north from the the neighborhood up Snelling avenue the world descended into the ancient stream bed through which ran two railroads and within which gravel pits were large and active throughout my childhood. If we crossed Snelling to the south side, and before the bridge over the first railroad, we left the side walk, we descended into a wild land of bushes and grasses—a neglected place that looked like it should house the hobos we had heard about. We could get lost there in our own world of Tom-Sawyer adventure. Once we extended our adventure west along the railroad tracks toward what we knew might be Minneapolis. But that's another story. “


This is that other story.

One summer day, after descending from Snelling avenue into the wild land of bushes and grasses and arriving at the railroad tracks we decided to wander along the tracks to the west. We had no destination in mind, though we knew Minneapolis was out there somewhere and the tracks seemed to take us in that direction.

I don't recall details of the walk along the tracks. We probably threw rocks, found discarded spikes and such. Eventually, after about 3 miles of walking we found ourselves in a huge railroad yard with numerous tracks and assorted sheds. I don't think I knew then, but I learned later that this was a switching area for the Minnesota Transfer, a company owned collectively by the nine railroads that served the twin cities. That day we would have seen its name on switch engines, sheds and facilities used in the shuttling of cars and cargo among the railroads.

Where the rail yard widened out it was clear we were close again to a major avenue. We wandered off the tracks to University Avenue, the same avenue that marked the south side of our neighborhood. We knew a left turn would take us home, but, despite our mild thirst and hunger, we turned right and then took the obvious “Y” to the left that wandered into the University of Minnesota Campus. I doubt this was my first time in the area; we knew roughly where we were; and we could see ahead an obvious destination for our 4 and half mile walk: a bridge across the river to Minneapolis. We walked to the far side of the bridge to give ourselves a sense of accomplishment. Then we turned to head home—tired and hungry but satisfied. We would walk home along University Avenue home (assuming it to be the shorter way, though a look at a map shows it to be perhaps a bit longer than our journey along the railroad tracks).

As we reached the St. Paul end of the bridge, however, we were thrown into a sudden quandary. Suddenly we were lost! There was a sign at the St. Paul end of the bridge telling us we were in Minneapolis. I'm not sure of its wording. But it clearly told us that we were in Minneapolis. How could that be. Minneapolis was supposed to be on the other side of the river. How could we have gotten there without getting off the bridge on the other side. Jerry and Genie were 2 and 3 years older than I, yet their cluelessness equaled my own.

In an instant we went from feeling total confidence about how to get back home, to profound suspicion that some magic of urban geography had left us without clues as to where we were and how to return to our neighborhood. We knew in our heads that this transformation was ridiculous. But our loss of confidence descended into personal bouts of minor panic. We shared our confusion but hid our sense of panic.

Nevertheless, we ascended as we would have along Washington Avenue through the University. We turned right as we would have onto University Avenue. We started to walk east along this known avenue just as we would have. Yet nothing erased our irrational pangs of fear that we were lost.

And now, it was getting to be evening. We couldn't afford to be lost. It was already likely that we would miss supper with our families and have to eat late, alone. We could accept that. We knew our families would accept that if we were only a little late. Such was expected once in a while from young, wandering boys with no watches nor sense of time. But what if we were more than a little late?

That problem became our solution. We could could talk openly about not wanting to get home too late. A short distance after we turned off Washington Avenue onto University we came to a tower on a hill (a map now tells me this is Prospect Park). I remember that as we arrived there we decided we should call for help--someone to pick us up and get us home in time for supper. I volunteered to call my Dad, figuring he would be home now from work. I was more embarrassed than fearful for calling him. He never seemed upset when one of his kids called without warning from some inconvenient place and asked to be picked up.

Either somebody had a dime on him or we begged one from a passerby. I calledf from a nearby phone booth . Sure enough, Dad was home and he readily agreed to pick us up “by that tower” which he knew well.

The wait was not long. Almost immediately after getting into the car I confessed our confusion of geography. My timing was convenient because, as we passed by the KSTP radio station on our left, Dad could point out that only there, exactly there, did we return to St. Paul.

As an adult I love to relieve people of the common belief that St. Paul and Minneapolis are separated by the Mississippi river. Indeed, for a few miles the river does divide them. But Minneapolis grew up north of St. Paul. Both cities grew across their stretch of the river before they grew into one urban area. Either nobody had bothered to tell me this or I didn't think it important enough to remember. Genie, Jerry, and I had wandered into Minneapolis well before we got to the river—there are no “welcome to Minneapolis” signs along the railroad tracks.

I had to learn this truth from the confusion of wandering with friends along railroad tracks into a never-never land where we could feel both lost and not lost at the same time in the same place. Perhaps I take too much pleasure in telling folks who don't know the Twin Cities well the truth about the Mississippi River's relationship with St. Paul and Minneapolis. I like to think I protect them from suffering the embarrassing confusion I remember suffering. But, in telling them the truth, perhaps I only deny them the wonder of wandering into their own never-never land?


(c) from date of posting, by Bob Komives, Fort Collins

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