“That’s my Middle West—not the wheat or the prairies or the lost Swede towns, but the thrilling returning trains of my youth, and the street lamps and sleigh bells in the frosty dark and the shadows of holly wreaths thrown by lighted windows on the snow. I am part of that, a little solemn with the feel of those long winters…” (— St. Paul native F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby)
We just got back from a few glorious days’ vacation in Minnesota, with a nice blast of heat to warm up my fog-chilled bones. And it occurs to me that the sharp contrasts among the seasons (opposite San Francisco) are what give Minnesota so much character, and anchor my memories and nostalgia.
I lay supine on the fresh-cut grass in the backyard of our Merriam Park home. The scattered cumulus clouds slowly slide across the mostly sunny day, while a mourning dove’s coo-ah, coo, coo is equally unhurried, and the sheets on the clothesline flap-flop. It’s hot (~80-some°F / ~30°C) but not as hot as yesterday over at Fort Snelling where the sun scorches the long grasses, and the grasshoppers’ long, droning chirps let you know it’s summer if you didn’t notice already. On such days, the sun-warmed sap of the white spruces and white pines emit this sweet ‘n’ spicy, uniquely refreshing resin aroma. Grand Ol’ Days in June. The Golden Smog playing at the Basilica Block Party in July. State Fair in August.
It’s summer in Minnesota.
But then the days and nights grow more brisk. The sky is a solid light grey and the wind whips through the trees. As you inhale, the cool air is mixed with woodsmoke from the first fireplace fires of the season. Honeycrisp apple pies and hearty hotdishes (casserole). And high school football under Friday night lights. Dry oak leaves skitter across the pavement, but the ones in the yard raked into big piles—how wonderfully tannic they smelled.
It’s autumn in Minnesota.
Even when the January temps are cold enough to sting the nostrils, there are those bluesky days that lift the spirits…and give you hope. Shinny (tennis ball, no high-sticking, no checking) with kids aged seven to 17 at Groveland Park’s outdoor ice rink. If we dressed properly—and we typically did—the cold didn’t intimidate us, and it made coming back into the warm house (hygge).
Driving at night in a snowstorm as best described by David Rhodes in Driftless:
The pickup’s headlights did not penetrate very far into the blowing snow, a situation made worse by her inability to suffer the dizzying sight of warp speed interstellar space travel whenever she attempted to use the high beams.
Running slalom gates at icy Buck Hill (we practice at -5°F [windchill not factored] and up) under the lights.
It’s winter in Minnesota.
Spring in Minnesota is used to fighting off winter, which habitually overstays its welcome (another few inches in early April draws groans in unison). Of course we couldn’t wait either: street hockey on Rollerblades® with half-melted snow/ice remnants at the edges, water trickling into the gutters. But everything is a little muddy and dingy until the first real rains, which thaw the earth and let it release what it held all winter…along with the earthworms. And then the first mowed grass and the lilacs sweeten the air, and eventually the air is just warm enough to warrant opening the windows and letting the breeze freshen the house. The black-capped chickadee’s fee-bee—its true spring song—reassures us:
It’s spring in Minnesota.
But the child’s Minnesota and the present one aren’t the same place, much as I’d love to step back into it. The Welsh have a word for the ache of longing for a home you can’t return to: hiraeth. I might still lie back on the fresh-cut grass and hear the mourning dove’s coo; it just wouldn’t be the same grass, the same dove…much less the same me (as Alice would point out). As Derek Sivers puts it, geography is four-dimensional: you can only know a place as it was at a time1. Much of the Minnesota I love is stamped with a when I can only reach through faded memories.
— ᴘ. ᴍ. ʙ.