The Prince of Summitt Avenue
I’ve now been to Minneapolis four times. As I write, I’m flying back from a hearing aid training conference. It was easily the best such symposium I’ve ever attended. I met some great people, learned quite a bit. That has happened before, but there was new enlightenment this go round.
As it’s happened, my occasion for visiting Minnesota has always been audiology related. First, there was the American Academy of Audiology national conference in 2006. Between lectures and strolls down the Expo floor at the Convention Center, we were able to explore a city I would’ve never expected to visit. We found bastions of culture on every block. An urban landscape bespotted by the constant discovery of showplaces of great artisanship and/or cuisine. A town filled with the influences of music. Yeah, Prince is from here. I never did make it to First Avenue, the famed hall featured in PURPLE RAIN. I also never made it to the much talked about record shop, The Electric Fetus. But one never has to wander far to find worthwhile haunts in which to become immersed.
My next three journeys were captive. Hearing aid companies like to fly customers (and potential ones) up to their headquarters for weekends of learning and schmoozing, not necessarily in that order. They take care of every last detail, virtually guaranteeing that you will have no opportunity to break away and perhaps find another hidden treasure. Sure, when the talks and software trainings are done they shuttle you to cool places like the Dakota, a really swell jazzland downtown, but where is the back alley wandering? The happy accidents, ones which stay with and become part of you and cause you to beam as you tell your friends and co-workers back home of your experience?
This time, I was quite happy to be whisked away. A carefully planned excursion led us to that other twin city, St. Paul. A place somewhat discussed but never trekked. The sibling I’d yet to see. A Trailways carted 55 weary audiologists to this less popular destination, a place which announces its differences quite rapidly as you motor down 94, past the blue hued glassy structures of downtown Minneapolis.
We had a tour guide. She was merry and knowledgable, pointing out all manner of local folklore. “Didja know that Ma Barker and her brood stayed in this here apartment during the Prohibition days?” she inquired after we parked in front of an unassuming four-story brick building. “And Dillinger was here, too. Ya couldn't call the cops, 'cause they were corrupt, but one day someone tipped off the Feds and there was a really bad shootout right here. Place was shot up, full of holes!” As we made our way she continued and shared other amusing trivia and some surprising statistics. For example, I was not aware that the Mall of America was the number one tourist destination in the U.S. Yep, even more visitors per year than Disney World. Also, the MOA has a wedding chapel. AND, plans are underway to double the current size of the Mall. That's right, when they're done, the MOA will be over eight million square feet! Economy permitting of course.
I was also certainly aware of the sizable Scandanavian population, but was rather intrigued to learn that the second largest population of the state was comprised of Norwegians! Uf dah! Maybe that’s why I feel a certain coziness when I come up here, but we’ll explore that more in a bit.
The St. Paul I got to see was that of a much more Baroque, historical city, even though it is a mere ten years older than Minnepaolis. Quaint homes and business lined our route. One more impressive than the last. Quite surprising as well in this area of plenty was the fact that of those advertsing their favorite candidates, all but one front lawn had Obama signs. Our bus had a big collective laugh as we passed one palace that had a Barack tarp that was so oversized it could probably be seen from Air Force One.
The final destination was a place called the James J. Hill House. After seeing rows of stunning old mansions, many covered with streams of ivy, we arrived at what was surely the crown jewel of Summitt Avenue. A massive three story castle of rugged red sandstone. Thirty-six thousand square feet filled with hand carved woodwork, stained glass, labyrinths of sitting rooms and servants’ quarters. Our tour was conducted by quietly enthusiastic guides who articulately described the erection and daily function of this remarkable house. All the more remarkable as indoor plumbing, electricity, and even central heating (!) was at the Hill family’s disposal, in the late 1800s/early 1900s! Our tour guide also was delighted to share that originally Hill sought and later rejected the eseteemed Tiffany's when he ordered those stained glass windows which overlook the majestic staircase.
It is also important to point out that red wine is never served to visitors to the Hill House. Stains can happen. You can get as much white wine to go with your delectable hors d'ouvres as you wish, however. Additionally, the employees wear white gloves a great deal of the time for posterity and for very practical reasons.
And what of James J. Hill himself? Eventual developer of the Great Northern Railway, Hill began his transportation career at age 17 as a clerk on the St. Paul levee. After two decades in the shipping business, Hill and a team of investors purchased the practically insolvent St. Paul and Pacific Railroad in 1878. After a dramatic reversal of fortune due to the ingenuity and acumen of James, the line was later pushed into Canada to the north and through the Rockies all the way to the Pacific Ocean to the west. This and the success of other business endeavors ensured Hill and his considerable offspring a massive amount of wealth. Nearly one million dollars of it went into the building and furnishing of this great house in which I found myself last Saturday evening.
I marveled at the twenty-four karat gold adorned ceilings. The mahogany and oak woodwork throughout this stately mansion was all original. The basement contained long rooms of steam presses made of brick, of laundry area where the servants once toiled, gloveless, with lye and scalding water over the garments of Mr. Hill and his brood. It was astounding on all counts. Now, I haven't exactly traveled extensively, but I‘d wandered gorgeous palaces before. I ‘d seen the European style government structures of Quebec City, stared open mouthed at Gothic churches in downtown San Francisco, and, in my own backyard, slowly drank in the beauty of the former abode of another turn-of-the-century entrepreneur, Henry Morrison Flagler. What made this experience so special? What distinguished it?
So, yeah, the Hill house was dazzling. As the tour went on, as I listened to each explanation of the far ahead of its time innovations of the domicile, something else snaked through my consciousness. I think it happened as my colleagues/tourmates whispered to and around me in their own astonishment. It was something outside the ancient walls. Far beyond the city limits. Perhaps even over state lines. It was the realization that there was Life beyond the humid soup of Southern Florida. Of course I already knew this. But I needed a reminder. I do every so often. I’m sure you can relate. The machinations of your workdays and responsibilities shrink your world. I’d become alarmingly centric. It happens. Then I found myself in Minnesota, at the Hill mansion and even outside in front of my hotel this morning. The air was crisp and chilly. The folks were friendly, even my fellow South Floridians who may normally act with the same cool diffidence I often exhibit that is the norm back home.
The Hills were apparently quite decent folk, as well, despite their extreme affluence.
The hearing aid event itself was very low key, quite different from the last two I attended, which were characterized by lavishness and alarmingly aggressive sales reps. The folks at this company (which is a relatively small player in the market) also seemed to embody a genuineness, a paradigm that values transperancy and good character. How utterly Midwestern. Since I like to cite films, let me remind you of that scene in David Lynch's THE STRAIGHT STORY. Richard Farnsworth is an elderly gent who travels across a state by John Deere tractor to see his brother. Along the way, he makes a long distance call at a family's house. The next morning, it is discovered that the old man has already moved on, but left a few bucks on the back steps to cover the call. Good old-fashioned decency, I tell ya.
So at the risk of sounding, aw geez, corny, there really is something indescribably wonderful about the Midwest. I felt that way in Chicago when my two of my classmates tied the knot three years ago. I felt the same way when I saw a friend graduate in Kansas City, Missouri back in the 90s. I also fondly remember the serenity I experienced not too many years ago while sampling kringle, a thin pasty at a Norwegian bakery in Racine, Wisconsin. Heck, the way I felt driving through the rolling counytrside there, past all the farmlands. An odd peace, a calm. Words won't do it. If I could put it to music, think Duke Ellington, Nat King Cole. Actually, if I could sum up my feelings of Minnesota and the Midwest, I would just play R.E.M.'s "Find the River", one of the most gorgeous songs ever recorded.
Back in MN this morning, I thought about that large Scandanavian population. Maybe I feel so comfortable here because I was Home. After decades of sweating through a life in the tropics, my Norwegian soul fed on the cold, light air, the grey skies, the somewhat dark feel of the place. I haven’t seen my father in a while, and have had very little contact with my Norge roots in many a year. It was a part of me that was suppressed, that needed to breathe. I thought about something Garrison Keillor once said about the residents of Minnesota, something to the effect of how despair and depression were what they best understood. That’s a part of me, too. A deep, brooding introspection. But in that bleakness there is Hope. A peace that trumps any earthly dampening. But there has always been that mysterious dichotomy within: a reconciliation of the inner melancholiac and the joyous, devoted follower of Christ.
Perhaps I will never live in Minnesota, but I believe it will be necessary to go Home quite often.
As it’s happened, my occasion for visiting Minnesota has always been audiology related. First, there was the American Academy of Audiology national conference in 2006. Between lectures and strolls down the Expo floor at the Convention Center, we were able to explore a city I would’ve never expected to visit. We found bastions of culture on every block. An urban landscape bespotted by the constant discovery of showplaces of great artisanship and/or cuisine. A town filled with the influences of music. Yeah, Prince is from here. I never did make it to First Avenue, the famed hall featured in PURPLE RAIN. I also never made it to the much talked about record shop, The Electric Fetus. But one never has to wander far to find worthwhile haunts in which to become immersed.
My next three journeys were captive. Hearing aid companies like to fly customers (and potential ones) up to their headquarters for weekends of learning and schmoozing, not necessarily in that order. They take care of every last detail, virtually guaranteeing that you will have no opportunity to break away and perhaps find another hidden treasure. Sure, when the talks and software trainings are done they shuttle you to cool places like the Dakota, a really swell jazzland downtown, but where is the back alley wandering? The happy accidents, ones which stay with and become part of you and cause you to beam as you tell your friends and co-workers back home of your experience?
This time, I was quite happy to be whisked away. A carefully planned excursion led us to that other twin city, St. Paul. A place somewhat discussed but never trekked. The sibling I’d yet to see. A Trailways carted 55 weary audiologists to this less popular destination, a place which announces its differences quite rapidly as you motor down 94, past the blue hued glassy structures of downtown Minneapolis.
We had a tour guide. She was merry and knowledgable, pointing out all manner of local folklore. “Didja know that Ma Barker and her brood stayed in this here apartment during the Prohibition days?” she inquired after we parked in front of an unassuming four-story brick building. “And Dillinger was here, too. Ya couldn't call the cops, 'cause they were corrupt, but one day someone tipped off the Feds and there was a really bad shootout right here. Place was shot up, full of holes!” As we made our way she continued and shared other amusing trivia and some surprising statistics. For example, I was not aware that the Mall of America was the number one tourist destination in the U.S. Yep, even more visitors per year than Disney World. Also, the MOA has a wedding chapel. AND, plans are underway to double the current size of the Mall. That's right, when they're done, the MOA will be over eight million square feet! Economy permitting of course.
I was also certainly aware of the sizable Scandanavian population, but was rather intrigued to learn that the second largest population of the state was comprised of Norwegians! Uf dah! Maybe that’s why I feel a certain coziness when I come up here, but we’ll explore that more in a bit.
The St. Paul I got to see was that of a much more Baroque, historical city, even though it is a mere ten years older than Minnepaolis. Quaint homes and business lined our route. One more impressive than the last. Quite surprising as well in this area of plenty was the fact that of those advertsing their favorite candidates, all but one front lawn had Obama signs. Our bus had a big collective laugh as we passed one palace that had a Barack tarp that was so oversized it could probably be seen from Air Force One.
The final destination was a place called the James J. Hill House. After seeing rows of stunning old mansions, many covered with streams of ivy, we arrived at what was surely the crown jewel of Summitt Avenue. A massive three story castle of rugged red sandstone. Thirty-six thousand square feet filled with hand carved woodwork, stained glass, labyrinths of sitting rooms and servants’ quarters. Our tour was conducted by quietly enthusiastic guides who articulately described the erection and daily function of this remarkable house. All the more remarkable as indoor plumbing, electricity, and even central heating (!) was at the Hill family’s disposal, in the late 1800s/early 1900s! Our tour guide also was delighted to share that originally Hill sought and later rejected the eseteemed Tiffany's when he ordered those stained glass windows which overlook the majestic staircase.
It is also important to point out that red wine is never served to visitors to the Hill House. Stains can happen. You can get as much white wine to go with your delectable hors d'ouvres as you wish, however. Additionally, the employees wear white gloves a great deal of the time for posterity and for very practical reasons.
And what of James J. Hill himself? Eventual developer of the Great Northern Railway, Hill began his transportation career at age 17 as a clerk on the St. Paul levee. After two decades in the shipping business, Hill and a team of investors purchased the practically insolvent St. Paul and Pacific Railroad in 1878. After a dramatic reversal of fortune due to the ingenuity and acumen of James, the line was later pushed into Canada to the north and through the Rockies all the way to the Pacific Ocean to the west. This and the success of other business endeavors ensured Hill and his considerable offspring a massive amount of wealth. Nearly one million dollars of it went into the building and furnishing of this great house in which I found myself last Saturday evening.
I marveled at the twenty-four karat gold adorned ceilings. The mahogany and oak woodwork throughout this stately mansion was all original. The basement contained long rooms of steam presses made of brick, of laundry area where the servants once toiled, gloveless, with lye and scalding water over the garments of Mr. Hill and his brood. It was astounding on all counts. Now, I haven't exactly traveled extensively, but I‘d wandered gorgeous palaces before. I ‘d seen the European style government structures of Quebec City, stared open mouthed at Gothic churches in downtown San Francisco, and, in my own backyard, slowly drank in the beauty of the former abode of another turn-of-the-century entrepreneur, Henry Morrison Flagler. What made this experience so special? What distinguished it?
So, yeah, the Hill house was dazzling. As the tour went on, as I listened to each explanation of the far ahead of its time innovations of the domicile, something else snaked through my consciousness. I think it happened as my colleagues/tourmates whispered to and around me in their own astonishment. It was something outside the ancient walls. Far beyond the city limits. Perhaps even over state lines. It was the realization that there was Life beyond the humid soup of Southern Florida. Of course I already knew this. But I needed a reminder. I do every so often. I’m sure you can relate. The machinations of your workdays and responsibilities shrink your world. I’d become alarmingly centric. It happens. Then I found myself in Minnesota, at the Hill mansion and even outside in front of my hotel this morning. The air was crisp and chilly. The folks were friendly, even my fellow South Floridians who may normally act with the same cool diffidence I often exhibit that is the norm back home.
The Hills were apparently quite decent folk, as well, despite their extreme affluence.
The hearing aid event itself was very low key, quite different from the last two I attended, which were characterized by lavishness and alarmingly aggressive sales reps. The folks at this company (which is a relatively small player in the market) also seemed to embody a genuineness, a paradigm that values transperancy and good character. How utterly Midwestern. Since I like to cite films, let me remind you of that scene in David Lynch's THE STRAIGHT STORY. Richard Farnsworth is an elderly gent who travels across a state by John Deere tractor to see his brother. Along the way, he makes a long distance call at a family's house. The next morning, it is discovered that the old man has already moved on, but left a few bucks on the back steps to cover the call. Good old-fashioned decency, I tell ya.
So at the risk of sounding, aw geez, corny, there really is something indescribably wonderful about the Midwest. I felt that way in Chicago when my two of my classmates tied the knot three years ago. I felt the same way when I saw a friend graduate in Kansas City, Missouri back in the 90s. I also fondly remember the serenity I experienced not too many years ago while sampling kringle, a thin pasty at a Norwegian bakery in Racine, Wisconsin. Heck, the way I felt driving through the rolling counytrside there, past all the farmlands. An odd peace, a calm. Words won't do it. If I could put it to music, think Duke Ellington, Nat King Cole. Actually, if I could sum up my feelings of Minnesota and the Midwest, I would just play R.E.M.'s "Find the River", one of the most gorgeous songs ever recorded.
Back in MN this morning, I thought about that large Scandanavian population. Maybe I feel so comfortable here because I was Home. After decades of sweating through a life in the tropics, my Norwegian soul fed on the cold, light air, the grey skies, the somewhat dark feel of the place. I haven’t seen my father in a while, and have had very little contact with my Norge roots in many a year. It was a part of me that was suppressed, that needed to breathe. I thought about something Garrison Keillor once said about the residents of Minnesota, something to the effect of how despair and depression were what they best understood. That’s a part of me, too. A deep, brooding introspection. But in that bleakness there is Hope. A peace that trumps any earthly dampening. But there has always been that mysterious dichotomy within: a reconciliation of the inner melancholiac and the joyous, devoted follower of Christ.
Perhaps I will never live in Minnesota, but I believe it will be necessary to go Home quite often.
Comments
I also never tire of writing Valentines to the Great Midwest.