The Yards

If you have ever traveled along East River Road, you may recognize some of these images. East River Road "starts" in Coon Rapids and winds it's way through Fridley, eventually transitioning into Marshall Street of Northeast Mpls. I have travelled that road many a times, from a little sprout to my senior year in high school. Most of the time on that road was during my senior year in high school.

My family moved out to Champlin in '94. I decided to finish my last year at Edison, in NE Mpls. The quickest way for me to get from point A to point B was to take West River Road to East River Road. Well, maybe not the quickest, but at that time the safest. I had my grandparent's hand-me-down Mercury Marquis. I would start off in the wee hours of the morn and travel the foggy West River Road. I absolutely loved that time of the morning. There is something mysterious about the fog and early hours.

From the calm quietness of West River Road i would land on the harried East River Road. It was always treacherous in the winter time. Only two lanes in each direction to barely contain the amount of traffic on it. When i hit Fridley, most of the traffic spilled onto the freeway and left me on the last leg of my journey to St. Anthony Pkwy and beyond. It is at this point were we see the industrial side of town.

There is the mysterious FMC building (it's called something else now), the rail yards, the beautiful brick buildings of the Mpls. waterworks, and back to the mysterious fenced in auto wreck yards. Below reveals some of what is seen from behind the scenes of East River Road. The bridge is part of St. Anthony Pkwy.

Nicollet Island

In the last post i gave you a sneak peek of what would be in this post. The picture i had taken was from the train on my way to work. The following pictures are in the order of which i took them. Maybe you'll feel yourself moving forward through the town (maybe).

As the train shoots out from the backyards of NE Mpls. we cross a river. Not just any river, the Mississippi river. Before i know it, we are crossing a street and before i finish blinking, we are crossing the river again. The bridge is of ancient steel, graffitied tastefully on just the lower half of the beams. On the opposite tracks, a brave runner crosses the bridge. We have just crossed Nicollet Island.

Nicollet Island isn't just any island. It's its own community of 144. You can't just BUY a dwelling on the island; you have to practically be willed a dwelling from great aunt gertrude.

Nicollet Island fascinates me in a lot of ways, but more so because i actually have some family history tied to it. On this island, there are two old buildings. One of which is an Inn, and the other is a pavillion that can be rented for weddings and such. The pavillion is were i'm tied to.

My grandfather used to work there (it wasn't a pavillion at that time). My grandmother would sneak out of work early (she was a corporate lady!) and meet my grandpa after work. They would then ride home together.

There is my two sentence history. It's a sweet little story and a brief, yet concrete peek into what life was like for my grandparents.

Stay tuned! I have many more pictures, and apparently i can only post 5 at a time...

It's Been Awhile

It has been awhile. Okay, a really long while since the last time i posted in here. To be honest, i hadn't been terribly inspired to write. I will pause here for a moment to let those who are new to this blog know, i am not a grammar queen. I rarely capitalize my "i"s. If you notice any other errors, that's nice. I'm just forewarning you :).

As the days start to get longer, it seems that there are more things going on around me than i thought! Apparently dark, gray days puts a shroud over my eyes and all i can focus on is the ground i walk on. Probably because i'm old enough now to know that falling on the ground hurts; particularly frozen, ice covered ground. Lately i've been taking courage into hand and holding my head up. It's amazing!

The original intent of this blog was to post about things i saw while working downtown. Lately, i have realized that there is more going on elsewhere too! My morning commute consists of me leaving the house around 6:20-ish am. I travel through the small land of suburbia, hit the open country road, slide through industrial backyards, and land soundly in my urban workhome by 7:30 am.

The industrial backyards is a new thing and only occurs on Mondays and Thursdays, when Jason is at school. It's also new in the fact that there was never the option to take a train. The commuter train finally became a reality and by-george, people are taking to it like jell-o.

Riding the train has been particularly inspiring to me. It has awoken my curiosity and forced me to pull my head up out of the dark gray winter into a new world. Unfortunately it's been too dark to take pictures, until recently that is.

I have acquired an iPhone that has allowed me to carry a camera with me at all times. Something i've always wanted to have with me. I don't like bringing my "everyday" camera for fear of losing it and all the pictures of Jason and Olivia etc. It would break my heart. Even though the iPhone is strictly a point-and-shoot (i know i could buy a fancy attachment for it...but really?), i have found that it has taken me to the roots of photography. Almost to the pin-hole stage.

With that being said, see my next post to learn more about this picture:

The Skyways

I have worked downtown for 4 years and i am STILL fascinated with the skyways. It's interesting that even in the summer the skyways are busy. I think the only exception the skyways aren't that busy is Farmer's Market Day and Fridays.

My first year down here, i used to walk to Target with a co-worker. She insisted on walking outside. Her reasoning was that walking in the skyways was like walking in an enclosed tunnel of germs. That meant in the winter time we definitley walked outside. It wasn't horrible. The icy air woke me up and made me feel a bit more aware and appeciative of my surroundings.

Now i have a tendency to walk to Target on my own and take the skyway. It's my mental/breathing break and allows me to just walk and observe. In other posts i have mentioned my observations and it seems to me that no two are alike. Well, perhaps to a certain degree they are alike in the sense that i am endlessly fascinated by them.

Today was no other exception when it came to my observations. As i walked to Target, i noticed how empty the skyways were. Today there was a huge meeting that meant 90% of the Target population was at the Target Center. It made me realize that if Target moved out of downtown mpls., there really would be a large chunk missing. I can see why it is integral for large companies to stay downtown. The best way to illustrate that point is being downtown on the weekend during the day, particularly Sunday. I found that Sunday (on a non-game day) was the best day to come down and learn to navigate through the one way streets and avenues.

On the way back from Target, i decided to walk outside. In fact, when i was in the store, i kind of mentally whacked my head and thought, "why didn't you walk outside on the way here?". After purchasing nothing in the store and coming away with mental inspiration for my next project, i headed downstairs to the street level.

I pushed my way through the revolving doors. The thought came across my mind that it may be sweaty-hot out and i may regret walking outside. As i broke through to the outside world, a fresh bit of air wafted by with no hint of heat or humidty; nor chill for that matter. The street noise came on instantly like a raido being turned on in a quiet car. I started across the street.

People sitting on the ground and on the planters holding their signs. Oh. Shoot. I guess this is why i don't walk down the street. The guilt of not giving to these people. The guilt of giving to just one of them. The guilt of not looking them in the face. The guilt of not even turning my head to look at their sign. The guilt of wearing a badge for a company that is known for giving, but i personally am not representing that. I move along. I hear the music of someone playing an electric acoustical guitar on an amp.

I cross one street and look down it at the same time. Two men leaning through a car window. Women standing behind in short shorts. Sigh, it's like the old neighborhood and while i want to believe nothing "bad" is happening, the skeptic in me knows it's not good buisness.

I get to the block that my building is on. I see a man and a woman arguing as they sit on a cement bench. Apparently the streets aren't a place to hide your emotions. It almost feels awkward because it's like walking in on friends who are arguing.

In a sense, i'm glad i don't live in a big city because i feel like this would be happening all over. On the other hand, in a big city, it seems everyone is moving too fast and there are too many people to notice the oddities of life.

Rockin' the Lodge

Monday night was a rather interesting night. My mom had called last week and said my grandmother wanted my mom and i to go with her to a widow's dinner. Yup... Go ahead, re-read that sentence. No, there is nothing i need to share. Jason is healthy and alive.

With my grandma, when she asks us to go somewhere, we go somewhere. I remember as a kid my grandmother would drag me to all sorts of social functions. Order of the Eastern Star luncheons, church things etc. I learned how to say "lapel" at the age of 9 and actually know what it meant.

As time went on of course, and i hit junior high etc., i didn't go to those things anymore. Now that my grandma doesn't drive anymore, it seems my mom is slowly getting roped back into my grandmother's social events. It's getting to the point where i'm now going with. I think it's so my mom and i can keep each other company while my grandma "runs off" to chat with everyone. This brings me back to the widows dinner.

We met at my grandma's apartment and went to the Plymouth Lodge in Crystal. We pull into a long and narrow parking lot. The front of the buidling is the enterance to a barber shop. There is one other door but it is not marked. The three of us stood in the parking lot wondering where in the heck the entrance was to the Lodge.

No sooner had our thoughts crossed our lips, a tiny man pulls up in a big car and waves at us. He parks, gets out, tosses his cane to his right hand and scuttles up a ramp. It leads to a blue door. No markings, no nothing. He waves at us, "come on! this way!" As we get closer (slowly) this tiny guy is on his cell phone hollering at someone. "Where are ya? Why dontcha bring a cart up here. I'm here!" No lie, he is shorter than my 5 foot mom.

His hair is coifed like he is a greaser from the Outsiders. He has a thin beard running his jaw line, meeting at his chin. His pants are halfway up his torso. His shirt is a madras pattern with two pockets, both of which are full of something.

He is holding the door for us. We get in and there are three metal doors. All closed. One elevator. The only button, down. The man says, "go ahead, press the button" in between shouts at the person on the phone. I press the button, we board the elevator and down we go...

Now, when we first arrived, there were maybe 5 cars in the lot. It didn't seem like a lot of people were there and i could tell we all had thought that maybe we should just turn around and go home. We were encouraged by the man leading us to the door, and further encouraged when my grandma recognized someone else walking up the ramp. We had a bit of confidence with us on that elevator. As soon as those elevator doors opened, there was instant noise and activity. I was completely surprised.

We no sooner got off the elevator and my grandma is off hugging someone. My mom and i look at each other, shrug, and know our duty is to be the logistics team. My mom prints out each of our names on a name tag. I dutifully put one on my grandma's shirt while she is talking. I grab the dinner tickets and then we scope the situation out.

There are three rows of tables, all varying in degree of length. There is punch and appetizers were out on the table. Welcome to happy hour. My mom and i spy three seats. We take my grandmother's purse, verify the seat is okay with her and then we claim our spots. My mom gets my grandma some punch and a napkin. Then my mom and i sit and chat. My grandma, off talking with everyone.

Jim-the-choir guy is being his usual loud rambuctious self. Telling jokes, sitting whith one arm across the belly and the other holding his chin up. I recognize a few people from when i took my grandma to a friend's birthday party.

As i sat talking with my mom, my mind starts to fall into the routine of being the grandaughter who helped in the kitchen at such events as this. Watching the women work together in the kitchen, setup dinner, and dishing out the food really brought back a flood of memories. It was more of a feeling, a step back in time.

The appetizers were egg salad sandwiches, chips, crackers, and olive/pimento/cream cheese spread. Picture a cookbook from 1970 and you have our appetizer table. I took courage in hand and tried the spread and it was REALLY good. Not a single calorie in it.

We were served salad in a styrofoam bowl. Our dinner was either fried chicken or beef served with green beans, mashed potatoes and gravy (on a styrofoam plate). Each of which were contained in two huge roasters, foil pan, and stockpot. The men helping that evening served the food to the diners. The ladies in the kitchen served the food to the men (a job i used to do).

Afterwards a gentleman stood up. Pants held up by suspenders. His hair is neatly coifed 40's style. A little curl-flip in the front. He said a few gracious words and turned the floor over to the host of the evening. The host, well... he hosted. He was somewhat younger, but was not used to speaking in front of people. He gave out roses to honor the widows in attendance. Took a picture with them etc. There were only a handful of widows. The host was left with half a dozen roses. So... he proceeded to give every lady in the kitchen a rose. There was one left. You got it. I got it. He wants me to stand up and say why i'm there and to find out more about me. Apparently i wasn't as underneath the radar as i thought i was. GREAT...

"I am here tonight with my grandmother, Aldys White. My grandfather Clayton White was a member. He is no longer with us and i'm here tonight to honor my grandmother." Picture taken. Lovely.

The Morning Commute

This morning i boarded the bus on a crisp summer day. I broke down and wore a lightweight jacket. I had been rebelling wearing any jacket to work in the morning when i knew it would be 70 degrees or warmer in the afternoon. I'm lazy and didn't want to carry a jacket on my arm on the way home. But... 49 degree mornings do make it a bit chilly to wait for the bus outside, and i caved in.

When i ride the bus in the morning, i have my general area of seats that i choose from. They are in the back, facing the aisle, conveniently located by the back door. I learned that the bus gets crowded at this particular park and ride. To get off on the first stop can be challenging if you have a person sitting next to you who isn't getting off. I either have to wake them up so i can get out, or make them gather their plethora of useless junk they haul back-and-forth to work everyday, and they have to get up with this mess of stuff (really? do you need a purse, a bag, a lunch bag, and the newspaper completely unfolded?). I do exaggerate, but it pretty much equates to, it's a hassle. Quick and easy is my motto in the morning.

I boarded the bus, and sat in my choice of seat. Pulled out my book and started to read. The bus took off, speeding down 610. I can always tell when we get to 252 without looking up. The bus screeches (again i exaggerate) to a halt, horn beeping. Someone should make a video of this moment. When the bus driver breaks, he waits until the last possible moment to break. This means everyone in their seat uniformly leans toward the front of the bus and then settles back in their original seat. Picture a teenage driver learning to use the break on a car. Nice!

Anywho - the bus makes a few stops for people and then chugs along for a smooth, jerk-free rest-of-the-ride to work. As the bus exited the freeway i glanced up. Sitting across from me is a man writing in a notebook. It was a composer's type of notebook. I think i should know this guy, but i don't recognize him. He has sunglasses on and that just really ruins the chance for me to try and figure out who he is period.

What got me thinking though was the fact that he could write in this notebook while the bus was moving. I would have thought his writing would not be legible after a bumpy bus ride. What could he be writing? There was a typical journal entry date and then a massive paragraph. What was odd was the previous paragraphs were crossed out. What could he be writing? I wanted so desperately to take a peek. But he was sitting across the aisle. I didn't want to stare. I didn't want to get up and look either. One wrong bus bump and i would end up in a precarious spot. Not that i considered doing any of this. I did want to know what he was writing about though.

This wanting to know what he was writing got me to wondering. Was he writing for therapy? I didn't know guys liked writing in journals? Was he a lawyer preparing for court? He had a huge honking class ring on one hand, a gold bracelet, and a wedding band on the other hand, polo shirt, khakis, and loafers... Was he writing because he is a recovering addict? Was he writing a story? Was he writing a play? Maybe it was school work?...

Bus Therapy

I had the rare opportunity to take the morning bus from the end of the block this morning. What made it even rarer, was the fact that i caught the "early" bus. My normal routine before i had Olivia, was that i caught the 6:55 bus in the morning. Cathy would be at the corner, having her morning cigarette. We would talk about the weather and various random things that could be said that early in the morning. The bus would slide up to the curb, we board the bus, pick our separate seats on the bus and read.

Our bus is a neighborhood bus, and the people who board the bus are people in the neighborhood (obviously) and you get to "know" who they are. There were just enough people on the bus to fill the bus, but we each had our own seats.

The 6:55 bus people are typically quiet. This was great when i was pregnant with Olivia as well as getting over a bad previous day. I would sit on the bus, look out the window and gaze at other people's lives as the bus slid on through the neighborhood. Houses silent, no movement outside. The sun peaking out in the summer, pitch black in the winter.

On some occasions, when overtime was allowed or i wanted to get off work early, i would catch the "early" bus at 6:25. I would get to the corner, Cheryl standing out there having her morning cigarette. We would talk about the weather and various random things that could be said that early in the morning and on occasion another lady would be out there (she has since been laid off due to "tough economic times"). The bus would slide up to the curb, we board the bus, pick our separate seats on the bus and read or other's would chat.

With the 6:25 bus, it's predominantly women and a bit more chatty. When Cheryl and i get on, there are already a few ladies chatting about whatever... scrap booking and what-not. They are all in their 40's, mostly have older children.

With this rare opportunity to catch the bus at the end of the block this morning, i was VERY excited to see people from my "old" routine. I mosey up to the corner. Cheryl is there having her morning cigarette. I'm just smiling inside and when i hit the corner, she turns and is surprised. We chat it up real good and the bus slides up to the corner. We get on the bus, we pick our seats, I smile at the people i haven't seen in awhile and Cheryl announces, "look who's back on the bus this morning!". The bus driver is waiting at the corner and Cheryl says, "It's okay, he's not coming. The wife is on the bus today."

The bus pulls away from the corner, i pull out my book, and i look out the window. The bus stops at the very next block, a "new" girl gets on the bus. The bus stops again at the next block and another lady gets on the bus, whom i recognize but i don't know her name. The ladies in front of me cheerfully say good morning to her. She looks at them and tries to say good morning, but you know she's had a rough start to her day already.

At first everyone pauses... is she crabby or sad? The question, "Whatsa matter?" pops up and she states, "don't even get me started." She barley eeks this out because you can tell by now that she is furious, sad, and about to burst into tears. Everyone sits patiently. I still have my book open, but i haven't read a single sentence as of yet. Knowing that i'm not really apart of the conversation, i just look out the window and listen.

Once she has calmed down a little, she says a few short sentences. I can't really make out what the deal is. Something about how she her husband, her kids, work, vacation, and not being ready. The ladies cluck, try to make a few light remarks, that get a laugh out, and then it's back to serious business again. She has been working long hours, there were expectations from whomever that she would watch the grandkids, while on vacation, and something about having everything ready to go for tonight so they could go. Essentially, it's a vacation... but not so much for her.

A few tears eek out but by the time we hit the last stop, she is over it. More ladies board the bus. The clucking begins. "What're they doin' to the church overthere?" There is talk about lay-offs, who retired, who moved to another company etc. At this point i tune out and start to read my book. I lose myself in my book, enjoying the fact that i actually have a seat to myself, and the bus driver actually knows how to drive the bus.

Before i know it, i'm downtown. I'm the first stop on 4th St. and Hennepin. People are getting off the bus, "bye! have a great weekend! have a great vacation! i won't be here on Monday..." I'm a little sad to get off.

I think to myself, as i walk through the Lumber Exchange building towards work, "What would all these ladies do without each other as a support system?" Growing up we had our friends to get us through the bad-hair-days and ugly outfits. But as we get older, have families, work full-time, where do they go? Nobody seems to have time anymore.

Nobody wants to burden each other with their issues, yet nobody wants to go to a therapist (how would you explain that one?). But when the people who know you, see you on a daily basis, see the look on your face and just know... then the clucking begins... and the feeling that you aren't alone/dingy/crazy/crabby/rude/too-something makes it that much better and much more sane. And i think what makes it easy to talk to your fellow bus riders or whomever you don't see at home on a daily basis, is that you can talk about it, it doesn't go anywhere, and you can walk away from it.

I think therapists are getting a run for the money...