Put down your shopping bags this Thanksgiving weekend and climb aboard the Holly Trolley, a special run of the Como-Harriet Streetcar feature Santa Claus, carolers, hot cider, and plenty of Christmas cheer!
The trolley runs from 1:00 to 4:00 p.m. on Friday (no concession stand this day), Saturday, and Sunday, November 27 to 29 and Saturday and Sunday, December 5 and 6.
The Como-Harriet Streetcar Line, operated by the Minnesota Streetcar Museum, operates three historic Minnesota streetcars. The Holly Trolley, decorated in lovely garlands and wreaths and featuring Santa Claus, leaves from the Linden Hills Station, Queen Avenue South and West 42nd Street, on the west side of Lake Harriet. It’s a charming reminder of the days when Minneapolis and St. Paul had one of the most extensive streetcar systems in the country.
For complete details, including directions and fare information, please visit the Museum online.
Do note that the line runs as weather permits; the Museum has done a great job restoring the cars and tracks to their full glory, but they don’t have the resources to keep them clear of snow and ice the way the proud workers of the Twin City Rapid Transit Company did before 1954.
And I had a dream it blows the autumn through my head
It felt like the first day of school
But I was going to the moon instead
And I walked down the hall
With the notebooks they got for me
My dad led me through the house
My mom drank instant coffee
And I knew that I would crash
But I didn’t want to tell them
There are just some moments when your family makes sense
Dar Williams, “End of the Summer”
School and work start tomorrow; it’s hard not to feel a little melancholy about summer’s end.
From the museum cases at the Foshay Tower: Laurie Anders, star of the Western variety show “The Ken Murray Show,” when she served as the Aquatennial Grand Marshal in 1951; her co-star Bob Gross appears with her. I was intrigued with this picture when I first ran across it in 2004; no names were provided, though the location was obvious. A story came out of it, though not the real story, of course.
This is a great exhibit, with lots of Arndt’s street photography and a little film that shows Arndt at work, both in the field and in the darkroom. A new book of his Minnesota photographs, Home: Tom Arndt’s Minnesota, with an introduction by Garrison Keillor, is out from the University of Minnesota Press.
A happy St. Patrick’s Day to all! If you’re of a more pensive nature than the average pint-hoister, you might want to take a look at another project of mine: I’ve been translating a collection of poems by Michael Davitt from Irish (a.k.a. “Gaelic”) to English. Remember that even though Irish is a strange and parochial language, it is the native tongue of God and His angels, so you might want to learn a little verse in the event that you should show up at the Pearly Gates and need to bluff your way in without benefit of native blarney skills.
Now that we are all dead, no matter.
Snow recedes from the trees,
hulls of hemisphere where the trunks go in,
and we’ve come back to the den where we spent our
children’s lives playing games that were extinct
in foreign languages we’d forgotten how to speak.
All things appear and disappear because of the concurrence of causes and conditions. Nothing ever exists entirely alone; everything is in relation to everything else.
Today is the last full day of the Bush Administration, hardly enough time to start a war on false pretenses; botch the evacuation and recovery of a major city; establish a secret prison; abdicate responsibility for the oversight of financial, environmental, workplace, and consumer safety regulations; or nationalize more sectors of the economy in a perverse socialism for the rich. But that’s no reason not to try!
What could you be thinking at this moment?
How lovely and strange the gangly spines
of trees against a thickening sky
as you drive from the library
humming off-key? Or are you smiling
at an idea met in a book
the way you smiled with your whole body
the first night we talked?
And if it happens that you cannot
go on or turn back
and you find yourself
where you will be at the end,
tell yourself
in that final flowing of cold through your limbs
that you love what you are.
Tell yourself
as it gets cold and gray falls from the air
that you will go on
walking, hearing
the same tune no matter where
you find yourself—
inside the dome of dark
or under the cracking white
of the moon’s gaze in a valley of snow.
Here’s a little break from the Holga rivers series: Jack and Peter at the bar at Merlin’s Rest, our neighborhood pub. This picture was actually taken by my friend Arthur Ruckle (the saxaphonist here) this past winter. And it’s a lovely picture: interesting color, wonderful DOF, and a great subject. (Though I hope I don’t lose my Den Leader’s license for taking my kids to a bar; it’s actually a very family-friendly place, in the tradition of Irish and British pubs, and they’re drinking un-spiked Sprite. I’ve even seen the grandchildren and nieces of certain local politicians, with those politicians, on these very same stools.)
The reason I’m posting this, besides its aesthetic qualities, is the fellow in the background with the baseball cap. Apparently Mr. Ruckle and this gentleman had a disagreement about what one’s expectations of privacy in a public place ought to be, and he threatened to sue the photographer if he ever sees his picture on the Internet. I think it’s unlikely that he’ll ever see his picture on the Internet (and if he does, he’ll have trouble making himself out–wonderful DOF again, he’s just an evocative blur), but I tend to agree with Arthur here: if you’re in a public place (which surely Merlin’s is, being a public house and all), your expectations of privacy ought to be low. If you choose to do your drinking alone, like George Thorogood, then by all means, draw your shades and be shocked if a camera appears.
I’m not quite as aggressive as Mr. Ruckle on this–I tend to ask before shooting, and if someone’s uncomfortable I’ll put the camera away–but if you can’t stand on principal, where can you stand?
Seward Co-op construction site, Franklin Avenue, Minneapolis.
I’m going on autopilot for the rest of August; I’ll be at an undisclosed location in the White Mountains with a stack of books, a canoe, and my Graflex. Maybe I’ll be back…
In the meantime, I’ve got a few pictures of Minneapolis. In September, the Republicans will descend on our fair city, which I find a little odd: we have a reputation for progressive politics (Humphrey, Wellstone, Mondale, Eugene McCarthy). Even our Republican governors (present occupant notwithstanding…) have been of a decidedly liberal bent: one would never mistake Arne Carlson or Wendell Anderson for neo-cons.
But we’re good hosts here in the Twin Cities, and I’m sure the Republicans will be made to feel as welcome as can be. And maybe a little time in the City of Lakes will give them a new perspective on things.
I contend that, in a city of cool neighborhoods, my neighborhood–Longfellow, south of Lake Street and west of Hiawatha–is by far the coolest. And that in a neighborhood of cool blocks, mine is, again, the coolest by far. We’ve got a house band, a guy who makes the most amazing zesty pickles, and a growing herd of kids on bikes. So we look forward to National Night Out, when we have our block party and set up a buffet table in the street and raffle off inflatable swimming pools and generally have a blast. Bikes, buffets, and a band–what could possibly make for a better summer evening?
The other cool thing about our block party this year was that I got to try out my “newest” camera, a British-made Purma Special from around 1937. It takes 127 film, and packs 16 exposures onto a roll that would get you just 8 from the Kodak Autograph; thrifty! But cooler still, it has the most amazing shutter mechanism. There are three speeds–fast (1/450), regular (1/150), and slow (1/25)–that you utilize by turning the camera itself: left side up for slow, cenetered for regular, right side up for fast. There’s a weighted mechanism inside that uses gravity to open the shutter at the chosen speed. The only real drawback is the availability of 127 film: I ordered a couple rolls of Efke 100 from Freestyle, because it’s not sold in stores in my neighborhood (cool though it may be).
A year ago today, we were at the airport in Portland, Maine, dealing with a delayed flight; we arrived in Chicago at around midnight and slogged to a hotel that seemed to be located somewhere in Iowa, based on the length of our shuttle ride. It wasn’t until the next morning, when we were using our hotel-supplied toothbrushes and re-packing our carry-on, that we learned of the 35W bridge collapse.
Since then, the boys have been obsessed with bridges: types of bridges, construction methods of bridges, and why bridges fail. For a couple months they were concerned about the safety of the bridges we take every day, particularly the Lake Street and Ford Avenue bridges over the Mississippi. The 35W bridge was familiar to us–it was the way we would go to get to the Target in Northeast, while the Midway store was closed for remodelling–and its collapse was just too close.
At the end of June, we took the tour of the bridge construction. This was before “the gap” was closed, when you could still see between the spans to the Stone Arch Bridge, St. Anthony Falls, and the skyline beyond–quite an impressive view.
The morning news is packed today with reflections on the bridge collapse, live from the scene; and while I’m sure the punditocracy will have lots to say today about bridges and people and the public trust, I think Mayor Rybak said it best soon after the disaster:
Our city, our state and our nation have not invested as we must in roads, bridges and transit–and our lack of investment has serious consequences. I say this as the Mayor of a city recovering from a tragedy that was not an act of God, but a failure of Man.
Interrupting the Grand Marais series with a shot of the Washburn Water Tower, Minneapolis.
My Flickr associate Ted Sherarts bestowed upon me a bag of Acufine–his university is closing down its black and white lab–so of course I had to start at the Washburn Water Tower for my test roll of Ilford Delta 100. I’m pleased so far with the Acufine–made by the folks who also make Diafine, my workhorse developer for 35mm and 120; the negatives were dense, the developing process was easy, and though I haven’t tried any low-light pictures yet (I’ve got a roll of HP5+ awaiting this test, to see if the Acufine reduces the graininess a bit without losing the push) I could see some evidence of the latitude Acufine gives to a film’s ISO. But enough geek talk; it’s really all about how the pictures turn out, not how they get processed.
The Spoonbridge (of course) at the Minneapolis Sculpture Garden, as seen through the f902 pinhole for about 3 minutes. (Note the ghostly figure in the foreground: you have to stand pretty still for the Graflex to notice you…)
Among the Moabites is up now on Pseudopod. You can read the story at Cherry Bleeds, and find other things I’ve written if you’re so inclined.
The Spoonbridge (of course) at the Minneapolis Sculpture Garden, as seen through the f902 pinhole for about 3 minutes.
Among the Moabites is up now on Pseudopod; I haven’t heard it yet (we’re heading to Grand Marais this morning, so I probably won’t get a chance to listen until this evening), but I’m sure it’s done with the same panache they bring to all their stories. You can read the story at Cherry Bleeds, and find other things I’ve written if you’re so inclined.
We recently took a tour of the 35W bridge construction project over the Mississippi–the boys are future engineers who are fascinated by all things bridge-related. The gap is fast closing between the two spans; here a barge floats some pieces into place with the Stone Arch Bridge and St. Anthony Falls in the background.
The list of our flaws is long; the list of our attributes is relatively short but incredibly powerful. Our experiment holds together despite the odds. Out of many we are miraculously one.
We shall not always plant while others reap
The golden increment of bursting fruit,
Not always countenance, abject and mute,
That lesser men should hold their brothers cheap;
Not everlastingly while others sleep
Shall we beguile their limbs with mellow flute,
Not always bend to some more subtle brute;
We were not made eternally to weep.
The night whose sable breast relieves the stark,
White stars is no less lovely being dark,
And there are buds that cannot bloom at all
In light, but crumple, piteous, and fall;
So in the dark we hide the heart that bleeds,
And wait, and tend our agonizing seeds.
I never knew the earth had so much gold—
The fields run over with it, and this hill
Hoary and old,
Is young with buoyant blooms that flame and thrill.
Here on the table near the window is a vase of peonies
and next to it black binoculars and a money clip,
exactly the kind of thing we now prefer,
objects that sit quietly on a line in lower case,
themselves and nothing more, a wheelbarrow,
an empty mailbox, a razor blade resting in a glass ashtray.
I finally got my 1912 Graflex working, sort of; the shutter blades aren’t lining up on small apertures, so I’ve slapped a cardboard pinhole on in place of the lens for now. With my first few sheets, I greatly overestimated the pinhole’s ability to collect light; by slowing down even more–this shed sat still for me for a minute and a half on a very sunny morning–I managed to coax enough light into the bellows for some hazy images to form.
Not seen in this picture is the lady who walked up to the shed, opened the door, and went inside. She was incredulous when I told her she could walk in front of the camera without risk of appearing on the film, but when I told her that it would be another minute before I closed the shutter she harumphed grumpily and marched across the garden. I was hoping that she’d leave some interesting, blurry trace, but alas, she was moving faster than the slow light I was gathering.
Restore me safe, through weary wanderings toss’d,
To my dear country’s ever-pleasing coast,
As while the spirit in this bosom glows,
To thee, my goddess, I address my vows
Today we woke up to a revolution of snow,
its white flag waving over everything,
the landscape vanished,
not a single mouse to punctuate the blankness,
and beyond these windows
the government buildings smothered,
schools and libraries buried, the post office lost
under the noiseless drift,
the paths of trains softly blocked,
the world fallen under this falling.
who cut the string
that sent the white sheets falling?
Nothing but the long
scissors of the sun
unwraps such thunder. Even
a modest A-frame
in a muffled instant sheds
its wrinkling roofs of snow:
black butterfly below.
As if to make
one more clean break above,
the sky—seconds ago
one continent of cloud—
follows the drift of Spring,
splits and refits like Ming
porcelain. The plate
tectonics alternate:
white and blue, blue and white.
I’m on auto pilot this week, while we visit the Grand Canyon; I’m sure that it will be Spring not just astronomically but meteorologically by the time we get back. Meanwhile, here’s a series from the Dowling Community Garden: it was past the vernal equinox, but that’s hardly a deterrent to Old Man Winter . . .
I’m on auto pilot this week, while we visit the Grand Canyon; I’m sure that it will be Spring not just astronomically but meteorologically by the time we get back. Meanwhile, here’s a series from the Dowling Community Garden: it was past the vernal equinox, but that’s hardly a deterrent to Old Man Winter . . .
I’m on auto pilot this week, while we visit the Grand Canyon; I’m sure that it will be Spring not just astronomically but meteorologically by the time we get back. Meanwhile, here’s a series from the Dowling Community Garden: it was past the vernal equinox, but that’s hardly a deterrent to Old Man Winter . . .
I’m on auto pilot this week, while we visit the Grand Canyon; I’m sure that it will be Spring not just astronomically but meteorologically by the time we get back. Meanwhile, here’s a series from the Dowling Community Garden: it was past the vernal equinox, but that’s hardly a deterrent to Old Man Winter . . .
I’m on auto pilot this week, while we visit the Grand Canyon; I’m sure that it will be Spring not just astronomically but meteorologically by the time we get back. Meanwhile, here’s a series from the Dowling Community Garden: it was past the vernal equinox, but that’s hardly a deterrent to Old Man Winter . . .
Old snows locked under glass
by last night’s ice storm left
curatorial Winter, in
whose hands alone we’d hope
to find the keys,
jangling them in the trees—.
I’m on auto pilot this week, while we visit the Grand Canyon; I’m sure that it will be Spring not just astronomically but meteorologically by the time we get back. Meanwhile, here’s a series from the Dowling Community Garden: it was past the vernal equinox, but that’s hardly a deterrent to Old Man Winter . . .
Washburn Water Tower, Tangletown neighborhood, Minneapolis, MN.
My visit was during the last (I hope . . .) snowfall of the season; I caught a glimpse of airplanes descending over the tower through the clouds, and waited in the snow for more to come; but, alas, the sky was too low–I could hear the engines rumbling, but I couldn’t see the planes.
They say it is waiting for more, the snow
Shrunk up to the shadow-line of walls
In an arctic smouldering, an unclean salt,
And will not go until the frost returns
Sharpening the stars, and the fresh snow falls
Piling its drifts in scallops, furls. I say
Snow has left its own white geometry
To measure out for the eye the way
The land may lie where a too cursory reading
Discovers only dip and incline leading
To incline, dip, and misses the fortuitous
Full variety a hillside spreads for us
I wonder how many old men last winter
Hungry and frightened by namelessness prowled
The Mississippi shore
Lashed blind by the wind, dreaming
Of suicide in the river.
The police remove their cadavers by daybreak
And turn them in somewhere.
Where?
How does the city keep lists of its fathers
Who have no names?
By Nicollet Island I gaze down at the dark water
So beautifully slow.
And I wish my brothers good luck
And a warm grave.
Italiani’s (formerly Lake Street Garage–this pizza gal has weathered several changes at this eatery), East Lake Street, Minneapolis
The 2008 Million Writers Award, Jason Sanford’s Internet answer to the O. Henry Prize and suchlike, is open for nominations. Look at the rules, check out the previous years’ winners, and find something good to nominate; nominations close March 31.
The 2008 Million Writers Award, Jason Sanford’s Internet answer to the O. Henry Prize and suchlike, is open for nominations. Look at the rules, check out the previous years’ winners, and find something good to nominate; nominations close March 31.
El Largo Theater, East Lake Street (now home to the Victory Christian Center).
The 2008 Million Writers Award, Jason Sanford’s Internet answer to the O. Henry Prize and suchlike, is open for nominations. Look at the rules, check out the previous years’ winners, and find something good to nominate; nominations close March 31.
On the side of Italiani’s/Lake Street Garage, East Lake Street.
The 2008 Million Writers Award, Jason Sanford’s Internet answer to the O. Henry Prize and suchlike, is open for nominations. Look at the rules, check out the previous years’ winners, and find something good to nominate; nominations close March 31.
Victory Christian Center, located in the old El Largo Theater building, East Lake Street.
The 2008 Million Writers Award, Jason Sanford’s Internet answer to the O. Henry Prize and suchlike, is open for nominations. Look at the rules, check out the previous years’ winners, and find something good to nominate; nominations close March 31.
Once Phidias stood, with hammer in his hand,
Carving Minerva from the breathing stone,
Tracing with love the winding of a hair,
A single hair upon her head, whereon
A youth of Athens cried, “O Phidias,
Why do you dally on a hidden hair?
When she is lifted to the lofty front
Of the Parthenon, no human eye will see.”
And Phidias thundered on him: “Silence, slave:
Men will not see, but the Immortals will!”
Statue of Minerva, goddess of wisdom, at the Minneapolis Central Library.
The 2008 Million Writers Award, Jason Sanford’s Internet answer to the O. Henry Prize and suchlike, is open for nominations. Look at the rules, check out the previous years’ winners, and find something good to nominate; nominations close March 31.
Brackett Park, Minneapolis–the old rocket slide transformed into art.
The 2008 Million Writers Award, Jason Sanford’s Internet answer to the O. Henry Prize and suchlike, is open for nominations. Look at the rules, check out the previous years’ winners, and find something good to nominate; nominations close March 31.
The 2008 Million Writers Award, Jason Sanford’s Internet answer to the O. Henry Prize and suchlike, is open for nominations. Like the last couple years, this one is being run with open nominations from readers and editors–any reader can submit a nomination for a single story published online in 2007, and editors of online publications can nominate up to three stories. Look at the rules, check out the previous years’ winners, and find something good to nominate; nominations close March 31.
It’s been so cold here lately that I’ve neglected the poor dog’s walking needs, and I’ve also neglected my old box cameras, so last weekend I gave both the mutt and the Sawyer’s Nomad a big outing through the neighborhood. Here’s a bench at Brackett Park, looking forlornly out at the ball field, waiting for spring.
When I worked downtown, about 10 years ago, this was indeed a bank: U.S. Bank, in the historic Farmers & Mechanics Bank, a classical and impressively sober place. Now it’s a restaurant in the new Westin Hotel, and from the skyway, at least, it still looks pretty impressive; I’m glad that the chandeliers and friezes have been maintained, and I liked the look of the open kitchen where the bank tellers used to be. But I was traveling through with my six-year-old assistants, and $9 for an egg salad sandwich was a bit rich for our budget.
The Saarinen (Eilel and Eero) Christ Church Lutheran church, Longfellow neighborhood, on a recent chilly snowy night (the dog and I were on our way to retrieve the car after Kelly had retrieved her recently-repaired bicycle from The Hub).
An interesting e-mail came over the transom today:
It’s my pleasure to invite you to my Father’s 70th Birthday Thanks giving service which is going to take place at Geneva United Methodist Church Geneva, Minnesota,united States on May 30th 2008, please Let us know if your compnay will be available on that day to take the Photography service for us and any other necessary things at the event,And get back to us with your package for like 5 hours, presently am not in the state but it’s my duty to take care of this part that’s why, I have to contacted you myself. Let me know if you can receive your payment with a CHEQUE from my client in the states.
There are a few things that are tip-offs here that something’s not on the up-and-up: the payment by “CHEQUE” (not how it’s spelled in Geneva, MN …), the stilted English, the suggestion that I might be an event photographer (take a look at the blurry Holga pictures and strange night pictures, and tell me if you’d really want me anywhere near your father’s birthday “Thanks giving” party…). But I find this almost touching in its lack of ambition: no crown prince of Swaziland, no royal family of Ghana, no lottery winnings from Spain or Ireland, just some guy at the United Methodist church in a little town near Albert Lea. Have the scam artists given up on their dreams and decided to settle down in Lake Wobegon?
A similar trick is outlined here: Scams on Artists, mnartists.org. The trick usually involves a cashier’s check that turns out to be bad, though after you’ve deposited it into your account, and a portion of that bad check being sent back to the miscreant (I’ll pay you $4,000, you keep $950 and send me the change . . .). And since it plays on the dreams and aspirations of someone with an artistic bent, it’s particularly cruel and nasty. Over at Daily Dickinson I pointed out another scam artist put to shame, this time by Emily Dickinson, or someone rather like her. It’s this sort of stuff that sucks the fun right out of the Internet.
It’s cold here; like, “it will warm up to -1 degree Farenheit” cold; like, your breath doesn’t just fog, it freezes into ice crystals that shatter at your feet. No one around here needs air conditioner service today . . .
The day after Christmas, the boys and I headed out about 10:00 AM for a sledding hill near Minnehaha Creek. We were surprised and delighted to find that we had the hill to ourselves: no dodging people who insist on climbing up the middle of the slope, no waiting in line for the big icy bump, nothing but fresh powder all the way to the bottom.
About a half hour into our sledding, a white truck pulled up and two cameramen from KARE-11 News (they have snazzy blue ski jackets) arrived and started filming the boys in flight. The boys were unphased by the cameras; if anything, they seemed a little annoyed–they were like a couple of surfers looking for the big wave, and didn’t have time to be pestered.
Other sledders arrived, and a few hammed it up for the cameras, but we continued in our serious sledding. We finally broke for lunch at about noon (and scheduled the TiVo to record all the KARE-11 news shows). Our piece played at 4:00 PM (opposite Oprah) and at 5:00 AM; but you can see it here: we benefited from good editing (I especially like the “whoosh” of Peter’s sled going over the jump).
This was a completely unintentional triple (or more?) exposure; the sprocket holes on the film tore, and it took a few frames for things to slide back into place. Still, I like the serendipity of it.
A couple of bits of Christmas cheer in case you’re looking for help getting your spirits in the right mood:
Six funny stories from Kevin Kling: this whole broadcast from MPR is fabulous, but of particular interest today are his story of making a friend at an Uptown bar and how to ask God to ask Jesus to tell Santa that you need a squirrel monkey. And if you need a last-minute gift, grab the book.
Christmas Past: Dick Gordon talks to illustrator and author Tomie DePaola about Tomie’s Christmas adventures, from a 1940s childhood full of magic fireplaces and war-time blackouts to Gregorian chants at a New England monastery to a San Francisco apartment festooned with a dwarf forest. There’s a great book behind this one, too; I picked up the last copy at the East Lake Street library, but no doubt it’s floating around elsewhere . . .
Wainamoinen, old and trusty,
From his couch arose the artist,
From his couch of stone, the blacksmith,
And began his work of forging,
Forging Sun and Moon for Northland.
Kalevala, Rune XLIX, translated by John Martin Crawford
Wainamoinen, old and trusty,
Thought awhile, and well considered,
How to kill the mighty oak-tree,
First created for his pleasure,
How to fell the tree majestic,
How to lop its hundred branches.
Sad the lives of man and hero,
Sad the homes of ocean-dwellers,
If the sun shines not upon them,
If the moonlight does not cheer them
Is there not some mighty hero,
Was there never born a giant,
That can fell the mighty oak-tree,
That can lop its hundred branches?
Kalevala, Rune II, translated by John Martin Crawford
Young and aged talked and wondered,
Well reflected, long debated,
How to live without the moonlight,
Live without the silver sunshine,
In the cold and cheerless Northland,
In the homes of Kalevala.
Long conjectured all the maidens,
Orphans asked the wise for counsel.
Kalevala, Rune XLIX, translated by John Martin Crawford
Come bedecked then to thy chamber,
Thus return to this thy household,
To the greeting of thy kindred,
To the joy of all that know thee,
Flushed thy cheeks as ruddy berries,
Coming as thy father’s sunbeam,
Walking beautiful and queenly,
Far more beautiful than moonlight.
Kalevala, Rune IV, translated by John Martin Crawford
These night pictures pose a few more challenges than usual: the traffic on West River Road isn’t heavy, but sneaking in a longer exposure between headlights takes some luck; the metering is bad guesswork at best; the mirror on the Spotmatic often gets stuck in bulb mode, which means I can’t see anything through the viewfinder; and the dog doesn’t understand why she has to wait 30-90 seconds while I stand behind the tripod and try to keep her from tangling up the shot. And it’s cold. Really cold. Hasn’t been above freezing in Minneapolis since Thanksgiving.
, with an introduction by Garrison Keillor, is out from the University of Minnesota Press.
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