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I lived in Minneapolis for a few years, some years ago, and during that time I came to love the town and the quaint Midwestern customs of its citizens. People smiled at you on the street—without asking for money. If you were lost, they gave you directions—without asking for money. They even assisted the elderly across the street; in DC, we use them as decoys for the onrushing traffic.
Minneapolis was especially inspiring for me as a writer:
You could write about the Human Drama of Snow.
Or use Snow as a Metaphor for the Universal Condition.
Or hurt your back shoveling Snow so that you had more Time to Write.
As Shakespeare wrote:
Snow is the Winter of our Discontent.
But during my residence there, the aspect of Minneapolis that I loved most was the chain of lakes inside the city limits. The prevailing theory is that a glacier created the lakes, though this story is less than credible to me since never once during my stay did a mile-high wall of ice come down from Canada.
Two separate paths circumnavigate the lakes of Minneapolis. The Outer Path is for Speeders: bikers, inline skaters, and other mobility enthusiasts. While I admired their balance, dexterity, and tight clothing, I always thought it was odd to be in such a hurry when you are traveling in a circle.
The Inner Path around the lakes is for Footers: joggers, walkers, and plodders like me. The Inner Path often floods during the spring thaw, forcing both Speeders and Footers onto the same ground. This is a recipe for disaster. There’s just no getting around me.
I lived in the top two floors of a Victorian house only two blocks from my favorite of the lakes: Lake of the Isles, known for its urban wildlife. In the winter, around the south side of Lake of the Isles, you could sometimes sight the rare Snow Serpent, a Norse American cousin of the Loch Ness Monster who hibernates in summer and prowls the icy lake in winter. Many a snowman has been devoured by this sly leviathan. In the spring, an armada of Canadian geese invades the lake. Each evening, the royal navy embarks from the lakeshore to their island harbor, a squadron of goslings in regal tow.
Lake of the Isles is also known for, well, isles—two of them near the northwest lakeshore. The island closest to land is very close; I always felt that I could jump across the narrow channel, or in January, slide across. But I never did, because there was a small sign standing akilter near the shore and nearly covered by the tall grasses. The sign read ‘Game Preserve’, in wavering letters that might have been painted by webbed feet.
Of course, in my imagination, Game Preserve referred to some place magical and forbidden, to a Velveteen Rabbit, Puff the Magic Dragon, Chutes and Ladders sanctuary in a clearing hidden deep in the interior of the tiny island. How I wanted to ignore the sign and explore! But I never did.
After I left Minneapolis, the magical island continued to feed my imagination. I could never forget the lake, and the sign, and my urge to break the rules, step onto the island, and discover that forbidden sanctuary just beyond the tree line. So finally I created a character who could.
I wish there had been a bench, there where the path curves and the shore and the island almost touch. I think I might be there still.
This piece was originally published in The Rake Magazine in May, 2008.
