Month: March 2005

  • Como & Carter Avenues, St. Paul

    At Como and Carter, next to the St. Anthony Park neighborhood’s library, the remains of an old tree trunk have been carved into a statue of a boy reading a book, an owl perched on his back.

    A few blocks northwest, sightings of a real owl—a great gray with a five-foot wingspan—have delighted the Park’s bookish inhabitants, a mix of professors, creative professionals, and university farm-campus students. Lately, many of them, toting high-powered binoculars and dog-eared copies of Peterson Field Guides: Eastern Birds, have been spotted roaming the Park’s hilly streets, trying to catch a glimpse of the spectacular creature.

    Just outside the corner’s combined Dunn Brothers and Finnish Bistro—where café au lait mingles with sweet, cardamom-rich pulla rolls—a battered wooden kiosk with a shingled roof provides ethnographic clues to the neighborhood. Handmade signs announce organic produce, private piano lessons, preschool French, a statewide rally for public school funding, a lecture—“Circuses: No Fun for Animals”—by a PETA activist, feng shui classes, and a new flower store, claiming, “We deliver love.”

    The good life, even the exceedingly comfortable life, is clearly evident here, but it’s steeped in earnestness and civic-mindedness. And no wonder. The corner’s architectural jewel, its anchor, is the St. Anthony Park branch library, a splendid 1917 Beaux Arts-style Carnegie that stands like a luxury liner on a triangle of lawn, just kitty-corner from the kiosk.

    Inside, banks of windows frame the neighborhood’s trees, and green window seats are offered at each end of the main room. In the children’s section, three primitive watercolor paintings of the library are displayed. All depict the façade’s essentials—the six elegant, arched windows with glistening panes, and the black cast-iron staircase railings. One child has colored the panes a dazzling flame blue, exactly capturing the windows’ inner glow and reflection.

    The past and the future are visible from the library’s front staircase. There is the commodious St. Anthony Park Home for the elderly, built in 1903 by the Children’s Aid Society of Minnesota as an orphanage for children coming west on the orphan trains; Milton Square’s half-timbered buildings, home to the restaurant Muffuletta, apartments for University grad students, and Micawber’s Books, one of St. Paul’s only remaining independent bookstores; the blue awnings of the original Bibelot Shop; and, everywhere, trees.

    Charles Pratt, who helped develop St. Anthony Park in the late 1800s, is largely responsible for the neighborhood’s park-like setting and nature-loving sensibility, insisting that neighborhood lots and blocks be “laid out in accordance with the topography of the ground, due regard being had to the natural beauties of the situation.”

    A quilt displayed in the library’s basement commemorates St. Anthony Park’s 1987 centennial and dutifully honors its trees. A notice reads: “Trees of St. Anthony Park represented in quilting: birch, poplar, hackberry, elm, linden, gingko, mulberry, sugar maple, red maple, red oak, white oak.”—Julie Hessler

  • Paradise Reconsidered

    Even Jon, who sees everything, wasn’t expecting to see the drowned man rolling in the waves. We were sweetly exhausted from sun and saltwater on the first day of our vacation when Jon took me by the elbow. “Look there,” he said. “Is that a person?” Jon’s uncanny tendency to see everything used to stun me. Right in the middle of some urgent conversation about, say, losing his job, he’d grab me and say, with genuine awe, “Look, in the mud. It’s the first crocus!” I’m ashamed of how little those crocuses mattered to me then. It took me a long time to learn to care about the things Jon sees. But this, this couldn’t possibly be what Jon thought.

    We were on Flamenco Beach on Isla Culebra. This tiny island lies eighteen miles off the coast of Puerto Rico and is loved for its undeveloped raw beauty, especially the pristine coral reefs and empty beaches. We and our five kids had arrived by way of a twin-engine plane the size of a Volvo. Later, after we’d survived being buffeted about in the wind between the slopes of two small mountains while more or less nose-diving toward the runway, we learned that Culebra is considered one of the trickiest landings in the Caribbean. But at the time it was more exhilarating than scary. After all, isn’t this why we leave home at all: to jolt ourselves back to our senses, to lose our breath so that we can find it again?

    Our cabin was one of twelve situated on a nature preserve along Tamarindo, one of the island’s most beautiful reefs. We’d been traveling more than twenty-four hours by the time we arrived, and it was all Jon and I could do to navigate the “road” back to town for food and supplies before darkness fell. We soon sank helplessly into the sort of sleep so heavy it cannot be disturbed by children breathing in your face or sudden loud noises or bright lights or even by the damp, tropical chill that creeps into a cabin in the middle of the night. Sleep so deep that you might awake in the blackness before dawn and have no idea where you are.

    That next morning we went to Flamenco Beach, a quintessentially perfect horseshoe of white sugar sand and surreal turquoise water, nestled between rounded mountains. What it lacks in terms of shell-seeking opportunities, it more than makes up for in honest-to-God, paradisiacal loveliness. But the waves were rough that day. Twelve-foot swells had stirred up in the Atlantic, and even normally gentle beaches like Flamenco were seeing strong surf and currents. After a good hour of watery pummeling, we were winded and tired.

    And that’s when Jon saw him. He was a larger man, middle-aged and barrel-chested, wearing a white T-shirt and a snorkel mask. Jon was already running into the water, and I ran the other way, calling to another man for help. Together, they dragged him in and tried their best to save him. Jon’s thirteen-year-old son stood solemnly on the periphery. Clearly, he was seeing the responsibilities of his own future as his father bent over the limp body, struggling to push water out, to push air in, to bring color back, to bring life back.

    A gray-haired woman drifted away from the small crowd, crying. She was the drowned man’s wife, seemingly alone in her terror, so Jon’s sixteen-year-old daughter took her into her arms, and the other children and I sat with her and listened. Alternating between Spanish and English, she told us why her husband may have had a heart attack, why he could not die. “He already had four heart surgeries,” she told us. “He will see his grandson on Saturday! Forty-four years we are married! What will I do without my husband?” She was afraid that her husband was already dead. “Please, send up your prayers to Jesus,” she begged. Finally, the ambulance arrived, and the man, whose color was returning but who would not survive, was lifted onto a stretcher.

    Bystanders tried to hustle the drowned man’s wife into the waiting ambulance. But she could not leave the beach without her shells. She had collected a small pile—white clams and broken bits of conch and sea glass—on the corner of her towel; they scattered when someone had tried to help by gathering her belongings. She dropped to her knees, protesting through her tears, and we all scrambled to pick her tiny seashells out of the sand and press them safely into her hands. Then she hurried onto the path, away from the beach and through the stand of fig trees toward her husband.

  • Dave King

    “I’m not materialistic or anything,” said Dave King, sprawled on his living room shag carpet with his infant daughter. “I’m just interested in being around things people have really labored over.” King, of course, knows well what it means to labor over one’s work. As a songwriter and drummer for Happy Apple, the Bad Plus, Halloween, Alaska, and a heap of side projects, he’s constantly on the road, touring with one of his bands or collaborating with other far-off artists. Collecting art and scouring vintage shops for modernist treasures is a favorite diversion while he’s away. He has a long list of can’t-miss shops in Paris, Chicago, and, of all places, Phoenix, but he’s also a regular at Twin Cities spots like Theater Antiques, Succotash, and Classic Retro at Pilney.

    “Clean lines make for good creative energy,” King said, crossing his arms and surveying his domain, a modestly sized apartment in downtown St. Paul. “When you’re in a room filled with things that people really thought about, it makes you do the same.” In his living room, King gets inspired by a wall-sized drawing by local artist David Paul Schmit. “This one I love ’cause it’s got rockets,” he said. “A lot of mid-century design is concerned with rockets.” Nearby, a Werner Panton moon lamp and a six-foot stainless steel lamp with tiny star-shaped cutouts also play to the celestial theme. King is adept at creating a high/low mix. A Philippe Starck “Eros” chair (the one that looks like a tilted martini glass) is perched in the corner, and hanging from the ceiling is sculpture by King’s four-year-old daughter, created from a water bottle and red string. “This is her trying to be Marcel Duchamp,” he said, giving it an affectionate spin.

    In the bedroom, one focal point is a trio of striking portraits on cardboard. King literally bought them out from under the artist, a Parisian hobo, who had been using them as a mattress. But, as in the living room, the eye is also drawn to the spare yet striking furnishings: a low-lying bed flanked by tubular Philippe Starck side tables and Italian office lamps (King has a special thing for lamps), a custom-made desk with cabriole metal legs, a curvy Eames dining chair.

    It’s clear that King has a strong vision, and, one might think, a lot of money. But he points out that his collection was amassed slowly, over time, and that he and his wife are still saving for a down payment on a house. “We never had that much money, so we just started picking up small things,” he said. “My wife found a few here and there; I picked up others. Luckily we have the same taste. There’d be nothing worse than the love of my life being into La-Z-Boys.”—Christy DeSmith

  • Come One, Come All

    Not too long ago, I worked at a suburban branch of a major weight loss chain. As day jobs go, it wasn’t too bad. We wore our own clothes with understated name tags—no absurd lab coats or ill-fitting logo’ed shirts. The job consisted of light filing and listening to lite rock. As weight loss consultants (Not “nutritionists”! Not “dietitians”! Liability! Danger! Danger!), we got to feel a vicarious thrill from time to time when a client would lose a couple of pounds over the course of a week—not to mention the ecstasy of monitoring our own body weight free of charge.

    Most of our clients were busy professional women looking to lose those last ten pounds’ worth of desk-job/veal-pen pudge. An FBI profiler would categorize them as white, affluent, pleasingly plump. Some were serial snackers, others spree eaters. Our job was to lure them into our strip-mall HQ and make them eat our pre-portioned vegetables.

    The bulk of business for this international company came from women who lost and gained those same ten pounds over and over and over again. It worked like this: Once a client hit her goal, she would graduate to what was known as the “maintenance” phase of the program. The maintenance phase transitioned the client from weekly check-in meetings to a monthly check-in. Over the course of a month, believe me, that number on the scale can sure creep back up. But no matter, you can always go back to your weekly meetings, any time you want. We’re here for you, to support you. Eternally.

    Life at our little strip-mall diet club couldn’t be all smiles and sugar-free chocolate-flavored calcium-fortified chew treats. There were unpleasant tasks, too. One was something referred to as “Reminder Calling.” Between client meetings, we consultants had to call folks who’d missed their weight loss check-in. Welcome to the Hotel Minnesota. You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.

    The list of call-back numbers was very long. In my weeks of experience as a weight loss consultant, I can tell you one thing for sure. People like to talk about losing weight, they like to buy things to help them lose weight, but they don’t really like to lose weight. They like to nap and eat cheesy gorditas. Since I was, on average, at least fifteen pounds heavier than any of my clients, I was a very popular consultant. I made people feel better about themselves. I was the Good Cop. People who would usually have been nervous to step on the scale after a week of binging felt safe to do it in front of me. They knew I wouldn’t pistol-whip them with frozen entrées. Consequently, I had a very low drop-out rate. I rarely had to make the dreaded Reminder Calls.

    Sometimes, though, a manager would take us out of the loop and get all of the consultants to work on the list at once—a blitz of concentrated effort intended to whittle the list down as much as possible. One manager had the she-balls to call this drudgery a “Phone Party!” She’d spring it on us, bombshell-style. She’d practically skip through the beige-carpeted labyrinth of cubicles, singing, “Phone Party! Everyone meet in the conference room for a Phone Party!” The conference room table would be set up with a long line of phones, like a Jerry Lewis telethon. We’d each take a section of the dropout list and call as many people as we could in an hour. That was the “phone” part. The “party” part was a small bag of unsalted soy kernels. You had to bring your own Diet Coke.

    Our manager even tried to muster up a little friendly competition. A consultant would receive a tiny gold star sticker for each client she could get to book a make-up appointment. For a while, this got the phone lines burning. You see, we thought there might be a larger prize at the end of the hour for those with the most gold stickers. A coffee cup bearing a nondenominational inspirational message, or perhaps a sweetly scented votive candle. But no. No one quite knew what to do with these stickers, so each of us found our own way to use them. One memorable co-worker used hers to make glittery pastie-type circles on her sweater. I wore mine like jailhouse tears. The Ace Frehley of calorie coaches. Though I enjoyed my stint in dietary law enforcement, I went back to waiting tables because I’m better at encouraging people to live outside the food pyramid. You don’t get gold stars for bringing an extra bread basket to the table, but you get a more satisfying reward: tips.

  • City Council Smackdown

    This November, Minneapolis’s only African-American City Council members, Natalie Johnson Lee and Don Samuels, will go head to head for the same council seat. Redistricting has yanked Samuels’s troubled Jordan neighborhood out of the Third Ward, the old “Nordeast,” and fused it with the Fifth Ward. The Fifth Ward, meanwhile, lost the Warehouse District and the string of ritzy new housing along the Mississippi to the more affluent and politically connected Seventh Ward. The new Fifth Ward, without a doubt the darkest and poorest part of town, could very likely be the lone African-American seat when the new City Council takes office in January 2006.

    Political insiders say it did not have to come to this. According to several current council members, Samuels, anticipating that his Jordan neighborhood would be “redistricted” into the Fifth Ward, let it be known that he planned to move into the newly reconfigured Third Ward. Samuels himself admits that many politicos, even old-time Nordeaster Walt Dziedzic, retired cop and former Third Ward council member, supported his plans to move out of Jordan.

    Johnson Lee heard the same stories, but wanted to meet with Samuels to make sure his bags were really packed. She claims Samuels kept avoiding a meeting until the day after his campaign literature, announcing his run from the new Fifth Ward, hit the streets. I called Samuels to get his take on what happened (or in this case didn’t). He claimed that he never made any promises to move, but also said he understands why there might have been “some confusion” around the issue. A “big part” of what appears to be a change of heart, he added, is that his wife did not want to move from their “lovely home” in Jordan.

    On the record, their colleagues say that both Samuels and Johnson Lee are thoughtful and capable. Off the record, of course, another story appears. If you apply Woody Allen’s “80 percent of success is showing up” test, Johnson Lee has the edge. She rarely misses meetings and has almost single-handedly kept the departments of Public Health and Civil Rights off life support. On the other hand, Samuels has one of the weakest attendance records on the council, according to several of his fellow members; he also has virtually no substantive accomplishments—unless, as one member suggested, “you give Don points for his vigils.”

    If you apply the Teddy Roosevelt “bully pulpit” test, Samuels beats Johnson Lee hands down. A forceful orator, he is known as “the Preacher” behind council doors (he is, in fact, an ordained Baptist minister). One councilmember told me, “You want Don on your side for the speech. Unfortunately, Don cannot use his impressive life experience as a springboard for making policy.”

    Johnson Lee, meanwhile, has a reputation for being unnecessarily combative at times, and has made some significant enemies, most notably Hizzoner R.T. Rybak. The mayor has made his support for Samuels in the Fifth Ward quite apparent. Unfortunately, that does not carry much weight in the Fifth Ward, especially since Rybak publicly questioned the bona fides of community activist Spike Moss and the Rev. Jerry McAfee, pastor of New Salem Baptist Church and a frequent Rybak critic. Beyond that, there have been whispers in the Fifth Ward that the Jamaican-born Samuels—who once called Moss a “white man in black skin”—does not truly “get” native-born black people and even believes he is a cut above them. Such talk is “totally wrong and divisive,” said Samuels. “I am proud of my Jamaican heritage. But I have been lived in this country since I was twenty. I have been married to two African-American women. Unlike certain black ministers on the North Side, who make their living here but are not invested as residents, I am part of the fabric of the North Side. When you try to be a bridge, people come at you from both sides.”

    Both Samuels and Johnson Lee believe, for different reasons, that the DFL endorsing convention this month will help determine who has the mojo going into the home stretch. Samuels and his supporters believe the DFL endorsement will prove his deep Fifth Ward support. Johnson Lee predicts that the expected absence of many of the usual suspects at the convention—people who will ostensibly back her—will prove that she has “more support from traditional DFLers than I ever did when I beat Jackie Cherryholmes,” the former Fifth Ward council member and City Council president.

    Samuels went on to predict that, no matter what happens in the next few months, the race between him and Johnson Lee will be “acrimonious, nasty and negative.” Based on the barbed comments I have heard in recent weeks, he is probably right.

  • The Lily's Lovely Cousin

    Lilies, for many, are a wonderful way to celebrate spring’s arrival. But I think they stink. Besides sparking memories of funeral homes, they drop that awful rusty pollen that cannot be brushed out of the first linen of the season. It may be their innocent and elegant pose that lands them starring roles in vernal wedding bouquets, but isn’t spring (and a wedding, for that matter) inspired by a stirring of the spirit? Isn’t the awakening of life and passion deserving of a stronger emblem? That’s why I’d like to predict that this year’s stylish bride will walk down the aisle clutching a stout, heady bunch of leeks.

    Leeks have it all over their lily cousins, obviously because they aren’t just a pretty face; they’re edible. Yet they seem to get the short end of the stalk. Why do people so often pass over this noble vegetable while perusing the produce bins? Is it the intimidating shape, the fact that it looks like a scallion on Enzyte (the “once-a-day tablet for natural male enhancement”)? Is it the fear of possible intensity from such a big oniony thing? But now is the time to let the spirit of the season sway you from your normal path. Take a daring step toward this exciting and versatile vegetable. Come, let us honor the leek. Beloved by many ancient civilizations, the leek was favored for its hardy nature and medicinal properties. The Roman emperor Nero, wishing to deliver powerful and sonorous speeches, chewed leeks like cigars to improve his voice. The Egyptians made sure their loved ones were entombed with a supply of leeks for the afterlife. Even St. Patrick was said to have divinely changed marsh reeds into leeks in order to feed a starving elderly woman.

    No one, however, has a stronger passion for leeks than the Welsh. In 640 A.D., the Saxons raided Wales. Fighting for their lives and their country, the Welsh wore leeks on their helmets to distinguish themselves from their foes. Henceforth, the leek became their national emblem. On St. David’s Day (March 1), which celebrates that victory, nary a Welshman is to be seen without a leek adorning his lapel. Needless to say, the Welsh have taken the standardization of leeks by the European Union as an insult. After the E.U.’s Welsh representative bristled over what he deemed as absurdities concerning diameter rules and other regulations, an opponent responded, “Isn’t it a shame that, with all the opportunities facing Wales at the moment … the only thing the honorable gentleman can rant about today is the sheathing, swelling, and length of his leek?”

    Partly because it has been cultivated in the Old World for more than three thousand years, the leek has a much mightier following in European countries than in America. Yet many on our side of the Atlantic have a devotion for the wild leek, also known as the ramp, that approaches the Welsh’s leek fixation. Foraging for ramps, which can be found growing in clumps in sandy soil from Canada to the Carolinas and as far west as our own state, is an age-old tradition. Countless festivals and celebrations herald the leafy—and some say, stinky—plants as the first sign of spring in the Appalachians. The telltale way to identify a ramp is to gently crush one of its leaves. If an onion-garlic smell nearly knocks you over, bingo! The Native American Menomini tribe referred to an area where ramps grew profusely near southern Lake Michigan as CicagaWuni or shikako—“skunk place.” The white settlement that took over the area put up an equally stinky city called Chicago.

    Any food that has a short growing season and is hard to find and relatively unknown among the general population will, at some point, find its way into a chef’s heart. Granted, ramps’ flavor alone makes them a worthy choice for many restaurant menus, but it seems that the status of this vegetable has abruptly shifted from hick to hip. It’s hard to bet on their availability, due to weather and the fortitude of gatherers, but check the menus at Heartland in St. Paul or Lucia’s in Minneapolis for the opportunity to savor expertly prepared ramps. If you are so inspired as to have a go at it yourself, search for ramps in the woods near streams in sandy soils, and on hillsides. Urbanites may prefer to do their foraging at Lakewinds or the Wedge Co-op. Look for ramps with a blush of crimson in between their small white tips and leafy greens. And don’t neglect that gorgeous aroma.

    The flavor of leeks is much milder than that of ramps—lighter than an onion, yet with its own earthy zing. They’re available year-round at local markets, but since the city’s farmers’ markets open this month, why not hunt some down there? Look for firmness, with long white necks that flow into flat, tough, blade-like leaves. Also, dirt is good. Farmers who love their leeks will mound soil around them to protect their charming white flesh, so the dirtier ones have been loved more. Look for straight, even stalks—leeks with a bulbous bottom are closer to seed. Trim off any tough outer layers and trim the roots right were they meet the white. Cut the top blades no more than one inch above where the white transitions to green. To remove remaining dirt, soak leeks in water for a few minutes or halve them lengthwise and rinse under water.

    While they are traditionally used in soups and stocks, leeks can certainly support a meal on their own. Slice them raw and add them to a salad, or chop and add to the pan of a roast. They live beautifully in any au gratin or risotto, or in creamed corn. Braised leeks make a wonderful foundation for grilled fish, while a simply halved leek, brushed with olive oil and grilled, will honor any plate. And for many, a potato-leek soup is their first step toward a life with leeks—but I’ve never heard of a case where it’s been the last.

    Potato-Leek Soup
    2 tablespoons butter
    3 cloves garlic, chopped
    2–3 large leeks, halved and sliced
    1 tablespoon fresh lemon thyme
    3 cups chicken stock
    5 large russet potatoes, peeled, cut into chunks
    1⁄2 cup cream
    1⁄2 cup milk
    Salt and pepper to taste

    Melt butter over medium heat in a large stock pot. Trim root ends and top rough greens from leeks. Slice in half lengthwise and rinse under water to remove dirt. Slice each half from the root end in thin half-moons. Sauté chopped garlic in the butter first, then a few minutes later add leeks and thyme. Sauté, stirring occasionally, until leeks are softened and slightly translucent, about five minutes. Add chicken stock and potatoes and increase to high heat. Make sure stock covers potatoes; add more stock or water if necessary. Cook until potatoes are tender. Reduce heat to simmer and gently stir in cream and milk. For a silky soup, purée directly in pot with a hand blender (immersion blender). Properly feeds six people with a loaf of crusty bread.

  • Buffalo Ridge

    I’d read plenty about Buffalo Ridge, the windiest swath of Minnesota, located in the state’s grassy and treeless southwest quadrant, before I ever got there. I’d heard stories of hats blowing off, of windburn, of tumbleweeds that just kept tumbling. People living in the area are said to suffer perpetual bad hair days. But it was one thing to read about the place and quite another to be there. As I stepped out of my car, the February wind attacked viciously, whipping across my face. I was tempted to crawl back inside and duck for cover.

    But I didn’t. I was there to meet a very important person, Dan Juhl, an early pioneer of wind energy, the man who built the first commercial wind farm in Minnesota. A renowned national expert, he runs DanMar & Associates, a company that consults on matters of renewable energy and conservation, especially wind power.

    Shivering, I stepped inside the firm’s cozy office and immediately revealed myself as an out-of-towner. “Gee,” I said, “it sure is windy.”
    The secretary laughed, her hairdo surprisingly unmussed. “Everybody says that. Today isn’t even that windy.”

    At the moment, it turned out, Juhl was busy talking with a group from another blustery plains state, Nebraska. So Juhl’s twenty-six-year-old son, Tyler, offered to show me around. Tyler is tall and athletic, dressed in jeans and a quilted winter jacket. We walked through the shop, stepping over a pair of giant blades on the cement floor, ready to be installed. That job would likely fall to Tyler, who helps set up new wind turbines. “We do more in the summer,” he said. “Last summer I put up a hundred.”

    We got into Tyler’s truck and started driving. Aside from the modest, peaked-roofed building that houses DanMar & Associates, there was not much to see in any direction except endless corn fields and seventeen tall, sleek, wind turbines.

    Dan Juhl’s wind farm, one of several in the Buffalo Ridge area, is located near Woodstock, on the edge of a zone often referred to as “the Saudi Arabia of wind energy.” The wind here blows in all directions, at most times of the day and night, at an average speed of fifteen miles per hour. There are no obstacles—not a single hill, let alone a mountain—to keep it from spinning those propellers. “There’s nothing out here,” said Tyler. “If I didn’t have this job, there’s no way I’d live here.” As it is, he resides about fifteen minutes from the office, in Pipestone, a bit livelier town than Woodstock, perhaps. Tyler wistfully recalled how he almost got to live in the Virgin Islands. His dad was there, experimenting with solar power. And then, bang, just before the family moved out to join him, Hurricane Hugo hit. “Can you imagine?” he asked. “The Virgin Islands.” He looked across the empty frozen fields of Buffalo Ridge and shook his head.

    The winds are better—more forceful and consistent—in North and South Dakota than in Minnesota, the leading wind power producer in the region. But the Dakotas don’t have the wiring and other infrastructure necessary to send power anywhere. The lines that do exist are decades old and were designed to bring small amounts of energy in. New power lines are expensive, about a million dollars per mile.

    Buffalo Ridge has similar infrastructure issues, though not as severe, and hopefully now quite temporary. Xcel Energy—which has been both friend and foe when it comes to wind power—has cleared the legal and bureaucratic hurdles necessary to embark upon a $160 million project that will further hook Buffalo Ridge into the larger power grid and potentially carry an additional 825 megawatts of energy to the Twin Cities (one megawatt can power up to three hundred homes at a time). Currently, Minnesota wind plants are capable of producing just over 595 megawatts at any given moment, so the additional power lines will make a huge difference. Around 2.5 percent of the state’s energy comes from wind power.

    In the meantime, said Tyler, gesturing to a network of power lines overhead, “All these lines are filled to capacity,” like water pipes that can’t handle another drop. When there’s too much wind, the utility companies have to shut down some of the wind parks—there are almost seven hundred turbines in the state. The producers still get paid, since they typically have a contract with the utility company. “But if you’re an environmentalist, you don’t like to see a hundred turbines shut down on a windy day.”

    Tyler drove up to a cluster of turbines, which resembled giant airplane propellers mounted on towers around two hundred feet tall. In an excited gearhead fashion, he began explaining how they work. It’s simple, really: Turbines have sensors that constantly measure the speed and direction of the wind. The entire turbine can rotate depending on where the wind is coming from, and the individual blades also can tilt to maximize efficiency. As the blades spin, a generator harnesses that kinetic energy and converts it to electricity.

    Tyler unlocked one of the towers and we climbed through a narrow entryway. We were inside a skinny, vertical tunnel, a giant’s drinking straw. A ladder leads to the top, where the turbine is mounted. Tyler climbs this ladder whenever repairs are needed. In the winter, he said, “the biggest problem is icing.” Ice on the blades adds a lot of weight and drag, making the turbines slower and noisier than usual. Normally, they make only a soft whirring sound. Ice buildup is also dangerous because the turbines have been known to fling chunks of ice hundreds of feet. A buddy of Tyler’s recently had his truck totaled by a block of ice that flew from a turbine. “It was pretty wicked,” Tyler said. Fortunately, nobody was in the truck at the time.

    Dan Juhl’s office is housed in a small, one-story building heated by a corn-burning stove and powered independently of the local utility company. When he first built on the property, he was told that he’d have to pay $7,500 for a power line. Juhl more or less told the utility company to go to hell. Instead, he wired the place himself, gathering energy from his wind turbines, along with solar panels. The building is entirely self-sufficient, and Juhl hasn’t paid an electric bill in years.

    I asked Tyler how they keep the lights on and the computers running when the wind isn’t blowing. It’s a common question. Xcel spokesman Paul Alderman and others have suggested that the main problem with wind power is that wind is intermittent. “If there’s a demand for electricity and the wind stops blowing,” Alderman said, “we have to fire up other power plants to make up the difference.”

    Tyler explained away those concerns. He said that, at least as far as the DanMar office is concerned, there are a pair of batteries that store extra energy. “We can go three days without sun or wind,” he said, pointing out that such a scenario is quite unlikely, that usually there is one or the other, and often both. Theoretically, the same sort of storage technologies could be used on a larger scale to cover cities during calm days. And, besides, what’s so awful about having to power up an existing nuclear or coal plant once in the while, if we get environmentally friendly energy most of the time?

    Solar energy could be used to pick up some of the slack as well. And though solar panels are currently quite expensive, Juhl expects that the price will drop as the technology catches on. The same happened with wind power. It used to be pricey to produce. The equipment was expensive to build, the machines were primitive and inefficient, and wind power was being utilized on too small a scale to be cost-effective. But now, the cost is comparable to that of producing more traditional forms of energy, like coal.

    Wind power has become such a moneymaker, in fact, that out-of-state companies are moving in and now own about ninety percent of the wind production facilities in Minnesota. Until recently, the biggest holder was Enron, but as that company self-destructed, General Electric bought out all its wind farms, including those on Buffalo Ridge.

    In the early nineties, those companies began paying farmers for the right to build and operate wind turbines scattered about on small sections of their farms—up to two thousand dollars per year per turbine. The farmers, struggling merely to stay alive, were thrilled. Many of them made more per year on these wind deals than they did from their crops. Nobody knew then how profitable wind energy, which big power companies are obligated to purchase, would become. Now many farmers are hoping to finance their own turbines.

    They are a market Dan Juhl hopes to serve. His company is now focused on helping local owners set up personal wind farms. That’s not to say that Juhl isn’t friendly with larger corporations, too. His goal is to promote renewable energy in whatever manner he can, and to ensure that it is widely available as soon as possible, especially as global oil reserves run dry.

    Dan Juhl, a native Minnesotan, got renewable energy fever in the late seventies, after a global oil crisis left people waiting in line for hours to get gas. “I actually started just after Tyler was born,” he told me, in his naturally low-key manner. “It might have been a subconscious thing, just the thought that there has to be something better than this, there has to be a better way than the way we’re doing things.” He worked with others in the industry to design and build some of the first wind turbines. At the time, he says, “They seemed gigantic. By today’s standards, of course, they were very small.”

    He got all the usual flack. People—friends, politicians, potential financial backers—thought he was out of his mind. He said it was that sort of skepticism that doomed North Dakota, for example, which could have been a wind power leader. “For years they pooh-poohed the idea of wind power, because of the politics of the coal companies,” he said. “And now they’re crying.” With Minnesota so far ahead, largely thanks to Juhl, he doesn’t see much chance of North or South Dakota ever catching up. Since Minnesota has the potential to generate seventeen times more power from wind than we would ever likely consume, it’s improbable that major urban areas like the Twin Cities or Chicago would turn to the lagging Dakotas to meet their wind energy needs.

    Of course, Minnesota is far from tapping its full potential. It is, however, making good headway. The state is the third largest wind-power producer in the nation, after California and Texas. “Environmentalists would like to see it all done at once,” said Juhl. “I’m more practical. Do it slowly; make sure it’s done right.”

    Juhl knows what he’s talking about. He’s seen plenty of examples of blocked efforts, screw-ups, and stupidity. During the wind craze of the early 1980s, he briefly lived in California. Wind production at the time cost around thirty-eight cents per kilowatt-hour—more than thirteen times what it costs now, and quite a bit more than it cost then to produce a kilowatt-hour by more traditional means. But the government was trying to be progressive, so it subsidized wind power with huge tax breaks. Unfortunately, the breaks were based on how much an investor spent, rather than how much energy was produced, so building the most efficient systems was not the priority. There were also environmental problems. For example, many turbines were placed along migratory paths, and birds were being chopped to pieces by the machines’ blades.

    In 1986, the investment tax credits program expired, so California investors dropped wind power and moved on to the next fad.
    By that time, Northern States Power Company, now Xcel Energy, was running three tiny turbines in Minnesota, on Buffalo Ridge. The turbines were a fraction of the size of the latest models and could kick out a maximum of only sixty-five kilowatts each (today’s turbines produce about twenty-five times that). NSP also participated in an early government study that pinpointed Buffalo Ridge as Minnesota’s prime spot for wind energy.

    Though NSP showed early interest in wind power, the company ultimately opted to play it safe. “It’s quite easy to throw vast sums of money at high-visibility, high-glitz programs that merely make rates go higher and higher,” a company spokesman told the Star Tribune in 1992. “We don’t want to be leading-edge on some of these, but we don’t want to be left behind, either.”

    Where NSP saw hassle, Dan Juhl saw potential and moved back to Minnesota in the late 1980s. In 1992, he constructed the state’s first commercial wind farm, setting up five turbines outside Marshall. The local city government agreed to buy the energy. The power still cost two to three times what it does today, but, as Juhl explained, “Cost-effective can mean different things. Some people spend thirty thousand dollars on a boat and a motor they use twice a year. Or twenty thousand dollars on a diamond.” Wind power was something Juhl believed in, and unlike NSP, he was confident that it would soon be profitable.

    NSP quickly jumped back into the game, but some would say for the wrong reasons. In 1994, the company used wind power as a bargaining chip in an attempt to convince the Legislature to allow it to store nuclear waste in outdoor casks at its Prairie Island nuclear power plant near Hastings. A contentious, high-profile political battle ensued, the utility company on one side and environmentalists and American Indians living near Prairie Island on the other.

    In the end, the Legislature granted NSP the right to fill up to seventeen casks. But for every cask of waste, NSP would have to donate half a million dollars a year to a renewable energy development fund—meaning that by the time all seventeen were full, the company would be paying $8.5 million per year. On top of that, NSP was required to generate a minimum of 425 megawatts of wind energy at any given time by the end of 2002. The Legislature also said that if by 2002 the Public Utilities Commission, the federal agency that oversees the nation’s power supply, had determined wind power to be a cost-effective source of energy, NSP would have to increase its wind energy capacity by four hundred megawatts by 2012. Finally, NSP officials had to promise never to ask permission to store more nuclear waste—a promise they would break in 2003.

    As far as wind energy was concerned, the deal worked wonders. Minnesota became the national leader in new wind tower installations. As people experimented and learned the finer points, the technology improved, and the cost of producing power declined dramatically. Wind farms proved to be an economic boon to the rural communities that hosted them, creating construction jobs, filling bars and hotels with out-of-town contractors, and even drawing a small trickle of curious onlookers.

    Wind energy’s biggest problem to date is how to transport the power from where it’s produced to where it’s needed. Thanks to shortsightedness or carelessness or even defiance, the necessary wiring wasn’t being constructed along with the towers. “NSP should have known,” said Juhl. “They were putting out these contracts to satisfy the Prairie Island agreement. I’m not sure if they didn’t think it would be as successful or what, but for whatever reason, ten years later they don’t have a way to get the power out of here.” Xcel plans to start construction this year on new power lines out of Buffalo Ridge. This is promising, but the lines should have been built years ago.

    One can’t help feeling the company is a chronic foot-dragger on innovation in the area of renewable energy. For instance, in 1999, when the PUC finally declared wind energy cost-effective, meaning that NSP would have to increase its investment in this energy source, Jim Alders, the company’s manager of regulatory projects, called the decision “a mistake.” Still, activists like Michael Noble, the executive director of Minnesotans for an Energy Efficient Economy, admit the company has made progress—but only because it had to, when the state took the company by the collar. “They keep proving they need to be pushed along step by step,” Noble said. Since wind energy has now become cost-effective, he said he feels as though he’s battling inertia. “Sometimes it seems like it just comes down to old-time utility culture, like, ‘We burn stuff for a living, and what are we going to burn next?’”

    Noble lamented that “Denmark today gets twenty percent of their total energy from wind power. It’s much, much windier here, and wind power is much more cost effective here. But they have public policy that nurtures it along, and we have roadblocks.”

    Juhl is more optimistic, as inventors so often are, as they have to be in order to envision bold solutions. Things could be better, sure. But “Minnesota is doing well,” he told me. “We’re developing our own resources and keeping a lot of those development dollars within the state.”

    And lawmakers may give renewables another boost: In March, two DFL legislators proposed a bill that would require the state to get twenty percent of its energy from renewable sources by 2020.

    Wind power eventually will be a necessity, said Juhl. “More and more utilities are switching to natural gas. Well, the experts say that will run out in twenty to thirty years, and what then?” That, according to Juhl, is when renewable energy will take over.

    “We only have ‘cheap’ energy because we’re not putting the real cost on the table,” he said. “Everybody says coal is so cheap, but you look at the smog, the acid rain, the lung disease, and global climate change—put a value on that. We don’t put that in the electric bill. If we did, if we put the real price of energy on the table, renewable energy would be hands-down the winner.”

  • Soundtrack to Mary

    In the world of relationship “deal breakers,” money matters, drug issues, and infidelity tend to overshadow what I consider to be the real compatibility issues. Starting with a biggie: ultimate control over the thermostat. If, like me, you are a fresh-air fiend and need windows cracked in subzero weather, you’d best pair up with someone of the same body temperature. While he’s running for a sweater in July, are you the type who will eat cereal or takeout rather than light the oven in September? If you’re both under sixty-five and the expression “Are we paying to heat the outdoors?” comes up, it’s best to re-examine things and start planning your escape route. Another deal breaker is footwear. A coworker posed this quandary: What if you were dating Johnny Depp, and he knew how much you loathed hippie accessories, so he got rid of his sandals–would you still dump him? As I see it, if Depp at one time bought Jerusalem cruisers, chances are he tried them on, admired the many useless straps in the shin-height mirror at the Horde Fest shoe tent, and bought ’em. Case closed. He probably also has a hacky sack stashed somewhere, and really, how could I get past that? Breaker number three: Have you ever had a really smart boyfriend who tried to defend the “sexiness” of some celebrity skank ho? When your otherwise enlightened man starts pointing out the long list of “positives” in Tara Reid, question everything you ever thought you knew about him. Other things to consider: Will he watch Project Runway and AmericaÕs Next Top Model with you without irony? Does he pretend to not like one of your cats, but youÕve secretly caught him using the “Does kitty want a treat?” voice when he thought you weren’t in the room? Got a keeper. I guess the upshot of this should be that, despite all of these things, you’re still in love and accepting of who he is. And that’s what real love is. But this isn’t Redbook and I’m far too shallow to say something like that.

    Email Mary at popularcreeps@yahoo.com

  • Travelogue

    Cleveland #6

    After all these years of wishing to be invisible, you’d think I’d feel okay when it finally came to pass. But no, I view my seeming invisibility with the same sort of distress that I had previously viewed attention: the impetus is negative and I am somehow inadequate. So while the ability to move through does have certain perks attached, I feel the lack of notice like a put-down. Used to be that I’d meet a glance and reflexively swipe across my nose—it must be running—cast my own eyes down. Now I look up and into and search and it’s like I haven’t any face at all.

    I thought there’d be some comfort in that.

    I’m not sure when I turned from a Miss to a Ma’am. I dine at a favorite restaurant where they used to call me “Princessa” and now cannot remember me from the day before. I think I’d gone three full days without really talking to anyone at all. This is where I am.

    Where he is, I remember him. He tends bar at the Marriott. The context is consistent, and he has become some frame of reference here, a face I see in Cleveland. This is where I am: A hotel bar in Cleveland. And given what I told you about where I have been, can you imagine how it feels to be remembered?
    Simply recognized. It had been fourteen months. And it doesn’t feel like a parlor trick and it feels like only yesterday and he asks me today about the project from those months ago and yes, it’s still in progress.

    And I wonder if he saw me somewhere else, would he place me? No. He is the bartender I recognize and I am the lady in the bar. And they used to call me Princessa and you used to call me Miss and subtle bold invisible, it doesn’t matter how you see it because there’s one single way that I do.

    Hawaii #1

    He couldn’t quite be mistaken for a beached whale, but surely for something that has crawled out from the sea, or washed up from it. The large, hairy, middle-aged man lies on his back in that spot where the waves have broken and spread upon the shore like down. He curls and wriggles with such innocent joy, a man a dog a child, shoulder and hip heights rising, crashing, arms waving in the air, or flapping in the sand, fleeting angels. His bliss is intoxicating, water, air, and sand. So intoxicating as to heighten my own appreciation of it: of water, of sand, of air.

    This man has become my own memory. He has waited his whole life for this moment. I wait for such a moment as well, when I am so oblivious, when I am dog and whale and water.

    Colorado #3

    My father is not buried in Estes Park, Colorado; he’s buried somewhere in New York. But I had his name carved on the stone beside my mother’s—the body is not relevant. And neither is a marker. I admit it is a memorial to me every bit as much as my father.

    I have come to this grave to spread the ashes of a dog, a dog chosen by my mother and hers for a time, hers and his; then just his, then mine. The dog lived with me for six years, but was never really my own. She was and still is my parents’ dog. Even after she had outlived them.

    The ashes are likely a conglomerate of various sad Minnesota dogs having died a certain day, but I name them for one particular dog as I name a tombstone for my father. None of this is a physical matter.

    Or maybe something is, a physical matter. My stomach churns and my tears, so rare, will not listen, will not stop. “It’s hard to go back,” my friend has warned. “You’re different now. You’ve changed.”

    And it is hard, it’s so hard, harder than I ever imagined. But it’s not because I’ve changed —it’s hard because I haven’t.

    Greater Las Vegas #2

    North Las Vegas is too busy going about its business to feel like Vegas proper. There is no place to gamble except perhaps the cab of some lonely trucker. But should he choose to stay in North Vegas, odds are such a trucker is just seeking a little rest, like I am.

    I can’t quite tell you how the Comfort Inn is just that, or how delivered pizza is just that, too. I can’t quite tell if quiet is the experience of nature, or something quite specifically opposed to it. But I can tell you that I craved it, and can speak here of one craving fulfilled.

    In fact, I slept like a rock.

    Rocks sense this in me the following morning, with them in the desert before sunrise. While I am not quite familiar to these rocks, there is something familiar about me. I sleep as they do. They speak. They say: We sit here as counterbalance. We knew this city was coming. We knew you were coming too, just the same as you did. We see your childhood fire, we see your teenage dam break. We see the secrets you can’t share with any other so you’ve confided in us already.

    I tell the rocks they don’t know so much as they think. I accuse the rocks of jealousy, my mobility, my flesh. I can walk from this place today, and I will. I can move far enough away that the view becomes completely different. I taunt them with the reminder that nothing is written in stone. There is the potential for beauty in every single moment. There is value in a moment, enough for a whole entire life.

    And the stones say to me: What’s a moment to a rock?

    Mexico City #3

    Today is the vacation day of my working vacation. I should have taken it on the front end. I should have detected my own warning signal last night, when I carefully laid out clothes for the two days subsequent, then carefully packed absolutely everything else away. My actions are a physical symptom of homesickness. There are other symptoms too: Clockwatching, Disassociation, Mild Anticipatory Dread. I squander my vacation day in the city.

    Clockwatching: thirty-six hours to departure. Disassociation: failure to take in present magnificence. Mild Anticipatory Dread: I am unmotivated despite great reward for small effort.

    But still I walk around. I walk around and breathe and try to stay involved, though my greatest involvement is not with my setting, but with my own sense of longing. And I wonder, is longing time squandered? I try to engage in the scene, rather than turning it consciously into memory even though I am still there. I mean, still here.

    Today I long, tomorrow I travel. Let me take it all with me, this day and this longing. Let me pack it up like a souvenir.

    I brought you back appreciation.

    Minneapolis #74

    It feels good to be susceptible after all this time being immune. But that doesn’t mean I don’t fight it. Something entered me like a virus, and all the drugs in the world won’t cure this. No, relief requires time.

    There is green grass in my backyard as the year turns over in Minnesota. Even the snow has surrendered. Snow, beloved ally, I should follow your lead. But surrender does not come naturally to me.

    I try sabotage instead.

    I wear a sweater I do not need, this in the hope of being reminded. This in the hope of being alright. But my mind’s a blank when it isn’t racing, and though recently I believed I’d up and left this planet, the universe has shrunken to my city and my room. The scent of Mars is overwhelmed by the weight of a telephone in my hand. The way the surface gave beneath my feet made me faithful then, but now I just wait for a call.

    Relief requires time.

    It’s warm here. My sweater finds a purpose, I walk in the thick dark without a coat. I was hoping for an incident, but the warm, wet air is enough. I pander to my vanity: happy is pretty, unbearable is just that, and I know it.

     

  • Straight Talk

    After a year of observing the construction at Walker Art Center as artistic spectacle–the slow-dancing crane, the scaffolding-as-sculpture, the huge, billowing plastic tarps–we’re as excited as the next guy to finally revisit the museum proper. Of course, the expansion, designed by Herzog & de Meuron, promises to be spectacular in its own right (see The Rakish Angle, page 19), boosting the glamour quotient of an already impressive institution. But we’re also eager to say hello to old friends from the Walker’s permanent collection, and to see a host of new wonders, now that the museum has doubled its gallery space. Richard Flood, the Walker’s deputy director and chief curator, and Philippe Vergne, its senior curator (pictured with Walker colleagues), tell us what we can look forward to.

    THE RAKE: We’ve been hearing a lot of talk about “conversation” when it comes to the Walker expansion. What do you mean by that word?

    Richard Flood: In the [original] Larabee Barnes building, there was no place to talk other than the cafe. Now the museum is modeled on the town square, and it has circulation patterns that end up in lounges, where you can sit and have conversation. There are tables where you can bring your computer, or go through Walker catalogs. There are discreet spaces where you can sit and listen to music that’s been commissioned by the performing arts department. There’s a lot of space for community engagement.

    Philippe Vergne: Also, for the first time, the museum is totally open to the city, so there is a real conversation between the urban landscape and the museum. The other conversation that is happening is that art is conversing with art. Several exhibitions we curated from the permanent collection show a very interesting conversation between works, between artists, and between disciplines.

    THE RAKE: Will people see new parts of the permanent collection?

    RF: Yes. The core of the Barnes galleries is given over to a chronology that begins in the 1950s and covers American abstract expressionism and the wonderful paintings we have from that period. As you proceed through the galleries, you begin to see a larger international dialogue about painting, becoming a conversation that also includes notions about the third dimension. You see paintings literally turning into sculpture as European art is introduced. There’s a gallery called American Standard, where you have a discussion about pop art, but it also shows the power of pop to influence other expressions in art. And then you have a room of 1980s paintings, because we thought it was very interesting to have a moment where you go from everybody’s understanding of postwar painting to where you see that idea being reformatted for a new century.

    THE RAKE: What do you think characterizes the art of the early twenty-first century?

    RF: For me, the early 2000s remind me of the mid-to-late 1980s, when everyone became aware of AIDS, and there was a sense of crisis in art. All of a sudden, drawing became incredibly important. People were working incredibly fast and economically to make their work and get it out. Now we’re back at a moment when you’re seeing drawing becoming dominant again. You’re seeing art that reflects a state of emergency.

    PV: I think when you go through the studios of every young artist, there is a level of consciousness, and flexibility, and a position that their work can make a difference. It’s not unlike the mid-to-late sixties movements that were socially and politically involved. There are questions about our time that are being raised in the work of young artists now. Most visitors are unfamiliar with the work that curators do.

    THE RAKE: What made you pursue curatorial work, as opposed to making art yourselves? Or are you also artists?

    RF: No! Thank God. We’re not distracted by that. For a certain personality, there’s nothing more exciting than looking at art, thinking about art, and attempting to create situations in which the art tells a larger story about the time we live in. Curators look at each work as a messenger of the larger culture, and you can see worlds form around you when working with these individual pieces.

    PV: It’s a profession that has the luxury of being almost self-defined. It’s animated by passion. And also, there are models that many of us look to, like Harald Szeemann, who just passed away. He had been working since the late 1960s and really helped define what “curator” means today.

    RF: He was a giant. He opened up what previously had been a field where curators were essentially specialists, in really limited and defined areas. And he said, “That’s not the point.” He was a generalist, and his exhibitions were visual essays that always had at their center larger issues.

    THE RAKE: What do you two want to be known for as curators?

    RF: For that!

    PV: Exactly.