The true north is Canada, of course. But we like to believe that we’re essentially a northern people. True, that knob on the very crown of our state qualifies as the northernmost point in the lower 48. The legend on the street has long been that a mapmaker zigged when he should have zagged, creating the Northwest Angle before getting his bearings straight and heading off again on the 49th parallel.
That myth is an oddly pleasing one, because it rings with pitch-perfect Minnesota modesty—especially for anyone who’s tried to find a portage in the Boundary Waters substituting map and compass for hard experience. Still, the myth isn’t very likely. The most common explanation as to how we got that little bump on our arrowhead is that anyone on the U.S. side who cared about where to draw the border back in 1783 wanted to include the northwestern-most point of Lake of the Woods, just in case it turned out that the mighty Mississippi River originated there. (The other theory—mundane but most likely of all—is that the cattywampus line was drawn in consideration of commercial fur-trading routes, the only germane travel that was going on in the area, decades before white men laid eyes on Lake Itasca.) The border was fixed for good in 1818, and never seriously challenged, until a few years ago. Back in the summer of 1998, Northwest Anglers were threatening to secede if legislators didn’t work out a thorny fishing-rights dispute with Canada. It just goes to show you that some of the things we hold most dear are subject, like everything else, to change. Borders move in funny directions, and to a Canadian, even Minnesotans are soft-headed southerners.
There was a time when Minnesotans could count on death, taxes, and summer road closures. Despite rumors, the grim reaper and the taxman aren’t taking a vacation this year that we know of. But we have noticed considerably less road work. This is gratifying, until we realize that the taxes we might have paid to sustain Crosstown Commons will now go to replace our prematurely blown struts and shocks. Funny how everything is connected, but the price stays the same.
We’ve enjoyed about all the fireworks we can tolerate on the roads and highways, and now there is no need to drive in any direction other than the nearest supermarket to buy the formerly illegal stash of firecrackers, Roman candles, and bottle rockets that used to be the pleasure of Wisconsin and South Dakota roadside merchants. Yes, we swell with pride when we consider the far-reaching social ramifications of recent legislative sessions.
We supposedly embrace change, at least when it comes to seasons. Summer is upon us, and if we can resist complaining about the heat and the bugs, we might remember the bitter cold that is but a few months behind us. (And ahead of us.) In the north, we have a growing season that would not likely sustain local populations. There would be long nordic faces indeed if we didn’t get sweet corn from Georgia in June and from Iowa in July.
The closer you get to true north, the less self-sufficiency you find. One would think this realization would encourage a sense of global, or at least continental, citizenship. But selfishness—like love and now fireworks—recognizes no borders. Is life in Minnesota becoming meaner? Does it worry you? We come from ethnic stock that hates to ask for help or directions. And if boorishness becomes our lot, we can probably expect a few more bumps on the head before we find our way.
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