gopherhockey
01-31-2003, 12:43 PM
The Twin Cities have not only embraced winter, but have conquered it, putting Chicago and other Northern cities to shame
By Nara Schoenberg
Chicago Tribune staff reporter
January 31, 2003
ST. PAUL -- It's midnight on one of the coldest days of the year, in one of the coldest cities in America, and Terry Faith is standing in the middle of a dimly lit public park, applying the business end of a chain saw to a 2-foot block of ice.
The saw growls, the ice wheezes its protest. Faith, his face reddened by 36 hours of almost continuous ice-carving in windchills as low as minus 30, crouches over the emerging face of a dancing bear, barely moving as ice shavings coat his arms and legs.
And then he is upright, arms raised, legs pumping as he runs in a tight circle.
"Ah-ha-ha-ha!" he cries. "Ha-ha-ha!"
A passing security guard shakes his head when asked whether Faith's outburst signals a good ice-carving moment, or a bad one.
"I don't know," the security guard says. "He's been here quite a while."
Of course, every cold-weather city has its seasonal fanatics, its polar bear swimmers, its Terry Faiths. What makes the Twin Cities different is that Faith is by no means alone in his ice-carving marathon, or even terribly unusual.
All around him, amid the twinkling Christmas lights of St. Paul's Rice Park, men with nicknames such as "Ice Man" and "Buzz Saw" are completing their own subzero masterpieces as part of the St. Paul Winter Carnival, which also features car racing on ice, softball on ice and water skiing.
Chicago may be the capital of the Midwest, but the Twin Cities are the capital of cold, with lower temperatures, greater snowfall, more days at or below freezing and a whole-hearted embrace of winter that has children skiing in a half-inch of snow and senior citizens interrupting their saunas for invigorating dips in (ice-covered) lakes.
Overhead, networks of pedestrian "skyway" tunnels -- one 7 miles long -- serve as a reminder that even Minnesotans have their limits.
But within those limits, the local preoccupation with cold weather borders on obsession. Conversation-openers tend to focus on the weather -- "Cold enough for ya?" Humorist Howard Mohr once observed, "In Minnesota the 10 o'clock news is just the window dressing for the 10 o'clock weather." And it appears that no public figure is too high or too mighty to offer a personalized salute to the state's most distinctive season.
In Minneapolis Mayor R.T. Rybak's case, that means rolling around in the snow during a midwinter hot tub party. In his swimsuit.
"We do everything with [winter], except put our tongues onto metal outdoors," Rybak says.
And why stop there?
"I happen to like the upper layer of skin on my tongue."
The origins of Minnesota's unusual winter mind-set are hard to pin down, in part because the average citizen is not exactly a fountain of self-revelation.
Typically, a Minnesotan engaged in a particularly punishing outdoor activity will tell you, "Well, it gets you out of the house." Asked what's so bad about being in the house when the windchill hits minus 30, he or she may stall and attempt to dodge this embarrassingly intimate question.
Or he may go out on limb and say, "You get bored."
Faith, the ice-carver, says he doesn't like winter -- "not even in a minor sense" -- and yet here he is carving ice for 36 hours, with only two hours of sleep during that period. Why?
"I don't even know how to answer a question like that," says Faith, laughing. "I'm a Minnesotan. I think every Minnesotan has a Swedish ancestor somewhere."
Indeed, in interviews with Minnesotans and those who know them best, at least three plausible theories of winter-love emerge, the best known of which draws on the region's Scandinavian roots.
Goes back centuries
The Scandinavian theory, perhaps better known as the Garrison Keillor hypothesis, holds that the late 19th Century immigrants from Norway, Sweden and Finland brought their love of winter and winter sports to Minnesota, where old-country characteristics such as a ferocious work ethic and a certain stoic willingness to endure hardship took root.
The Scandanavians were part of a population surge that helped put the metro area on the map in the 1880s, when it was a major milling and transportation center.
Among the many examples cited by proponents of the Scandinavian theory: The ever-popular sauna accompanied by a dip in the ice-covered lake can be traced back to Finland.
Also popular, although rarely stated directly by Minnesota's markedly polite and self-effacing citizens, is the Survival of the Fittest theory, which holds that those who can't cope, move.
Or, as administrative assistant Debra Johnson, 46, puts it, "If you're here in Minnesota, you'd better enjoy the cold and the snow, or get out."
You'll hear this sentiment expressed indirectly in references to winters that "keep the riff-raff out."
Finally, there's the Climate is Destiny theory, favored by local boosters, which holds, in effect, that the steady dry cold and plentiful sun in the stubbornly separate but deeply intertwined Twin Cities -- nine miles apart with a combined population of 670,000 -- makes winter brighter, more comfortable and more predictable than it might be in theoretically warmer cities such as damp and windswept Chicago. Good weather encourages outdoor activity, which encourages enthusiasm for winter.
All three theories have their limitations and drawbacks. If tolerance for winter is a Scandinavian trait, for instance, why do we see Germans marching in shorts in St. Paul's winter parade in subzero weather? Does climate really weed out winter-haters, or merely drive them under cover? If the climate is so great, why retreat to the skyways?
Still, together the three theories of Minnesota winter provide as good a starting point as any for a journey into the heart of coldness.
The St. Paul Winter Carnival, a.k.a., the "Coolest Celebration on Earth," traces its origins to that fateful day in 1885, when a reporter from the East Coast wrote that the city was "another Siberia, unfit for human habitation."
Community leaders fought back with an 1886 winter carnival highlighted by a 106-foot-high ice castle. Not, perhaps, the best way to distract the rest of the nation from the frigid Minnesota winter.
This year's 10-day carnival continues through Sunday, but the high point was probably last Saturday, when thousands lined the streets of downtown St. Paul in anticipation of the King Boreas Grande Day Parade, named for the carnival's legendary "King of the Winds."The crowds, including blanket-swathed citizens seated in lawn chairs, braved windchills in the minus-2 range for the chance to see local bands, get a peak at the newly crowned Snow Queen, catch those dancing Thinsulate mittens and, in generally, go a little crazy.
Unfortunately for the out-of-town media, the sight of a Minnesotan going a little crazy is not easily distinguishable from a Chicagoan settling in for a nap.
The crowds waved timidly at elaborate floats, shouted half-hearted "woo-woos" at radio deejays and greeted the 3M Elvis impersonator, the Salvation Army Teddy Bear and the Kool 108 "Kool as Ice" van with similar polite attentiveness.
It was only when the red firetrucks began to wail that the locals seemed to catch the spirit.
"Woo! Woo! Here come the Vulcans!"
The Vulcans, a traditional mainstay of the Winter Carnival, wear red capes, red goggles and red hoods with roosterlike crowns. They look a little like devils, and a little like barnyard fowl, as they pour from the firetrucks with their sinister grease-paint beards and mustaches.
Officially, they are the "Krewe" of Vulcanus, the carnival's god of fire and the bitter enemy of King Boreas and his winter festivities. But, more to the point, they are the carnival troublemakers, and the crowd loves them. Almost every child sticks out his or her cheek to have a Vulcan mark it with the traditional greasepaint "V."
By the end of the parade, the crowd is waving actively at floats. Teenagers flaunt their "V's." A few burly men can be seen wearing the costume necklaces. And, oddly enough, the Vulcans, patrons of summer, harbingers of heat, have emerged as the heroes of the Winter Carnival.
"They're awesome!" says Kayla McKinney, 12.
The season of choice
Some die-hard Minnesotans do actually like winter better than summer, when they can't dogsled, or drive on the lake, or skijor, a Norwegian sport in which a dog pulls a cross-country skier.
But, as the popularity of the Vulcans suggests, the silent majority of Minnesotans don't so much adore winter as endure it, with greater or lesser degrees of success. Complaining about winter is fine here, as long as you don't whine.
The point is to make the best of it, to face it, not to let it "get you down." And, for the surprisingly social, if not exactly gregarious, Minnesotan, the point is to make friends along the way.
Thus we have the phenomenon of the St. Paul Pioneer Press treasure hunt, which draws thousands of people into the parks of St. Paul in late January -- digging in snow, tumbling down steep inclines, searching garbage cans by moonlight, all in the hope of finding a medallion inside, say, a sock or a potato chip container, and winning $10,000.
Obviously, the money is a powerful incentive, but a lot of the die-hard medallion hunters have little hope of winning. They take time off from work, meet up with fellow treasure hunters on the Internet, and jointly ponder the mind-boggling daily clues. Example: "Rid of the man she ran and ran, They say she was quite the talker. A carpenter's beau -- many said so -- Neared the finish with a walker."
`A paradox'
"I hate being cold, but I'd never leave Minnesota," says treasure-hunter Stephanie Wilkerson, 25, a phone company collections agent. "It's a paradox."
A paradox explained, in part, by her affection for her fellow treasure hunters.
"It's a bonding experience," she says, "to get cold with so many people. You're going through the same pain."
Another paradox of the Twin Cities in winter is that many of its hardy inhabitants spend whole days without ever leaving the comfort of their climate-controlled garages, skyways and offices.
Born in the 1960s, the Minneapolis skyway, the larger of the two, now stretches 7 miles through the downtown area and includes approximately 74 second-story bridges, according to the Greater Minneapolis Convention and Visitors Association.
Inside the seven-mile Minneapolis skyway, many people stroll without gloves, hats, or even coats. Floor-to-ceiling windows reveal stunning winter cityscapes, but shield the masses -- occasionally spotted in short sleeves and once in shorts -- from the stunning winter weather.
The party line is that the skyways don't decrease sidewalk traffic; they allow those who wouldn't go out at all, or need to exercise, or want to explore another aspect of the city, to enjoy a second option.
But that may be a tad optimistic.
Skyway walker Russ Dexter, 31, an accountant, says he's part of the silent majority of Minnesotans who tolerate winter rather than embrace it. And there are certainly those who see the skyways as an alternative to the sidewalks.
Still, you will find skywalkers such as Johnson, the administrative assistant, who is lugging two enormous shopping bags through the skyway -- because, she says, the indoor route is longer, and she wants the exercise.
"I'm a little disappointed with the cold spell we've had," she says, complaining that it has not been accompanied by snow.
Taking care of business
Skyway culture is marked, in part, by fast, purposeful walking, interpreted by some as an outgrowth of the Norwegian work ethic, and by others as an outgrowth of the cold climate. Dress is both practical and unpretentious. Putting aside the great Minnesota hat debate for a moment -- Are you an idiot if you don't wear a hat? Can you be a real man if you do? -- there is widespread agreement here that coats should be warm, practical and reach at least to the thighs. The waist-length down jackets so popular in Chicago this season are nowhere to be seen.
And there are other telling differences.
"People in Chicago wear fur, which you almost never see in Minneapolis," says Mayor Rybak, who emphasizes that he "loves" the Windy City, but makes it clear the he doesn't approve of its winter dress code.
"I don't think winter is a plaything or a time to look good. We're very serious about winter and I consider people in Chicago to be quite frivolous with it. Wearing a fur and high heels is laughable to me."
As opposed to getting out there and rolling in the snow?
"Exactly."
Terry Faith doesn't win the ice-carving contest. He doesn't even come close. By Saturday night, the three prize ribbons have been doled out to an elaborate Cinderella scene, a giant crystal globe and a 20-foot Viking ship.
A cool celebration
Beside Faith's creation stands only a small sign, stating his belief that spring is the "Coolest Celebration on Earth."
Still, his 2-foot high ice bears dance merrily in the light of the street lamps. His 4-foot-high ice sun rises, unmistakable, in the background. Beneath his towering ice-block birdhouse, a tangle of transparent flowers twist toward the sky.
And, this being Minnesota, Faith's ice bears are not alone.
A steady stream of visitors emerges from the inky darkness, their breath floating in pale clouds, their faces swathed in wool and fleece.
Children, senior citizens, they're all here under the twinkling lights of Rice Park, dozens of them, quiet, almost reverent, as they inspect the winter worlds the ice carvers have left behind.
"Look at the bears, there," someone says.
"That's impressive."
"That really is."
"Beautiful."
You think our winters are bad
Average maximum/minimum temperatures (F) and average snowfall for the years 1971-2000.
DECEMBER JANUARY FEBRUARY MARCH
max min snow max min snow max min snow max min snow
MINNEAPOLIS 26.4 10.910.1" 21.9 4.3 13.7" 28.4 11.8 8.2" 40.6 23.5 10.5" CHICAGO 34.4 20.4 8.7" 29.6 14.3 11.3" 34.7 19.2 8.3" 46.1 28.5 6.0"
Source: Midwestern Regional Climate Center
Skyway: Staying on the straight and narrow
The skyways, a fixture of Twin Cities life since the 1970s, have their own customs and cultural characteristics. Walkers stay to the right. Litter is basically non-existent. Loitering is unthinkable. If you want to rest, you sit on a bench. You do not, under any circumstances, lean against a wall.
Walkers move quickly and, perplexingly at first, they tend to carry their gloves, even if they have big pockets, a backpack and a long way to go.
Why not put your gloves in your backpack? Linda, 39, a suburban accountant who declines to give her last name, says she is just going outside again. When it turns out she will be walking a considerable distance, she says she doesn't want to have to take her knapsack off. When it's pointed out that that would take less than 30 seconds, she concedes the point.
"It's like the Boy Scouts, maybe: `Be Prepared,'" she says.
-- Nara Schoenberg
Copyright (c) 2003, Chicago Tribune
By Nara Schoenberg
Chicago Tribune staff reporter
January 31, 2003
ST. PAUL -- It's midnight on one of the coldest days of the year, in one of the coldest cities in America, and Terry Faith is standing in the middle of a dimly lit public park, applying the business end of a chain saw to a 2-foot block of ice.
The saw growls, the ice wheezes its protest. Faith, his face reddened by 36 hours of almost continuous ice-carving in windchills as low as minus 30, crouches over the emerging face of a dancing bear, barely moving as ice shavings coat his arms and legs.
And then he is upright, arms raised, legs pumping as he runs in a tight circle.
"Ah-ha-ha-ha!" he cries. "Ha-ha-ha!"
A passing security guard shakes his head when asked whether Faith's outburst signals a good ice-carving moment, or a bad one.
"I don't know," the security guard says. "He's been here quite a while."
Of course, every cold-weather city has its seasonal fanatics, its polar bear swimmers, its Terry Faiths. What makes the Twin Cities different is that Faith is by no means alone in his ice-carving marathon, or even terribly unusual.
All around him, amid the twinkling Christmas lights of St. Paul's Rice Park, men with nicknames such as "Ice Man" and "Buzz Saw" are completing their own subzero masterpieces as part of the St. Paul Winter Carnival, which also features car racing on ice, softball on ice and water skiing.
Chicago may be the capital of the Midwest, but the Twin Cities are the capital of cold, with lower temperatures, greater snowfall, more days at or below freezing and a whole-hearted embrace of winter that has children skiing in a half-inch of snow and senior citizens interrupting their saunas for invigorating dips in (ice-covered) lakes.
Overhead, networks of pedestrian "skyway" tunnels -- one 7 miles long -- serve as a reminder that even Minnesotans have their limits.
But within those limits, the local preoccupation with cold weather borders on obsession. Conversation-openers tend to focus on the weather -- "Cold enough for ya?" Humorist Howard Mohr once observed, "In Minnesota the 10 o'clock news is just the window dressing for the 10 o'clock weather." And it appears that no public figure is too high or too mighty to offer a personalized salute to the state's most distinctive season.
In Minneapolis Mayor R.T. Rybak's case, that means rolling around in the snow during a midwinter hot tub party. In his swimsuit.
"We do everything with [winter], except put our tongues onto metal outdoors," Rybak says.
And why stop there?
"I happen to like the upper layer of skin on my tongue."
The origins of Minnesota's unusual winter mind-set are hard to pin down, in part because the average citizen is not exactly a fountain of self-revelation.
Typically, a Minnesotan engaged in a particularly punishing outdoor activity will tell you, "Well, it gets you out of the house." Asked what's so bad about being in the house when the windchill hits minus 30, he or she may stall and attempt to dodge this embarrassingly intimate question.
Or he may go out on limb and say, "You get bored."
Faith, the ice-carver, says he doesn't like winter -- "not even in a minor sense" -- and yet here he is carving ice for 36 hours, with only two hours of sleep during that period. Why?
"I don't even know how to answer a question like that," says Faith, laughing. "I'm a Minnesotan. I think every Minnesotan has a Swedish ancestor somewhere."
Indeed, in interviews with Minnesotans and those who know them best, at least three plausible theories of winter-love emerge, the best known of which draws on the region's Scandinavian roots.
Goes back centuries
The Scandinavian theory, perhaps better known as the Garrison Keillor hypothesis, holds that the late 19th Century immigrants from Norway, Sweden and Finland brought their love of winter and winter sports to Minnesota, where old-country characteristics such as a ferocious work ethic and a certain stoic willingness to endure hardship took root.
The Scandanavians were part of a population surge that helped put the metro area on the map in the 1880s, when it was a major milling and transportation center.
Among the many examples cited by proponents of the Scandinavian theory: The ever-popular sauna accompanied by a dip in the ice-covered lake can be traced back to Finland.
Also popular, although rarely stated directly by Minnesota's markedly polite and self-effacing citizens, is the Survival of the Fittest theory, which holds that those who can't cope, move.
Or, as administrative assistant Debra Johnson, 46, puts it, "If you're here in Minnesota, you'd better enjoy the cold and the snow, or get out."
You'll hear this sentiment expressed indirectly in references to winters that "keep the riff-raff out."
Finally, there's the Climate is Destiny theory, favored by local boosters, which holds, in effect, that the steady dry cold and plentiful sun in the stubbornly separate but deeply intertwined Twin Cities -- nine miles apart with a combined population of 670,000 -- makes winter brighter, more comfortable and more predictable than it might be in theoretically warmer cities such as damp and windswept Chicago. Good weather encourages outdoor activity, which encourages enthusiasm for winter.
All three theories have their limitations and drawbacks. If tolerance for winter is a Scandinavian trait, for instance, why do we see Germans marching in shorts in St. Paul's winter parade in subzero weather? Does climate really weed out winter-haters, or merely drive them under cover? If the climate is so great, why retreat to the skyways?
Still, together the three theories of Minnesota winter provide as good a starting point as any for a journey into the heart of coldness.
The St. Paul Winter Carnival, a.k.a., the "Coolest Celebration on Earth," traces its origins to that fateful day in 1885, when a reporter from the East Coast wrote that the city was "another Siberia, unfit for human habitation."
Community leaders fought back with an 1886 winter carnival highlighted by a 106-foot-high ice castle. Not, perhaps, the best way to distract the rest of the nation from the frigid Minnesota winter.
This year's 10-day carnival continues through Sunday, but the high point was probably last Saturday, when thousands lined the streets of downtown St. Paul in anticipation of the King Boreas Grande Day Parade, named for the carnival's legendary "King of the Winds."The crowds, including blanket-swathed citizens seated in lawn chairs, braved windchills in the minus-2 range for the chance to see local bands, get a peak at the newly crowned Snow Queen, catch those dancing Thinsulate mittens and, in generally, go a little crazy.
Unfortunately for the out-of-town media, the sight of a Minnesotan going a little crazy is not easily distinguishable from a Chicagoan settling in for a nap.
The crowds waved timidly at elaborate floats, shouted half-hearted "woo-woos" at radio deejays and greeted the 3M Elvis impersonator, the Salvation Army Teddy Bear and the Kool 108 "Kool as Ice" van with similar polite attentiveness.
It was only when the red firetrucks began to wail that the locals seemed to catch the spirit.
"Woo! Woo! Here come the Vulcans!"
The Vulcans, a traditional mainstay of the Winter Carnival, wear red capes, red goggles and red hoods with roosterlike crowns. They look a little like devils, and a little like barnyard fowl, as they pour from the firetrucks with their sinister grease-paint beards and mustaches.
Officially, they are the "Krewe" of Vulcanus, the carnival's god of fire and the bitter enemy of King Boreas and his winter festivities. But, more to the point, they are the carnival troublemakers, and the crowd loves them. Almost every child sticks out his or her cheek to have a Vulcan mark it with the traditional greasepaint "V."
By the end of the parade, the crowd is waving actively at floats. Teenagers flaunt their "V's." A few burly men can be seen wearing the costume necklaces. And, oddly enough, the Vulcans, patrons of summer, harbingers of heat, have emerged as the heroes of the Winter Carnival.
"They're awesome!" says Kayla McKinney, 12.
The season of choice
Some die-hard Minnesotans do actually like winter better than summer, when they can't dogsled, or drive on the lake, or skijor, a Norwegian sport in which a dog pulls a cross-country skier.
But, as the popularity of the Vulcans suggests, the silent majority of Minnesotans don't so much adore winter as endure it, with greater or lesser degrees of success. Complaining about winter is fine here, as long as you don't whine.
The point is to make the best of it, to face it, not to let it "get you down." And, for the surprisingly social, if not exactly gregarious, Minnesotan, the point is to make friends along the way.
Thus we have the phenomenon of the St. Paul Pioneer Press treasure hunt, which draws thousands of people into the parks of St. Paul in late January -- digging in snow, tumbling down steep inclines, searching garbage cans by moonlight, all in the hope of finding a medallion inside, say, a sock or a potato chip container, and winning $10,000.
Obviously, the money is a powerful incentive, but a lot of the die-hard medallion hunters have little hope of winning. They take time off from work, meet up with fellow treasure hunters on the Internet, and jointly ponder the mind-boggling daily clues. Example: "Rid of the man she ran and ran, They say she was quite the talker. A carpenter's beau -- many said so -- Neared the finish with a walker."
`A paradox'
"I hate being cold, but I'd never leave Minnesota," says treasure-hunter Stephanie Wilkerson, 25, a phone company collections agent. "It's a paradox."
A paradox explained, in part, by her affection for her fellow treasure hunters.
"It's a bonding experience," she says, "to get cold with so many people. You're going through the same pain."
Another paradox of the Twin Cities in winter is that many of its hardy inhabitants spend whole days without ever leaving the comfort of their climate-controlled garages, skyways and offices.
Born in the 1960s, the Minneapolis skyway, the larger of the two, now stretches 7 miles through the downtown area and includes approximately 74 second-story bridges, according to the Greater Minneapolis Convention and Visitors Association.
Inside the seven-mile Minneapolis skyway, many people stroll without gloves, hats, or even coats. Floor-to-ceiling windows reveal stunning winter cityscapes, but shield the masses -- occasionally spotted in short sleeves and once in shorts -- from the stunning winter weather.
The party line is that the skyways don't decrease sidewalk traffic; they allow those who wouldn't go out at all, or need to exercise, or want to explore another aspect of the city, to enjoy a second option.
But that may be a tad optimistic.
Skyway walker Russ Dexter, 31, an accountant, says he's part of the silent majority of Minnesotans who tolerate winter rather than embrace it. And there are certainly those who see the skyways as an alternative to the sidewalks.
Still, you will find skywalkers such as Johnson, the administrative assistant, who is lugging two enormous shopping bags through the skyway -- because, she says, the indoor route is longer, and she wants the exercise.
"I'm a little disappointed with the cold spell we've had," she says, complaining that it has not been accompanied by snow.
Taking care of business
Skyway culture is marked, in part, by fast, purposeful walking, interpreted by some as an outgrowth of the Norwegian work ethic, and by others as an outgrowth of the cold climate. Dress is both practical and unpretentious. Putting aside the great Minnesota hat debate for a moment -- Are you an idiot if you don't wear a hat? Can you be a real man if you do? -- there is widespread agreement here that coats should be warm, practical and reach at least to the thighs. The waist-length down jackets so popular in Chicago this season are nowhere to be seen.
And there are other telling differences.
"People in Chicago wear fur, which you almost never see in Minneapolis," says Mayor Rybak, who emphasizes that he "loves" the Windy City, but makes it clear the he doesn't approve of its winter dress code.
"I don't think winter is a plaything or a time to look good. We're very serious about winter and I consider people in Chicago to be quite frivolous with it. Wearing a fur and high heels is laughable to me."
As opposed to getting out there and rolling in the snow?
"Exactly."
Terry Faith doesn't win the ice-carving contest. He doesn't even come close. By Saturday night, the three prize ribbons have been doled out to an elaborate Cinderella scene, a giant crystal globe and a 20-foot Viking ship.
A cool celebration
Beside Faith's creation stands only a small sign, stating his belief that spring is the "Coolest Celebration on Earth."
Still, his 2-foot high ice bears dance merrily in the light of the street lamps. His 4-foot-high ice sun rises, unmistakable, in the background. Beneath his towering ice-block birdhouse, a tangle of transparent flowers twist toward the sky.
And, this being Minnesota, Faith's ice bears are not alone.
A steady stream of visitors emerges from the inky darkness, their breath floating in pale clouds, their faces swathed in wool and fleece.
Children, senior citizens, they're all here under the twinkling lights of Rice Park, dozens of them, quiet, almost reverent, as they inspect the winter worlds the ice carvers have left behind.
"Look at the bears, there," someone says.
"That's impressive."
"That really is."
"Beautiful."
You think our winters are bad
Average maximum/minimum temperatures (F) and average snowfall for the years 1971-2000.
DECEMBER JANUARY FEBRUARY MARCH
max min snow max min snow max min snow max min snow
MINNEAPOLIS 26.4 10.910.1" 21.9 4.3 13.7" 28.4 11.8 8.2" 40.6 23.5 10.5" CHICAGO 34.4 20.4 8.7" 29.6 14.3 11.3" 34.7 19.2 8.3" 46.1 28.5 6.0"
Source: Midwestern Regional Climate Center
Skyway: Staying on the straight and narrow
The skyways, a fixture of Twin Cities life since the 1970s, have their own customs and cultural characteristics. Walkers stay to the right. Litter is basically non-existent. Loitering is unthinkable. If you want to rest, you sit on a bench. You do not, under any circumstances, lean against a wall.
Walkers move quickly and, perplexingly at first, they tend to carry their gloves, even if they have big pockets, a backpack and a long way to go.
Why not put your gloves in your backpack? Linda, 39, a suburban accountant who declines to give her last name, says she is just going outside again. When it turns out she will be walking a considerable distance, she says she doesn't want to have to take her knapsack off. When it's pointed out that that would take less than 30 seconds, she concedes the point.
"It's like the Boy Scouts, maybe: `Be Prepared,'" she says.
-- Nara Schoenberg
Copyright (c) 2003, Chicago Tribune