The heartbreak in Minneapolis

For as long as I can remember, Minneapolis has been a magical place for me.

I was born there, and left there just shy of my 8th birthday to move to West Lafayette, Ind, on the banks of the Wabash, home of Purdue University, and boasting one of the top (if not the) school systems in the state.

But every summer, and many spring breaks and holidays, we would drive the 553 miles from our house to my grandparents' house on Elliot Avenue in south Minneapolis, where we were lovingly welcomed. In the summer, we played there, or at Lake Nokomis or Harriet with our cousins who lived not far away, and go to at least one Twins game at Met Stadium. If we were lucky, it would be a twinight double header. My grandfather would buy us a bag of peanuts and a drink, and every once in a while, a hot dog. During spring break, we would watch high school state hockey finals on television. And all year around we would head to the end of the block to the public park with swings, a baseball field and a wading pool.

Minnesota and Minneapolis is the setting for one of my favorite book series, the Betsy-Tacy books by Maud Hart Lovelace. She fictionalized her hometown of Mankato as Deep Valley, but Minneapolis stayed itself.

When I was an adult, I lived and worked in Minneapolis. I worked downtown, and lived, except for six months, in the city near the remarkable chain of lakes. It was like going home when I moved, because of the years of happy experiences and the love of family and friends we had there. For several years, I lived not far from where Maud placed Betsy and Joe's first house near Lake of the Isles.

When I married and moved away, Minneapolis remained for me "home." Although I have one brother in West Lafayette, and one in Minneapolis, and we will willingly travel to WL for a Purdue game, Minneapolis always seems to be the logical meeting place, "home." My mother, who lived in Indianapolis after West Lafayette, went back to Minneapolis to spend her last days when she was dying of cancer.

Minnesotans have always been proud of the high quality of life in the state, and for me, that was an aura that was almost magical. Tragedy happened in Minneapolis, but not often, and always on a small scale.

So when the I-35 bridge collapsed on Wednesday (a bridge I crossed hundreds of times), it was excrutiatingly shocking. Minnesotans aren't naive, they're too pragmatic for that. But with the quality of life comes the expectation of reasonable safety. And safe bridges falls in that realm.

The gleam of greatness has not left Minneapolis. But a pall of sadness has fallen over the city that will take a while to disappear.