Roblyn Avenue, 1953

Marianne as a little girl, on the porch of her grandmother’s Roblyn 
Avenue home. (Photo courtesy Marianne McNamara)

The first thing I saw when Dad turned our car down Grandma’s street in Merriam Park was the sky-high catalpa tree in her front yard. It was the only “cigar tree” on the block, and when I spied it, I knew we were almost there. It was a beautiful tree, with frilly white flowers in the spring that magically became long, brown seedpods in late summer.

Weather

(Photo: David Erickson/Flickr Creative Commons)

The forty-fifth parallel runs through Saint Paul, Minnesota. This parallel is generally considered the halfway point between the equator and the North Pole. This is irrelevant to our everyday lives with the exception of one truth: it is the cause of our extremely unpredictable weather, a concept that consumes us. We talk about it with co-workers, we talk about it on dates, we analyze it on the TV, we use it as an excuse for being late, we complain about it, we use it to avoid awkward gaps in uncomfortable conversation, and most importantly, we live in it.

July

(Photo courtesy: Tobechi Tobechukwu)

Just one more day A yellow daisy day A too hot sidewalk, barefoot day A last mosquito day A sunset at the beach day One scorcher day to hold midwinter At bay   Marcie Rendon, White Earth Anishinabe: Saint Paul was her first home in the urban area in the infamous Selby-Dale area of the […]

A Fanatic's Guide to Getting the Most out of the Weather in Saint Paul

Double rainbow over Saint Paul (Photo: Bryan Kennedy/Flickr Creative Commons)

For those of us who think about, study, discuss, photograph, worship, and otherwise adore the weather, Saint Paul is a miniature atmospheric playground.

The Fruit Of Summer

A Mulberry tree in St. Paul. Photo: Patricia Bour-Schilla

My nails have been black for over a week now. This is the price I pay for picking mulberries, whose juice has a staining power the military might want to look into. Under the guilty tree, a (doomed) white car has been parked for the past nine days, and I know from experience that its hood will never be pure white again: pale pink blooms will adorn its surface, souvenirs of its time beneath that tree.