Mears Park

Mears Park

  Where I first put my arm around you. Clad in red coats and autumn hats, we walked from the Farmers’ Market, bags of basil in hand, then arm in arm. The dog waited. Where so much music has been made. Echoing through Lowertown where the shade of the stage and the...
Wokiksuye

Wokiksuye

Driving back from the reservation, I cross a small bridge into Saint Paul. I feel the troubled waters. I think of my grandfather’s people,the Dakota. I think of how they lived by the water, how they made fire by the water. I think of how my people, the Dakota, my...
Dancing at the Crossroads

Dancing at the Crossroads

  Saint Paul is my chosen home, the place where I feel most deeply that I belong. Now. It has not always been so. In many ways my story is similar to countless American’s; we are, as President Kennedy wrote, “a nation of immigrants.” But when I...
Our Lady of Guadalupe

Our Lady of Guadalupe

Our Lady of Guadalupe, leaning in the mercado window, make intercession for the West Side. Mystical rose of yellow, red, and blue, protect those who journey through the corners of George, State, and Chavez streets — New Tepeyac, District del Sol. We are the...
Walks with the Chowhound

Walks with the Chowhound

Selby is a chowhound. an inveterate, unrelenting, willfully indiscriminate gastronome of Saint Paul street food. Naturally he is named after the street where he lives, Selby Avenue, and naturally, when I come to dog sit him, we commence our journeys from that haunt of...