River Story: Finding Dignity During a Mississippi River Snowfall
I welcomed December with a walk along the Mississippi River. It was an enjoyable hike and I was surprised at how much of the river was visible through the forest with the leaves now underfoot rather than overhead, but something was missing. December never looks right to me until she's wearing her wedding gown. I wished for snow and the next day my wish was granted.
It was a Monday afternoon and the sky slowly turned gray. Suddenly, the snow that was predicted for the northern part of our state dipped down to greet us. It started with small flakes but quickly turned to the wet, fluffy ones that seem as big as your fist, the kind that make school kids giddy with excitement. Through my office window I watched it float down and was reminded of the many times I sat chained to a school desk watching a similar scene, longing to be out in it, making tracks, rolling it into balls, throwing it at friends.
A boyish grin cornered my lips as I put on my scarf and jacket and headed for Harriet Island to celebrate the first significant snowfall of the season. The paved path along the river was slippery and slushy and held each footprint as I made my way to the Great Stairs to get closer to the river's edge.
A gaggle of nearly 100 Canada geese waddled around and serenaded me as I walked by. I looked up at the sky and flakes crashed on my warm cheeks and quickly melted, looking like tears of joy, or tears wept for a summer long past. I caught a flake on my tongue effortlessly, instinctively.
By the time I reached the bottom step visibility was down to a quarter-mile. The Smith Avenue High Bridge looked like an ethereal serpent jumping over the river, and the skyline was cloaked in mystery. The river was the color of slate and ice fanned out 20 to 30 feet from the bank. Ice floes were slowly moving downriver, trying to grasp hands in solidarity. I knew it wouldn't be long until the river would crawl beneath its winter blanket and rest. Observing the river during a heavy snowfall makes the mighty waterway feel as timeless as it is.
Across the river, the street lamps and tail lights of evening commuters on Shepard Road looked like a string of Christmas lights. Barely visible were the holiday lights dangling on the trees in Kellogg Park. Missing from that park is the giant Salvation Army kettle that for many years served as a proud testament to the benevolence of the people of the city. The kettle made me think of the less fortunate, who are undoubtedly not feeling the same excitement that I am over this snowfall.
A few blocks away, Rice Park and the city's cultural corridor is decked out in holiday magic, and a few blocks farther is St. Paul's island of misfit toys, the Dorothy Day Center for the homeless. A task force has been busy working to find a new location for the center. I can understand the reasoning behind the effort. I experienced it firsthand this summer while entertaining an out-of-town guest.
While eating a fine meal on the patio of a popular restaurant, my friend commented on the number of “bums” on the benches in Rice Park and vagrants meandering near us on Seventh Place. I couldn't help but think these people tarnished the image of the city.
Today, standing in the snow, my judgment is more sober. I can see past their mental illness, their addictions or whatever else plagues them and I see them for what they are: human beings, someone's son or daughter. I think of the many times I've turned a cold shoulder to them on the street. I rarely offer my pocket change when asked, skeptical of what it will be used for. I reassure myself that my charitable donations throughout the year provide the services they need to get a hand up. Yet, I always feel like I should do more.
Even though donations help provide a warm meal and a temporary place to stay, they do little to build the dignity of those on the street. I wonder what it would mean to them if I would look them in the eye, give them a smile, or extend my hand and offer a kind word. Perhaps the bigger question is, what would it mean to me?
by Tim Spitzack
This essay was written in December 2014 and is included in “Reflections from the Riverfront: Essays on Life in the Mississippi National River and Recreation Area."
The River Story Map
Created and coordinated by volunteer extraordinaire Michael Bischoff, the River Story Map kicks off FMR's silver anniversary year with 25+ stories of friendship with and connection to the metro Mississippi. These honest and personal reflections portray the river as a source of intrigue and adventure, a beloved date night venue, and even an unlikely partner in tales of loss and healing. We hope you enjoy them and consider adding your personal story of friendship with the Mississippi River.