My Roots

Recently, I've realized that I am getting older. I know this because I am saying things like, "I remember when they built that chimney." OR..."I went up and down those stairs more times than I can remember."

I have found I have a strange attachment to concrete edifices and metal structures, for now that they are gone, I miss them.



My father, grandmother and probably great-grandfather walked these stairs. They were 91 years old. I have MANY stories about these stairs.

I used to be deathly afraid to cross the bridge that led to the stairs at the top when I was a girl. I ended up conquering that fear by repeatedly crossing it. Recently, my exercise routine was to walk down the stairs, over the river and run back up all the stairs taking two stairs at a time...can you say "out of breath"?

In 5th grade, some of the boys that I used to hang out with used to scale the steel beam that connected the stairs to the bridge. I watched them, afraid for their lives, but oddly enough I never told an adult about it.

I also had my first cigarette on these stairs...Salem Menthol Lights. I luckily never became a smoker. I don't think I had another cigarette for years and probably have had 10 puffs in my life. My next door neighbors growing up, "the twins", did smoke and would pick me up on their way to have their daily cig on the stairs with the excuse to their mother that they were going out to hang out with me.


I remember quite well when this chimney was built. My dad told me that it was being built to help with the pollution by putting it up higher into the atmosphere. We crossed the bridge more than once a day and would remark on the progress of construction. Children, I think, find construction amazing and enjoy watching the work that goes into building something into the air.

My own children have seen this smokestack all their lives and have used it as a landmark going from south to north or north to south.

On the day of deconstruction, my middle sister and I woke up early to watch them implode the smokestack along with the hundreds of other Saint Paulites. It was strange to see it fall like a tree chopped from it's roots.

The bridge everyone is standing on is called "The High Bridge". It is the highest bridge that crosses the Mississippi River of the four bridges that cross to downtown St. Paul.



If you have time, watch this YouTube video. I didn't take it, my camera ran out of battery.