This Place in Minnetonka is the Definition of Minnesota Modern
Hope it makes you feel a little better about your day too...
Today is picture day for my seven-year-old boy, a second-grader, the first year where much of the chubby cheeks gives way to longer limbs and more defined features, teeth like a jack-o-lantern, lips permanently kind of chapped—the journey on the long road of awkwardness (one that lasts almost two decades on my side) begins.
Last year picture day was at our house. He posed in front of the front door, first-day-of school style, and then they photoshopped in the cheap, iridescent school picture backdrop. Genius.
His mother was particularly pleased with the results because she got to do his hair; he’s got this sort of feathery sandy brown bowl cut with blonde and red highlights from the sun that she obsesses over. In kindergarten, she brushed and fussed for an hour only to find her good work met “The Comb” at actual picture time.
Yes, as much as things have changed, the school photographer’s assistant is still there, Barbicide-laced industrial plastic black comb at the ready to slick down the soft edges. The results were a fail-success in my book. I mean, you can’t not look weird in your kindergarten photo, like some alien who’s still getting used to this planet, still deciding whether or not they want to stay.
Last night, as he was selecting from a range of floral-print button-down shirts as if he was packing for a weekend at Margaritaville in Kissimmee, Florida—for whatever reason it’s important I guess to dress your second-grade boy on picture day like an uncle at a wedding—he asked me quietly and in a kind of considered manner if he was allowed to take his mask off for pictures. And boy, if whatever’s left of my little heart didn’t shatter into a million pieces for the thousandth time.
I paused because I didn’t have a very good explanation for him that didn’t retroactively negate what I’ve been hammering into him for the last nineteen months, and that is, whenever he sets foot outside the home, he masks up like Bane. Period.
He gets a special dispensation for tennis lessons, but really, that’s about it. It didn’t dawn on me until just this last weekend that the kid hadn’t even been in a grocery store during that time. He was darting wild-eyed around the Trader Joe’s cookie-slash-frozen food aisle like fucking Charlie Bucket. Man, oh, man.
So yeah, I gently explained to him that the people in charge of picture day would have their own protocol (lie) to make sure that kids stay the distance and safe (lie, lie) and that everyone, when they’re taking their picture, can remove their mask and show off their big smiles and pretend everything’s normal (truth, I let that last part slip.)
“OK,” and then he went back to breaking his Jurassic World Lego guys in two as if they were being eaten.
And, I don’t know. This thing always hits me in waves. I, too often, tell the story about how I collapsed on the stairs during a morning of Zoom last year when I realized one of his classmates was “learning” from inside a closet. Or we’ll be coming back from a day at the beach, and I’ll get a question about “What’s more important animals or me because there seem to be a lot more people than animals and that’s not fair.” And, you know, I’ll just go hide in the bathroom and lose my shit and then look at my phone for five minutes and come back all numbed up and ready for more action.
So the mask at picture day question should’ve probably elicited the same emotion, should’ve probably triggered something. No, we’re not OK. And no, we’re not going back to normal. And yes, this is his impression of school, and even though his picture is going to come out as island casual breakfast buffet cute, complete with cowlick and right cheek dimple, which was the first thing I noticed when he was born, it’s just never going to be the same.
9804 Oak Ridge Trl Minnetonka, MN 55305
From 1952 through the mid-1990s, architect Arthur Dickey was The Godfather of Midwest Modernism (think morose but sensible and with saunas.) Beyond homes which bend away from aspirational and more toward the functional, Dickey’s industrial designs are scattered throughout the greater Twin Cities in the forms of churches, schools, offices, and retail buildings.
If you have a half-hour and really want to dive into the world of Dickey-heds and what Minnesota Modern really is, well ...have at:
I can’t help but think that this place has a little more than a soupçon of early ‘70s orthodontist kingpin chic—bongo drums thrown in for free to sand the edges off the industrial metal on enamel vibes.
Finding a spot where nearly every room is intact after a half-century of use—from front door, to floor, to ceiling, to walnut wood paneling and built-ins—is always a pleasant surprise; and there is comfort in this, especially seeing the double-sided copper and brick fireplace and cantilevered hearth that is so massive it all but assures whoever gets a crack at it won’t fuck it up.
…I guess for me, some things remain, for now—school pictures for one and maybe homes like this. I don’t have the $900k to stick it in my very own time capsule—darkened paneling outlines where pictures hung for a half century, take me home!!—a place to purify myself near the waters of Lake Minnetonka (or the indoor pool in the basement) whenever it needs to be done.
I don’t care where we go, little perfect home, I don’t care what we do. I don’t care pretty baby just take me with U.
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