Back on the pier…it’s as if we never left, with the white tips of the sailboats at the horizon’s edge…heading for Canada. Lake water, sun burnt skin, ice cream and tobacco smells mingle with old carousel wood.
One hundred years the carousel organ grinds out tunes…the nation’s voice soaked in lake brine and rain storms and snow gales…no one wants to be there in the winter as we chat, safely inland over bowls of chili and boxes of Valentine chocolate.
And suddenly, we are back on the pier…it’s as if we never left, and we never did really. Five years old again with melting flip flops and the organ grinds on…playing the national tune in June…playing the national tune while we watch the sky in July…
690 Saint Paul 