My Winonas

Maybe because I noticed that Lincoln Elementary was a blonde gravel parking lot, my first thought entering Winona was a more pungent variant on a thought I often have upon entering Winona: a home town is like a college. Once your time there is over, you can go back, but it’s sad. The fairly obvious point that the life of a place comes from the people in a place is often lost on me.  I drive around and let the town disappoint me. 

But then I kick into a new mode: make this Winona–this amalgram of past and present–my Winona. Have a bison burger at the Lakeview Drive Inn. Walk the Lake. Buy a book–Junot Diaz–at the Book Shelf. Call my sister and my nephew and, if they are not around and I am not exhausted (as I often am), contact the friends who still live here or near.

 
I noticed that it was Winona’s 150th Anniversary. I also noticed that there is not one Winona, but several. First is the Winona I see from my window at the Holiday Inn. It took Winona years to figure out a way to sprawl, but it has now sprouted a Target, a third McDonald’s, a Fleet Farm. This is the Winona that loves parking lots and logos the size of trees and unencumbered driving. I could condescend to this but that would make me a hypocrite. This is where I stay.  I like the zip and smoothness and predictability. Especially when I drive for more than an hour, especially when I am visiting a nursing home, I want to be comforted by brands. 

Then there is what I might call Classic Winona. It is the florist on Broadway who, when I tell them that my mother is 85 and losing her sight, puts together a bright bouquet. It is Bloedow’s, the bakery that forced Krispy Kreme out of town, because people are so loyal to its donuts. It’s my brother in law Tom, who’s had a barber shop here for over a quarter century and can’t stand on a street corner without encountering people he knows. 

Classic Winona includes Unintentionally Ironic Winona. Sometimes you realize that Unintentionally Ironic Winona is actually Exuberantly Ironic Winona. Fireworks broadcasts.  Fifty word billboards.   

A persistent part of Classic Winona is Hippie Winona. The wonderful Acoustic Café, the Co-Op, the boathouses on the river.

And under all that is Dakota Winona.  The Indians do not live here, but return here, with far more mixed feelings than I will ever feel

Comments

[Kootch]

I often miss Winona, my home town as well as yours. Reading your post makes me miss it even more. For many years since I left, I wanted to return to Winona to live. Now that that has become increasingly unlikely, the town and my infrequent visits there have become more important and poignant.

[Mandy]

I haven't set foot in the U.S. since August, so I had a lot of warm feelings about this post. Ah.

[kate]

Those first two photos made me think of that wonderful story you wrote last year.

[mo]

I had a dream once, shortly after graduating from college and moving away to take a teaching job, that my parents had rented out my old bedroom to some high school kid. (Remember my old third-story attic room?) Why a high school kid needed to live in my room was unclear, but when I came home to visit, this kid, who was otherwise normal, sat at our supper table and ate with my family. And because our table only comfortably seated six, I consented to eat in the living room. As I sat eating and watching television, I could hear my family conversing in the next room in a generally normal way, but with a strange voice included. This is how I feel every time I go back to Winona.

[K]

That's precise in the way that only dreams are precise.