I just got back from Canal Park, where it was too darn cold and too darn wet to take any photos of the waves crashing over the breakwater, or of the chunks of ice in the spray flying at our heads.
My three year old, who according to Garrison Keillor is truly a Duluthian, loved every minute of the wind whipping, the slush slushing and the hoots and hollers emitted by her non-Duluthian transplant parents. I was reminded of another night on the Lakewalk, six or seven months ago, when we walked with this same girl on a beautiful summer night and watched the full moon create sparkles on the lake. (Oddly, there was no ice flying at us–must have been the direction of the wind.) I remember thinking to myself that my family and I were so blessed to live in this city. And I felt that way again today, as we watched the Big Lake crash: We are so blessed to call this beautiful place home. And home it has become–Keillorian and unwritten codes of citizenship notwithstanding.
So, I ask you, transplants (and homers, if you like)–when did you know that Duluth was home?
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