Mysterious “Headless Snowman” in Duluth’s Canal Park

I think that PDD needs to solve the mystery of the headless snowman, preferably in the form of a song, an epic poem, or maybe a short story in the style of O. Henry or Charles Dickens. Ok. Go.

Bonus points for including this mind-bogglingly badass commuter bicyclist dude I saw headed over the Lake Avenue bridge with the air temperature at -12, add in the windchill and it was just plain arctic. Whatever arguments people make for not commuting to work on a bike in this town have just been invalidated.

And these even more badass ducks. Ducks. Swimming in the canal, again with an air temp well below zero, which appears to be quickly sucking all of the remaining warmth out of the already notoriously cold water.



about 11 years ago

'Twas a breezy afternoon in Canal Park, cold and airy
Chill in the air felt more like January
Rode the brave biker, ice notwithstanding
As the vampire ducks came in for a landing.
Who bore witness to the life of the snowman,
In the shadow of the Lift Bridge, Coast Guard and hot dog van?
The bitter cold suiting fine him and his kind
Made no difference to Snowman, beheaded and blind.
Still he sat watch in the cold December field
While college students drank beer at Grandmas and felt ill
And Caribou filled their ever jingling till.


about 11 years ago

Oh, headless snowman
Why did they chop off your head?
What a bitter blow.


about 11 years ago

When a foolish young snowman made cracks
On the topic of dumb canvasbacks,
The short-tempered ducks
Whipped out pipes and nunchucks
And destroyed Frosty's head with loud quacks.


about 11 years ago

....and so the mind bogging badass commuter biker rode to his Snowman love, with the hat made of duck down and duck feathers for his much loved Snowman's head.  

Where the Snowman waited, beheaded, yes, but knowing that his duck friends were bottling his Snowman head snow with Lake Superior water, into Growlers full of snow water for his bicyclist love's hydration needs.

Merry Christmas,
Emmadogs O Henry


about 11 years ago

In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the western shore of Superior, at that narrow point of the Lake denominated by the ancient French navigators of the Sault Saint Marie, and where they always prudently shortened sail and implored the protection of Saint Nicholas, there lies a small port town which is generally known by the name of du Luth. This name was given by the good housewives of the adjacent country from the inveterate propensity of their husbands to linger about the village tavern on market days. Not far from this village, perhaps about two miles, there is a little valley among high hills which is one of the quietest places in the whole world. A small brook murmurs through it and, with the occasional whistle of a quail or tapping of a woodpecker, is almost the only sound that ever breaks the uniform tranquillity.

JP Rennquist

about 11 years ago

I could just kiss you all, and I might.  These are better than I imagined.  It made my day when I saw these yesterday.  

Now all I need is a song ... probably too much to ask, I know.  I'm thrilled with the poetry, the limerick and the prose already here.

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