Readers Write: Nicollet Mall and Hennepin Avenue, teaching history, state parks, waterfalls, seniors

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I agree with William Burleson’s argument that the much smaller storefronts that lined Nicollet Mall 70 years ago made for a livelier streetscape, but I disagree that modern developments cannot achieve similar success (”The trouble with Nicollet Mall: It’s boring now,” Opinion Exchange, May 8).

Take, for example, the small storefront bays developed in projects near the 38th Street light-rail station, just west of 28th Avenue — they bring an old-world feel through high-quality new developments. And sometimes the old and the new blend in successful ways, like the Nye’s development across the river from downtown, which incorporated two older buildings into a new mixed-use project with ground-floor commercial spaces.

Finally, there are redevelopment opportunities that incorporate the memorably named “facadectomy” technique: preserving the facade of an older building while breathing new life and new uses into a site or block. Done right, these projects can add important density while retaining longstanding character.

Sam Rockwell, Minneapolis

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James McCarthy, Minneapolis

I can certainly understand students’ aversion to American history classes (”Underestimating student apathy,” May 8, Readers Write). I somehow managed to get a BA without ever taking such a class (I forget what I was able to substitute). But 10 years later, attending evening classes at a junior college in California to pursue an interest in a different subject, I found that with only two “irrelevant” but required classes (that I couldn’t transfer in from my BA), I could get another degree, always a good idea. One of the requirements was an American history class.

I put it off for as long as I possibly could, but finally that was the only thing left. My lab partner in an advanced robotics class mentioned that he was in one of the offered classes, “History of American Thought and Values,” and that one of his classmates had been upset by something in the curriculum. “You shouldn’t be teaching that!” she said to the teacher. “Why not? It’s documented fact,” he replied. “Well, you shouldn’t anyway,” she protested, as whatever it was apparently conflicted with something her religion had taught her. A glimmer of interest appeared. Most of the American history I’d been exposed to over the years had been just a dreary recitation of wars and dates of battles and treaties, which had fueled my distaste for the subject, but this sounded promising.

And oh, it was! It turned out to be the most exciting class I’d ever had in college, and I left every lecture with my hair on fire and some stunning new perspectives. It was the complete opposite of most such curricula, with emphasis on why the original colonists came from England and what they hoped to accomplish, and the social and religious movements that led up to the Revolutionary War. But then the next lecture after that series began with “After the war was over …” and so it went, right up through the rest of the wars, which were also pretty much reduced to “then there was a war [because …] and after it was over …” and so on for the rest of the usually dreary litany. I found out things about America and its shaping that I’d never known, and the professor (thank you, Donald Haydu!) put a human face on all of it and made it relatable. I didn’t find any of it controversial, as his approach was completely apolitical and, as he’d said, everything he included was well-documented fact.

I would recommend this approach to anyone wishing to teach this potentially leaden subject, because it certainly left me with a much deeper understanding, and appreciation, of America and Americans.

Thank you. All of you. Having learned little in 72 years, I agreed to accompany my son and his four daughters, ages 3 to 11, tent camping at Tettegouche State Park last week. Yes, it froze every night and snowed when it wasn’t raining, but there are many definitions of fun. The 2 a.m. trip to the outhouse under a full moon. The universe-affirming power of a child drifting off to sleep snuggling up to an oldish man. The shock of a grouse nibbling on buds overhead, thus raining down parts of its breakfast on ours.

So we survived, but only because of you. As the firewood dwindled, smoke thickened and toes remained numb, complaints were lodged. The oldest child then suggested, “Let’s try the Visitor Center.” And there it was, a mirage incarnate: warmth, light, floor-to-ceiling south-facing windows, a gas fireplace, coffee, child-attracting exhibits, the place completely empty but for ourselves. The 3- and 5-year-old were soon playing Chinese checkers, the essence of which was gleefully scrambling after marbles bouncing erratically off the tile floor. The older girls played checkers and the oldest pondered, “How did this place come to be?”

You, all of us, paid for it. Built 10 years ago for $7 million, when there were 2.5 million tax filers, so each filer thus paid $2.80. Some people paid much more and many paid less, but almost everyone chipped in. State Park users are older, whiter and richer than average, and this money could arguably have been better spent on X, Y or Z. But joy, laughter, memory and tears are all that’s left of any of us at the end. A place that creates them out of thin air and is available to everyone enriches us all. So put down your phone and visit a park. It’s yours.

Tim Pieh, New London, Minn.

St. Anthony Falls didn’t place in the “Minnesota Waterfall Awards” (May 5). It’s not the tallest, most aesthetically pleasing, weirdest or best example in any of the other categories — although in the Stone Arch Bridge it does have the state’s best viewing platform. But these falls may be Minnesota’s most influential waterfall. Without St. Anthony Falls, the city of Minneapolis would not exist, many of today’s Minnesotans would not reside here, and there would be no Star Tribune to bestow awards on 12 other waterfalls.

At first I was thrilled to see a “We love our seniors” sign in a neighbor’s lawn. How thoughtful to publicly recognize older folks who sometimes are forgotten or dismissed in a culture that celebrates youth. Then I got out my bifocals and read the small print, “Class of 2024.″