Every summer weekend people sit in orderly rows on the north shore of the lake and listen to music. They did it last year too. They did it seventy summers ago. And seventy summers before that. Minneapolis hadn't yet been named when people first came to this spot.  For that matter, it hadn't been settled. Indians came here before anyone else, camped on the northwest corner, and fished. One of them must have looked out over the placid blue pool and sang a song for the sunset. Visit the lake, and you can understand why.

Or maybe not. There's nothing unusual about it. It doesn't have the odd winding shoreline of Lake of the Isles, or the size of Lake Calhoun, its two neighbors. It's clearer and cleaner than either. It's not as social as Calhoun or moneyed as the Isles. It's Ozzie and Harriet Lake, demographically - many moms, flocks of strollers. Maybe I love it because it's closest to my house, but I've lived around all three and this one is my favorite. Familiarity, that's why. For a few years I walked the lake every day with my dog, and saw the lake in every possible light - summer afternoons, fall evenings, brutal winter mornings where the paths were inscrutible and only a few other fools were trudging through the snow. It's different every day. The cast of characters change - the old man who stomped around on a walker isn't there this year. Dead or infirm. But watching him eke out his measured pace, you knew he'd been walking this lake for decades. Another cheery, ragged old fellow who greeted Jasper like the best dog he never had - you could tell from his costume he was a drifter, perhaps coming back to the scene of some happiness 30 years ago. He's gone too. Every day, every hour, each season and year has a different constituency. The lake changes, too. Half the year you can walk on it: neat trick. Every few decades a tornado rearranges the scenery. On the northwest corner - the old Indian encampment - storms have blown down most of the pavilions, but we build them right up again. Still, the lake feels like a refuge from change. The grand houses that ring the parkway are all from the same period; no jarring modern notes. The last vestige of the streetcar system serves the pavilion in the summer; when you see the trolley roll in, you're taken back 50 years.

This site has three areas: Vintage Postcards, where you can see old views and their modern equivalent; the Pavilions, which details the various bandshells built on the Indian campground;and The Lake Today, which has pictures of the modern version in winter and summer. One more thing: the name. One day Col. Harry Leavenworth, assigned to Fort Snelling in the Minnesota territory, was riding his horse through the wilderness. He came upon a lake, and named it for his wife, who was still living out east. As he later explained, it was natural to give the lake his wife's name. He missed her; he thought of her often. And this was the most beautiful lake he had ever seen. all words & photos c. J. Lileks 1998 unless otherwise noted.