The architectural world is buzzing with news about several important and exciting building projects in Minneapolis, foremost among them the newly remodeled Walker Art Center. The refurbished museum of contemporary art opened on April 17 to much fanfare. Located on Hennepin Avenue near Interstate 94 and Loring Park, the new building was designed by the Swiss architects Jacques Herzog and Pierre de Meuron. I’ve seen its new aluminum-clad addition only from the interstate, but I look forward to taking a closer look.

Architectural critics have warmly received the new Walker. Larry Millett, retired Pioneer Press architectural critic, had high praise for the building. “Predictions are hazardous,” he writes in an April 10 column, “but the addition may well come to be seen as the first great 21st-century building in the Twin Cities, not just because of its novel appearance but also because it performs its public duties so well and with the kind of wit and spirit that renews your faith in the possibilities of architecture.”

In a New York Times article, Nicolai Ouroussoff describes the new museum as “an exhilarating place to view art” and admires its interior greatly, though he is somewhat critical of the new aluminum tower. He argues that the tower is less daring than it ought to have been, “a minor but unfortunate blemish on an otherwise enchanting design.” Like others, he notes that the tower’s reflective exterior makes it indistinct against the sky.

Star Tribune architectural critic Linda Mack has a similar take on the building in her review, noting that the architects wanted to cover the tower, or “cube” as she calls it, with “a stretched fabric skin.” Museum leaders balked at the cost for this innovative exterior, and the result, Mack says, is a crinkled aluminum exterior that is “frigid” and “grits the teeth.” She has better things to say about the interior, which is where the “genius” and “brilliance” of the new building are revealed. “Outside, it’s a conundrum,” she writes “Inside, it’s fun but not condescending, crisp but not cold, edgy but not cutting.”

Local author James Lileks, no slouch at architectural criticism himself, was less kind to the new Walker in his Star Tribune column: “Few buildings evoke a visceral, instantaneous sense of dread and horror like the new Walker. It’s not just a big brutal oversized lump of metal dropped amongst the churches and trees. It’s not just a collection of blank walls punctuated with random trapezoids.

“It’s a Rock ‘em Sock ‘em Robot Head. And it’s ANGRY.”

In an earlier April 10 article, Mack went so far as to call the Walker the beginning of a “cultural rebirth” for Minneapolis. “It will be followed,” she writes, “by French architect Jean Nouvel’s monumental Guthrie Theater on the riverfront, Cesar Pelli’s wing-topped downtown library and Michael Graves’ more traditional additions to the Minneapolis Institute of Arts and Children’s Theatre.”

We have much to look forward to on the architectural front.

A Star Tribune graphic, published in conjunction with coverage of the new pope, presents an overview of the major religious denominations in Minnesota and how they changed between 1990 and 2000. Catholics make up by far the largest single group, though the various Lutheran denominations, when combined, are not far behind–both at about 1.2 million people, each totaling about 25% of Minnesota’s population. My mainline Protestant denomination, the United Methodist Church, is relatively small at 118,000. The Methodist Church showed the largest drop among the major groups–17 percent in 10 years, which does not bode well for its future. I’m uncertain as to why the list does not show other mainline Protestant groups, such as the United Church of Christ and Episcopal churches.

What a difference a week makes at this time of year. Last week our southern Minnesota landscape seemed barren, with few flowers blooming and the grass still dormant. This week the scene here in Northfield has changed greatly. Magnolia trees, forsythia bushes, and daffodils are blooming, and the grass has greened up with some recent rain. In our own garden, we have an encouraging number of tulips rising, though none have flowered yet. The trees are gradually beginning to come into leaf.

Of course, the threat of frost is still real through May in our area and into June for northern parts of the region, reminding us that cold temperatures are the major limiting factor for plant life in the Upper Midwest. Anything planted here now had better be truly hardy.

Most plants are sold with an indication of their “hardiness zones”–the areas in which they can survive. The most widely used zones are those developed by the U.S. Department of Agriculture (USDA). The USDA Plant Hardiness Zone Map is a thing of beauty and is also quite geographically instructive. It covers Canada and Mexico as well as the United States–a fact I appreciate, since it gets those of us in the U.S. out of our all too nationalistic mindset. Looking at such a map we can see patterns of climate that extend across national boundaries.

The plant hardiness zones are numbered one through eleven and are based on average annual minimum temperature. Why is annual minimum temperature so important? Because low temperature is a primary source of stress for plants. (See the “Hardiness Zone Details” page for a list of zones.) Zone 1, for example, has an average annual minimum temperature below ?50 F. In other words, on average its lowest temperature of the year (its annual minimum) is lower than ?50 F. Sitting for the most part on the northernmost edges of the continent, Zone 1 is truly arctic; it includes Fairbanks, Alaska and Resolute, Northwest Territories.

Each zone has an annual minimum temperature range ten degrees higher (F) than the last. So, Zone 2 has an average annual minimum temperature range between ?50 and ?40 F, Zone 3 is ?40 to ?30 F, etc. At the other end of the scale, Zone 11 has an average annual minimum temperature above 40 F–making it frost-free. In North America, that gentle climate exists only in Mexico. The same zone also covers most of the Hawaiian Islands.

Zones 2 through 10 are further subdivided into “a” and “b” ranges–2a, 2b, 3a, 3b, etc. These a and b designations represent ranges of 5 degrees F in the annual minimum temperature. Zone 2b, for example, has an average annual minimum that is five degrees warmer than Zone 2a. Zone 10b, which includes southern Florida, has an average annual minimum temperature ranging from 35 to 40 F. So it, like Zone 11, is frost-free.

What about the Upper Midwest? Looking at the map of the continent as a whole, you can see the cold, low-numbered blue zones reaching down from Canada into the U.S. The coldest zone that touches the lower 48 states is Zone 2b, which reaches only into northern Minnesota; its average annual minimum is ?45 to ?40 F.

Looking at the “North-Midwest US” hardiness zone map for a more close-up view, the mildest parts of the region are in southern Iowa and eastern Wisconsin, which are in Zones 5a and 5b. In Zone 5b, located around Milwaukee, the average annual minimum temperature is ?15 to ?10 F, 30 degrees warmer than the coldest parts of northern Minnesota. (Urban areas tend to be warmer.)

Jumping back to the continental map, we can get some idea of how the Upper Midwestern minimum temperatures compare to those in other parts of the continent. The coldest parts of northern Minnesota have lows that are on par with those on the southern shore of Hudson Bay, the central parts of Canada’s prairie provinces, parts of interior Alaska, and the southern portion of Baffin Island–the latter two being very northern places indeed. Those parts of the region in Zones 3 and 4 are comparable to northeastern Montana, southern Ontario and Quebec, northernmost New York state and northern New England. Finally, the warmest parts of the region share their zone–Zone 5–with states stretching from Nebraska and Kansas to Pennsylvania.

What we have here in the Upper Midwest, therefore, is a great deal of climatic diversity, and we must choose our plants carefully.

We are in that time of year when the snow has melted, the days are warmer, and the sun is higher in the sky, but the earth has not yet greened over. The grass is still dormant and yellowish. Buds are on the trees, but the landscape still looks raw with the mark of winter’s cold touch. The threat of frost is still real, and nature, wise with many years of experience, steps out gingerly into the new season.

It’s not the prettiest time of year in the Upper Midwest. While warmer places revel with riotous flowers, we wait patiently, content with a few brave crocuses.

My thoughts and eyes have turned to the modest garden plots in our small yard. We live in a townhouse and have a little space for gardening in a courtyard, along the front walk, and in the back. We inherited a garden when we moved here last summer, and if all goes well its hostas, morning glories, thyme, rosemary, hens and chicks, and other plants will come back. We added tulips and black-eyed susans last fall.

I have two regional gardening books to help me: Gardening in the Upper Midwest, by Leon C. Snyder (Univ. of Minnesota Press, 1978), borrowed from my parents; and The Minnesota Gardener’s Guide, by Melinda Myers (Cool Springs Press, 2001).

From these sources I’ve already learned that gardeners tell us a good deal about regional geography. They must be aware of their own climate and its suitability for various plants. For example, they need to know when to plant so that the frost does not kill new growth.

Here is what Leon Snyder writes about the Upper Midwestern climate:

“In the winter, the temperature can drop to -40? F or colder. In the summer, temperatures can climb to 100? F or higher. Not only does this area have extremes of temperature but it also has a fluctuating rainfall. Summer droughts are not uncommon. Generally, the rainfall decreases as one moves in a northwesterly direction. Average annual rainfall in our area ranges from about 28 inches in the southeast to about 16 inches in the northwest. Fortunately, most of this rainfall comes during the growing season.” (p. 3)

In her discussion of climate, Melinda Myers analyzes frost dates. The last spring frost is a crucial determinant of when a gardener can plant. The number of frost-free days (on average) is obtained by counting the number of days between the last spring frost and the first fall frost. “The frost-free season varies from 107 to 160 days in southern Minnesota,” Myers writes, “and from 90 to 120 days in the northern part of the state.”

That means the colder parts of northern Minnesota are only frost-free for one quarter to one third of the year–from early or mid-June to late August, according to the map in her book. Southern Minnesota, including the Twin Cities, is generally frost-free from early May to early October. No part of the state is frost-free, on average, more than half the year. Although a night that falls to 30? F might be followed only hours later by a high temperature in the 50’s or 60’s, the region is indeed cold. But we already knew that.

Next week: More on geography and gardening, including links to pretty maps.

The name of the subdivision where I spent most of my childhood years is strangely grand: Imperial Hills. It sits in the city of Plymouth, a western suburb of Minneapolis, among other subdivisions such as Hadley Hills, Sunny Acres, Greentree, and Pinecrest–all pleasant, optimistic names, but generally not bearing much relationship to anything contained therein. We used the names nevertheless. They told us where friends lived, how to get from one place to another.

Our house in Imperial Hills–a name that seems more ominous today, when the United States is a lone superpower, than it did when I was a child–was built in the early 1970’s, a split-level in a subdivision of split-level and two-story colonial houses. Ours was one of the more modest homes, but there wasn’t that much difference between them. A sense of equality existed among we subdivision dwellers, though that sense did not necessarily extend to those who lived outside the subdivisions, as I will explain.

We lived in Wayzata Public School District, which includes not only much of Plymouth, but also the older homes of Wayzata–a smaller, older town sitting on beautiful Lake Minnetonka, the enormous, many-bay-margined lake to the south–and some rural areas and small towns to the north and west. Wayzata has some huge houses, although many of these kids went to private schools. I later came to see my classmates at my Wayzata High School as falling roughly into three large groups–the wealthier group living in Wayzata (though not everyone there is wealthy), some of whom belonged to Wayzata Country Club; a group from Plymouth, made up of newer suburbs; and kids from rural areas such as Hamel.

Although these class divisions existed as I was growing up, today the class divide seems to have worsened. As evidence, I point to new home construction. What I see being built today looks very different from Imperial Hills.

New houses today seem different to me and tend to be either of two types: huge, expensive homes, many of them boxy “McMansions,” or townhouses and condominiums. There’s not much in between being built. I don’t see very many new neighborhoods like ours, where the houses are more modest. We seem to have entered into a less egalitarian era, one in which the populace is divided into the professional/executive/successful entrepreneurial class and everybody else.

Before I continue being righteous, I should note that our house was bigger than the typical house of the 1950’s and earlier. Many of the latter exist not far from Imperial Hills–alongside Highway 101 and in the more modest parts of Wayzata. Houses seem to be getting bigger and bigger, and ours represented one step in that process. That being said, the difference between the biggest new homes and the new townhouses and condos seems larger than ever. The trend in our capitalistic society is towards greater inequality, and I can only wonder at what that will bring.

My parents still live in our split-level house in Imperial Hills. I feel fortunate, over thirty years later, to still be visiting them there. Not much has changed. Many people have added on to their homes, and there is a new neighborhood of McMansions to the northwest, but for the most part it seems the same.

The neighborhood still has its brick gates at the main entrance. These bear its name in white letters, some of which are missing now. My mother tells me that the loss of the letters has led to calls for a revival of the now-defunct neighborhood association. The association used to organize a Fourth of July parade, a summer picnic, and luminaria for Christmas. I suppose that was when the neighborhood was newer–brand new, for the most part–and younger with more children running through it. For the neighborhood’s sake, and for the sake of its inhabitants, I hope they will renew the association and fix the sign. A subdivision with a grand name deserves at least that much.

On a Daily Show January 25, correspondent Rob Corddry interviewed a local official in downtown St. Paul’s Rice Park. Corddry concluded the segment by an attempt at a joke: he began shouting about the cold weather, yelling, “Why would anyone in their right mind live here? It’s f—— cold!” As Corddry went on, the official–who was taken aback, as most Daily Show interviewees are–gave a stock regional reply that was probably missed by most viewers as Corddry continued his rant: “It keeps the riff-raff out.”

Corddry’s comment was similar to one uttered by Liam Gallagher, the snide frontman for the British band Oasis, at a concert I attended at Northrop Auditorium in Minneapolis in the late nineties. It was a cold winter night, and, though it was warm inside, apparently Mr. Gallagher didn’t like the weather. “Why the f— do you people live here?” he asked in between songs. I didn’t know how to take the comment–as a punk-rock insult hurled from the stage and part of the show, or as the comment of an insensitive, ignorant boob? I’ve always though of it as more of the latter, and I’ve never liked Oasis much since then. Certainly I’ve never bought another Oasis recording.