By Terry Thompson

Living in Snyder, N.Y., a leafy, underpopulated suburb of post-World War II Buffalo, my parents helped settle land far from the maddening city. Even in the late ’40s and early ’50s, urban areas were beginning to exhibit strain, their frequently neglected streets clogged with giant automobiles. Shiny Fords and gas-guzzling, chrome-covered products of General Motors hogged the roads, while providing freedom for a new generation certain of its place in the world.

Cars, as much as acres of open space, created the suburbs. In the words of a slightly sanctimonious song made popular by Pete
Seegar, broad stretches of undeveloped land were soon filled with “little boxes made of ticky tacky… and they all look the same.”

This was the background for my coming of age. It meant a loose-fitting conformity and lazy summer weekends when kids cut lawns and played baseball, and parents organized cocktail parties. The latter could turn boisterous. With generously mixed highballs, adults toasted a boundless America that was providing its citizens with safe neighborhoods and secure jobs.

The children were often regarded as ornaments, attractive possessions like a swimming pool or a color television. But we struck back at this nonchalance by smoking cigarettes and chugging warm beer in the tall field grass behind our houses. Getting tipsy mocked the antics of the grown-ups. Still, my uneasiness grew. I thought even then that the environment was stifling, and the sameness crushing to the imagination.

My life went on as I carried this nonmenacing baggage. Much later, married and seeking a self-defined authenticity, Lynne and I sought a different lifestyle in Minneapolis. We were offered jobs that paid well and absorbed the singularly rich arts and music culture. We also sought diversity in the people we met. As abused and ridiculed as the concept is, diversity for us meant not following lockstep our parents’ experience.

We had had enough of suburban routines and the sameness of neighborhood streets. We were ready for knowing more than five families on a block. We knew we were sheltered from people different from us, and we needed the acquaintance of men and women black and white, old and young, political and nonpolitical, straight and gay.

Because of its location, grounds, and club-style amenities, a big red brick condominium on the corner of 12th Street and LaSalle Avenue caught our attention. After we purchased our unit, we met homeowners who gave us privacy when we wanted it and fellowship when that was needed.   

We discovered Orchestra Hall two blocks away, strolled the Greenway to Walker Art Center, sampled restaurants on Nicollet Mall, journeyed on foot to Twins’ games at the Metrodome, and complained about the slip-sliding retail scene, its clumsy grab at the Downtown market.

We were akin to a cruise ship anchored in Loring Park, with an interesting passenger list. Free of stuffy social pretensions, the residents accepted simple rules that kept a population of 350 respectful of one another’s place.

Over the course of our 20-year stay, we have made lasting friends, cheered successes and mourned the dead. There is an intimacy in Downtown condo living that simply cannot be replicated in neighborhoods of single-family homes. We have met more vivid characters than you would meet most anywhere else, the great majority talented and friendly.

Here is a random sampling:

• Don is a benevolent minister with a modulating baritone I find pleasingly superior to that of James Earl Jones.

• Frank is a consultant and former political science professor from the University of Minnesota, who worries about Bush and conveys his concern to Republican and Democrat alike.

• Nancy is a compulsive exerciser and bane to City Hall for constantly reminding government officials of their neglect of the city’s infrastructure.     

• Jon and Robert are partners for life, a pianist and a former priest, respectively.

• Scott is our mail carrier who, at 18, turned down an appointment to the United States Military Academy in order to take care of his parents.  

• Dick and Carolyn boast a collection of pop art masterpieces that the Walker would find impressive.

• Robert is a multitalented Holocaust survivor, who, despite the trauma of escaping from the Nazis as a boy, buoys everyone with his cheerfulness. His wife Karen has chaired the boards of practically every major arts institution in town.

• Gwen is the gracious widow of the city’s first black school superintendent, still grieving in a dignified way for her husband.

• Ardell is our office manager, adroit, calm and responsible for keeping the boat from drifting to sea.

For these and all other residents, life is not perfect in our vertical home. We squabble over the budget, second-guess the choice of new carpeting, and challenge certain board decisions like revised swimming pool hours. Lately, we have been carping over Lunds’ vacillation to build a supermarket in the neighborhood. The conflicts, just the same, are manageable.  

The glory is the range of people we meet and speak with everyday. My parents’ exposure to new personalities and fresh ideas was restricted to a short block in our neighborhood. By contrast, we have a broad, colorful and accomplished assemblage at hand, each individual different from the other.

That, to me, is the bright appeal of Downtown condo living. We would not trade it for a McMansion on the lake or a spacious Colonial in a southwestern suburb. The grass is not greener away from the city, and we are happy in our home.

Terry Thompson lives in a Loring Green East condo in the Loring Park neighborhood.