Joe Soucheray: There was our governor, westbound on Marshall, then into the security zone
Eastcliff, the handsome 20-room estate built by lumberman Edward Brooks in 1922 on Mississippi River Boulevard and Dayton Avenue and temporary home of Gov. Tim Walz, is now surrounded by physical security barriers and probably at least as many armed agents from various sources as Donald Trump has on hand when he plays golf.
Jersey Barriers line the St. Paul property down Dayton and then around the front of the house along the river. There is a home next door, to the south. For all we know, that place has been taken over by computer technicians and drone pilots up to their knees in empty pizza boxes and soda cans. Dayton is cut off at Otis Avenue. There are a couple of kiosks, too, that are not dissimilar to Checkpoint Charlie in Berlin.
Eastcliff is normally the residency of the president of the University of Minnesota, but Walz was installed there while the taxpayers dump $10 million to $15 million into the governor's residence worth half that, on Summit Avenue.
We love this stuff. We are eternally grounded in our hayseedness and just love it when we get so much attention, so many cameras, the visceral thrill of there even being the need for protective service in action.
Magically vanished are the scandals, the pandemic shutdown of small businesses, the blown surplus, a $10 billion tax increase, the ruinous incompetence in the tardy call for the National Guard during the George Floyd riots. The guy doesn't even own a lawnmower and suddenly he's America's Dad.
Walz is rarely at Eastcliff, but one Friday or Saturday night, I witnessed Walz returning home from another tough grilling on the campaign trail. His entourage favored Chevrolet Suburbans, black. If there was one Suburban there were six. The same people who preach climate change solutions could not function without their big SUVs. Not an electric vehicle in the bunch.
In any event, there was our governor westbound on Marshall Avenue. I couldn't actually see him behind the darkened windows. Maybe he had his hands folded as though in prayer while giving us that little bow he has performed on stage.
"Hey!" "Hello, Tim!" "Hi, Tim!" "Go get 'em, Tim!"
Into the secured zone they went.
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Where recently a tent was erected on Otis at Dayton, the back side of the residence. Right in the street. Not a big tent. One of those tents you rent for a backyard party. One lane of traffic at a time can squeeze past the tent.
The other day, I motioned to a guy in an unmarked SUV to roll down his window.
"What's the deal with the tent?" I asked.
You could get somebody out of a car under the tent if it was raining but you'd still be a good ways from the house. It did not offer any protection against ordnance.
"I don't know," the guy said.
"You don't know?"
"The Secret Service put it up," he said.
For just a fleeting moment, I thought about pressing the issue. It's our money on display, the tent, the Jersey Barriers, the steel fencing, the kiosks, the Suburbans, the unmarked cars, the manpower. I thought better of it. These fellows are taught not to suffer fools gladly.
I went on my way, wondering why in God's name the likes of Trump, Vance, Harris and Walz had ever become national timber.
Joe Soucheray can be reached at . Soucheray's "Garage Logic" podcast can be heard at garagelogic.com .
