Downtowns define our cities

If any part of a city defines a community, it is downtown.

For some places, that's not good news. Their city centers are a collection of boarded windows and drug dealers, a place for the most downcast of the poor to reside.

But even as malls bloom where cornfields once stood and freeways offer easy access to safe but soulless suburbs, time and time again people fret over the fate of their "downtown." Revital-ization efforts and grass roots efforts seek to rescue many from oblivion.

What should a downtown be? As City Manager Steve Atkins pointed out during the Optimist Club of Iowa City's meeting earlier this month, coming up with a consensus is difficult to say the least. And while he re-ferred to downtown Iowa City, he could have meant any downtown in the United States.

At the heart of all such issues is a romantic vision of what the community's center should be. Main Street, after all, is an American icon.

Two images remain prominent in our imaginations. Both were created by movie companies.

First is Disney's Main Street USA, which can be ex-perienced at the Magic Kingdom in either California or Florida. The turn of the century storefronts (which maintenance crews repaint each night) border brick streets, Victorian lampposts, park benches and water fountains. Shoppers may travel by foot or trolley to their destination. Whenever communities talk about beautifying their downtowns, they invariably mean this Disney dreamscape.

1950s small town America

The second vision is that of 1955 Hill Valley from the movie "Back to the Future." Built on a Universal Studio back lot, Hill Valley's quaint downtown centers on a town square with the courthouse at one end. A theater, diner, gas station, record store, bank and other businesses line the adjoining three streets. Whenever communities discuss what their downtowns should offer, they invariably mean those conventions we associate with 1950s small town America.

It is the downtown I most dream of. Growing up in the late 1960s, my family shopped weekly in the little town of Durand, Wis., population 1,500. Durand isn't much different than most small towns in Iowa. Its Main Street looks much like the one painted on the hardcover version of Garrison Keillor's "Lake Wobegon Days."

Each Thursday night - which was payday back then - Durand's stores remained open into the evening. My parents' sojourn usually began at the grocery store, which boasted a whole eight aisles.

Perhaps because of shopping there in my formative years, I disdain warehouse-sized supermarkets. After all, just how many salad dressings or kinds of Captain Crunch does a man really need? I'm shopping for groceries, not surfing the Web.

Being overwhelmed, ironically, is what made downtown Durand such a great place to be on Thurs-day nights. We weren't inundated with products, though, but with friendship.

Everyone went downtown Thursday night. If you needed clothes, the sales clerk at Skogmo's was certain to remember your size. If you wanted one of those newfangled color televisions, the hardware storeowner knew exactly what model black and white you were replacing. Teachers chatted with students lined up at the theater, old classmates ran into one another at the Ben Franklin five-and-dime, and the waitress at the Durand Café didn't have to ask what kind of pie you wanted for dessert.

Enter Minneapolis

While walking once with a friend though Minneapolis' downtown skyways, I was struck by a similar atmosphere. He worked at an office housed in the old WCCO-TV studios. Within a few blocks was the coffee shop where the girl remembered he didn't need extra room for cream and the Kinko's boy could recite the title of the last report he'd had photocopied.

But the vast number of people my friend didn't know - and never would, for that matter - also impressed me. He boasted that more people came to downtown Minneapolis each day than lived in the entire city.

They're a lot like all those salad dressings at the mega supermarket, I thought.

I don't mean to criticize Minneapolis; a lot of old friends and college acquaintances that I've lost touch with over the years probably work there. And places like downtown Minneapolis are necessary in a global economy.

But so are places like downtown Durand.

And that ultimately is what each of us wants from our downtown. The Disney-scape and Hill Valley stores are nice, but they're just the vinaigrette upon what really matters: a bowl full of friends who care about us, maybe even with a few odd seeds tossed in for flavor.

Downtown is about community, and people who worry about their Main Street primarily fear that loss of center in their lives.

(originally published January 20, 2003)