Tag: Memory

From Lake Harriet to Christopher Street and Back Again

Remembering the Christopher Street That Held a Community

August 28, 2026

The distance between Lake Harriet and Christopher Street is more than a thousand miles, but memory has a way of collapsing distance without warning.

Not so much about individual people this time, but about the set. That’s what it felt like as I started putting the pieces back together.

There was Allstate Art, where I worked. Kiss My Cookies. Hercules on the corner. The loft a couple doors down. Boots and Saddles. Clyde’s. A Clean Well-Lighted Place, a lovely little gallery.

There was Richard White’s jewelry store. I remember Richard and his lover sitting behind the counters, working side by side. It was a dark little place, nothing flashy.

At Bleecker and Christopher was an Asian fruit stand. There was Paul Bolardo’s place further down Christopher. Across from Kiss My Cookies was a little photography store in a basement.

Then there was the food. Chicken from Jefferson Market for dinner. Turkey legs from the deli. Zito’s Bakery. And Rocco’s, where my favorite was the creamolata. Wonderful.

There were lots of other places, of course. These are simply the ones that stayed with me.

Together they made up this little world where we worked, ate, went out, saw friends and ran into people we knew.

It was a community, but today I was remembering the place that held the community.

And somewhere in the background was Sylvester singing “You Make Me Feel (Mighty Real),” probably drifting out of Boots and Saddles—also known as Bras and Girdles.

The drawing here isn’t Christopher Street. But somehow it feels right with these thoughts—pieces connected to pieces, the way memory sometimes works.

Today, for a little while, I could see the set again.

I wonder what part of it I’ll remember next.

— Bill Hendricks

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For more photographs, stories, and memories of Christopher Street, visit this Facebook group.

A Living Room Church

A Living Room Church

A personal memory about beginnings, community, and what history sometimes forgets.

Whimsical ink and watercolor drawing with a cross, house-like forms, curling vines, small figures, and a soft blue-violet wash suggesting shelter, spirit, and community.
**Dr. Seuss’s Heaven** — A tribute to Dr. Seuss, mixed media on paper, 2005 (approx. 6 × 9 in.) — A small drawing about the rhythm of life

 

There are stories that get polished over time, and stories that quietly disappear.

I’ve carried one of those quieter stories for years.

Long before MCC became what it is in Minnesota, there was a small gathering of us — a core group of gay men and friends trying to build spiritual community when such spaces were rare.

The original services were held in our living room on the 3400 block of Pillsbury Avenue South in Minneapolis.

Word spread by mouth. People came. We worshiped weekly. There were picnics, gatherings, friendship, and a real sense that something important was being born. The worship had a Catholic tone. It was heartfelt, searching, and deeply communal.

There were many involved — names I remember, and names I’ve lost — but I remember the spirit clearly.

Then life moved on. Michael and I joined the Air Force, and I was stationed in California. MCC continued to grow. It moved beyond our living room, then into other spaces, eventually finding a home at the Minneapolis Friends Meeting House.

That was also how I first encountered Quakerism — another thread that would shape my life.

I’ll admit: over the years I sometimes felt forgotten, as though those early beginnings had faded from memory. But memory is a tricky thing. Institutions grow, stories simplify, and humble beginnings can disappear into history.

What remains for me is gratitude that I got to witness — and in some small way help hold — the beginning of something that mattered.

And I was deeply happy to see it grow.