KEEPING THE HEAT ON UNTIL THE ICE IS OUT

JANUARY 23, 2026 – This morning we woke up to find that the outside temp was “A LOT” below zero, the lowest all week. At least the sun was shining, ever higher and brighter, if not warmer, as the North Pole shifts incrementally but inexorably toward the sun . . . at least till the summer solstice. By 11:30, the mercury had risen to MINUS 12F. According to my rules, I was exempt from skiing (the threshold is MINUS 10F), but any temptation to avail myself of the rules was swiftly eradicated by the following logic: Since I was hellbent on attending the widely publicized anti-ICE demonstration in downtown Minneapolis this afternoon, how in good conscience could I exempt myself from skiing this morning?

I couldn’t, so I drove to “Little Switzerland” for three rounds (cycles up and down St. Moritz) against the cold before retreating home.

After my feet and hands were sufficiently thawed, I suited up again, this time for the protest. Conditions were way too cold for Beth and our granddaughter who had the day off from school and was staying warm and comfortable at our house. They both strongly oppose “Operation Metro Surge” and deputized me as their representative.

Given the extreme cold, I wasn’t sure what to expect. Would others be discouraged by the unaccommodating weather? Part of the answer had already been provided by a neighbor, Bruce. He’d intercepted me in the alley just after I’d returned from skiing. He was wearing his wool cap that bore the design and colors of the Norwegian flag—complementing my blue-tasseled wool ski cap sporting blue and yellow stripes and a small Swedish flag in front. Earlier this morning, Bruce had taken his young grandchildren to a smaller demonstration at the (busy) intersection of Larpenteur and Lexington, three-quarters of a mile from our house. Well dressed for the occasion, they’d successfully defied the cold. Among the small group was two-time gubernatorial candidate and State Senator John Marty.

On the six mile drive down Larpenteur/Hennepin Avenue from Falcon Heights to downtown Minneapolis, I encountered a dozen or so pods of protesters at intersections along the way. They were bundled for endurance against the cold and waved their anti-ICE/anti-Trump signs vigorously. When I honked approval and opened my window and waved my own “ICE OUT!” sign, the intrepid demonstrators cheered and waved their signs ever more vigorously.

As I turned onto Third Avenue, I began to see people carrying protest signs and walking in twos, threes and fours toward the bridge into downtown. After crossing, I saw many more people pouring along the sidewalks until I reached Third Street—the main course of the demonstration. There my progress was blocked by a phalanx of volunteers wearing bright green/yellow vests over classic Minnesota outerwear—designed for warmth, not fashion awards. Behind them a massive crowd of demonstrators, well-armed with American flags and protest signs and packed together like walking sardines, moved slowly by, as if transported by an airport moving walkway. I’d never seen anything quite like it—an endless stream of people bundled up like spectators at the annual U.S. Pond Hockey Championships on Lake Nokomis in south Minneapolis. I stopped and watched for several minutes from the warmth of my car. What I found most striking about these fellow Minnesotans was their order and organization. If they were the “radical extremist leftists” as I’d heard them described in statements by officials of The Regime and their surrogates in the sphere of rightwing media and social media posts, these protesters conducted themselves as model members of society. I couldn’t help but note the contrast between their comportment and the savagery of ICE agents dragging people from their cars, kneeling on people against the pavement, breaking into homes, and . . . worse . . . with little regard for citizenship, threat of escape or retaliation, or Constitutional rights.

Being just two blocks from the office building where I went to work every day for close to 20 years, I knew the area well—including the obscure alley that cuts over to Fourth Avenue and the Gateway Ramp. I entered the ramp and found it filled to the gills. Once parked, I hiked to the end of my level for a bird’s eye view of the protester parade below. The scene filled me with the warmth of hope and solidarity, which as much as my multiple layers of clothing, gave comfort from the 10-below air and northwest wind.

Soon I was in the thick of the crowd moving along Third Street to the northeast toward Target Center, the destination of the march (from its start at The Commons on the northeast side of U.S. Bank Stadium). Ironically, nearly everyone wore some kind of face covering—a scarf, a mask or, as in my case, a beard. But no one appeared to be impatient or in any hurry to leave. I pondered this distinct sense of camaraderie, unity of purpose and determination to resist until the ICE is out. Moreover, this enormous gathering exuded courtesy and politeness. In the unavoidable mix of signs and caps, arms and elbows, people were constantly apologizing among their neighbors: “Oh, sorry!” –“No problem”; “Oops, didn’t mean to step on your heel!” –“Don’t worry about it”; “Ah . . .oh, what . . . Oh, like your sign” –“Sorry! Didn’t mean to hit you with it. I like your sign too.” –“Thanks”; and so on.

For another perspective, I cut across the slow-moving crowd to circle around the block and get some distance ahead. On the far side of the federal building I encountered a pick-up truck with a its box filled with a sound system belting out a medley of great tunes—a mix of Mexican and some old Pete Seeger and Woody and Arlo Guthrie songs.

From that location, I backtracked several blocks toward the starting point of the march, where people were still gathering. Nowhere did I see any uniformed police or other law enforcement personnel. Each intersection was patrolled by a group of trained volunteers with the grass roots pro-democracy organization, Indivisible Twin Cities. I approached one of these volunteers, who was especially well bundled up, head to toe, including ski goggles. She was a young woman who cheerfully fielded my questions about their role and training. I thanked her for her effort, whereupon she encouraged me to sign up to volunteer.

By objective standards, there was absolutely no evidence anywhere around me that would justify calling up federal troops and sending them to Minnesota to “restore order and protect the community.” There is no disorder to restore—except the disorder caused by ICE—and to protect the community, Minnesota must be protected from ICE, not terrorized by it.

After an hour, my feet and hands were veritable ice cubes. I wasn’t moving fast enough to generate enough internal heat, despite my multiple layers. On a modest scale, however, I’d accomplished my mission; I’d join with others to demonstrate openly, publicly our vehement opposition to ICE specifically and The Regime generally.

On my way home I swung by the Roseville post office to drop off a load of books for Beth. Traffic on the main arteries in the vicinity was unusually light, and the parking lot surrounding Rosedale Mall seemed largely abandoned. These signs were a good indication, I figured, that the call for a general strike in opposition to ICE had been widely observed.

Just after sundown, about 90 minutes after I’d returned to the house, I happened to open our front door to check for mail that might’ve gotten stuck in the mail slot. To my amazement, in each direction as far as I could see, was a heel-to-toe line of sign- and flag-carrying protesters marching down the sidewalk along our side of the street. I’d never seen anything like this in our quiet neighborhood. I cheered them, raised my clenched fist in the air and shouted, “We’re with you! We’re with you!” The marchers cheered in response. They were too bundled up for me to recognize anyone, but when one of them called out to me by name, I recognized the voice—Greg Weyandt, one street up and two blocks over from us. A prominent Minneapolis lawyer/mediator, Greg and I enjoyed many spirited conversations aboard the bus to and from work back in the day. His presence among the ranks filing by our house suggested that this impressive crowd comprised people from the neighborhood extending to blocks around, returning not from the downtown demonstration but from another site closer by. I was proud of every single one of these people—and again, heartened by our solidarity.

If you are in despair over what’s happened to our country, take heart. The heat is on in cold Minnesota, and we in our unfashionable but utilitarian wool caps and scarves, wool-lined chopper mittens, felt-lined boots, neoprene masks and multi-layered winter garb will keep the heat on until the ICE is gone.

Decent people of America, unite for the dignity of all!

Subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

© 2026 by Eric Nilsson