In July 1931, thousands assembled nightly at 46th and Columbus in protest, many hurling taunts and rocks at a home recently purchased by a black family.
Winter still held Minneapolis in its grip. But up on the roof of the Treasure Masters building, 605 Fourth Av. S., the lawn already needed mowing.
Carried around the globe by massive troop movements at the end of World War I, "Spanish influenza" infected nearly half the world's population and killed more than 20 million people. In October 1918, word of the flu's growing presence in Minnesota began appearing on the front page of the Minneapolis Morning Tribune, below the news from the battlefields of Europe.
How did homebound children get their fix of Dick Tracy and Little Orphan Annie during a polio outbreak? To the rescue came Minneapolis Mayor Hubert H. Humphrey.
Like many other customs, that of sending people on silly and fruitless errands on the first day of April, or "April Fools' Day" as it is commonly called, is lost in the mists of antiquity, a tolerably certain indication that the custom is not one of religious origin or having any connection therewith, as some have supposed.
In a page one story, the Tribune's Carl T. Rowan reported on a University of Minnesota study of "racial attitudes of middle-class whites in a northern metropolis." Researchers found plenty of prejudice in the City of Lakes in the early 1950s.
The average issue of the TRIBUNE is eight pages, containing 56 columns. Every night for such an issue there are picked up from the type cases 458,528 letters!
More than a century ago, the managing editor at a "great morning paper like the Tribune" had a great many responsibilities. He spent a few hours each day just opening mail, dictating letters, fending off job applicants and pacifying "cranks," all without the aid of an iPad. The Tribune explains:
In a column given prominent play on the front page of the Minneapolis Tribune, Joe Soucheray captured the senseless hooliganism that took hold after the final Vikings' final game at Met Stadium on Dec. 20, 1981.
Let's hope Minneapolis Tribune photographer Earl Seubert had plenty of candy on hand when these cheerful "trick-and-treaters" leaned through his storm door to face his camera.
Hartman's first bylined column, "The Roundup," appeared in the Minneapolis Daily Times, tucked away with the agate type on the bottom of the Daily Times' second sports page. The lead story on the front page that day: "Tojo Shoots Self as U.S. Officers Attempt His Arrest."
This odd map of the United States may seem at first glance to be a cubist artist's conception of the familiar geographical outlines of our country, but it has a strictly utilitarian purpose. It is known as the map of the "electrical United States" and pictures graphically the number of household users of electricity in each state.
Puckett made his major league debut on May 8, 1984, going 4-for-5 in a 5-0 Twins victory over the Angels. His debut would have come a day earlier but for some unexpected delays.
In 1948, the State Medical Association honored Dr. William Wallace Will as Minnesota's outstanding general practitioner in recognition of his four decades of work caring for the people of Bertha, Minn.
After a tour of Twin Cities landmarks, the 87-year-old champion of American modernist architecture addressed the annual meeting of the Citizens League of Minneapolis and Hennepin County.
The U.S. soccer team's shocking 1-0 victory over England in the 1950 World Cup has inspired several books, a movie and scores of anniversary stories. But the upset generated only a few sentences in the Minneapolis papers the next day.
The mosquito has a proboscis like an elephant, only not so large. It will, however, look nearly as large under a good microscope.
A Minneapolis Tribune photographer followed the Donald F. Anderson family into the wilds of northern Minnesota and captured the images below for Picture magazine.
Daniel Hoyt telephoned City Clerk Knott yesterday that he had shot a coyote "at 30 rods" from his house, 395 Twenty-third avenue southeast, and that he would appear soon at the city hall to claim a bounty of $7.50.
Before Fixit, there was Mr. Fixit, a quirky amalgam of Dear Abby, Google and T.D. Mischke. He deftly answered questions about food stains, home repair and city ordinances. But he also offered advice to the lovelorn and offbeat philosophical musings. And if you had a question of an extremely personal nature, he'd send you a response by mail, provided you sent him a stamped, self-addressed envelope. An interactive feature of the first order!