Nico's furrowed face is outlined by long curly dried-out locks the color of iron. His round body moves like that of a Beijing CP politico: smoothly, leading from the belly, and with a keen awareness of its own power. His demeanor is frightening a little, as he intends it to be. He has an excellent sense of showmanship when it comes to self-presentation I think.
He keeps two dogs - living props that provide image-support. Their square jaws and deep bellowing barks menace any passersby who stray too closely to the chain-link fence. He's a cussing, rowdy, son-of-a-bitch (this will be ironic later) whose tirades can last for several hours; his voice is my frequent companion on cool afternoons when the window is open. In Nico-lingua, the F-word is usually a negative adjective but it can also be a demeaning noun or verb. Last week, a triple-threat parts-of-speech f-bomb assailed my aural cavities as I relaxed behind the hedge. "Why the f*** are you f***ing with the f***ing windows? Just leave it the f*** alone!" I'm not the recipient of the curse-o-matic combo, so I can giggle from my seat.
Swearing doesn't offend me. It just sounds silly or cheap or uneducated. And sometimes ugly. But usually it makes me laugh because it's just so ridiculous. I'm not a swearer. Not since high school (now you see it).
Several months ago, Nico leveraged his Harley Davidson and his street-cred into an official Hell's Angels membership. He tromped out of the kitchen and into the yard, his new members leather jacket gleaming over his fluffy flannel man-jammies, spinning in front of me from across the fence. "Get a look at this," he bleated gruffly, like a child with his first home-made ashtray. "What do you think of that?"
I gazed at the Hell's Angels logo emblazened across the back. His face was a mixture of pride, teenage rebellion, and Christmas morning delight (the latter of which kind of ruined the whole Hell's-Angels-mugster-persona thing. No self-respecting law-flouter had any business looking that joyful). His shamefaced bravado as he awaited my response suggested that perhaps he wanted my approval, felt silly that he wanted it, knew that he probably wouldn't get it, was ready with his defense if he didn't, but still really hoped he would anyway. I smiled at this rough middle-aged man twenty years my senior. "Well, congratulations, Nico. Looks like that's quite an honor." He's so tickled he almost wiggles.
Now Nico spends his days feeding me Hell's Angels tidbits. He perches on his wood-latticed terrace, spraying his freshly-seeded grass, his jacket hung from a lawn chair as if on display (which it is). On any given day I learn that Hell's Angels is really just a nice club, filled with members who travel the world on their Harleys doing good, not evil. He expounds on the goodness of their deeds at great length, and also on their stoic silent suffering at the hands of society and especially, the police. They are benevolent do-gooders, misunderstood by the world because of a few bad apples. I smile and offer sympathy. It really is rough to be a down-trodden biker isn't it?
Yesterday I was in my usual morning out-of-sight hedge spot. Nico wandered out with his typical nonchalance for physical aethestics - his iron mane in wild disarray and his wife beater pulled up over his protuberant belly. He approached his fiercest dog, Chuckles, who was sniffing me through the fence links. Unaware of my presence, he leaned over the bulldog and ruffled her all over, talking to her in the gentlest of baby voices. "Is that my girl? How's my sweetie? Are you my sweet baby girl? Are you my girl? Who's your daddy? Huh? Who loves you most Chuckles? Who loves you?" I froze, not out of personal embarrassment but because I know that most humans resent even unwitting intrusions upon their secrets. I doubt Nico will overlook my witness to a trait he considers weak: vulnerability. Nico doesn't know that I see right through that facade of his. He may look bad; he may BE bad sometimes; but his innate nature is as soft and pliant as a newborn kitten. Somewhere, if he had a mother, there is a silent-home movie of scrawny little Nico with gentle pleading eyes handing his mother a bunch of dandelions.
Nico is exactly like Ozzy Osbourne from the Osbournes: a bat-head-eating devil-worshipper on display who spends his evenings sipping Earl Grey tea on the couch with his lap dog and looking overwhelmed by the antics of his much scarier wife and children. Nico spends his life biting heads in public but at home (between screamings) Nico spends most of his time tinkering on his bike, seeding the lawn, chatting with the neighbors, adopting a young protege he calls "Wonderboy" and passing out BBQ bounty like a meat-laden Santa.
Will I ever tell him that he's sweet and huggable?
Naw......it would be too cruel.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Going Carless
I don't have a car.
Well, at least, I didn't,
I don't want one you see. I've been living without one for over a year and I can count the times on one hand I've really needed one.
I bike. And El. And Metra.
I'm a reverse commuter. It takes me an hour and fifteen minutes door-to-door to my new job. I hop on my orange Trek in my black dress slacks, frilly taupe blouse, and over-sized silver hoops. My 2 inch t-strap wedges dig into the sharp-toothed pedals. And I go.
I hurtle through the early-morning traffic and snigger at the daily pileup at Roosevelt Rd. You poor slobs. I slip through the 12-inch opening. I meet the stares and smile broadly. Why is it so weird for a dressed up woman to bike? Men do it all the time.
As I travel, I smell things. In China, I used to name stinky smells: fried rotten tofu, gym socks smell, seeping sewage, chemical smells, burning coal, garlic-n-body odor. They were distinct smells - encountered on a daily basis. But there were other smells too (most of them food) - spicy mutton fat over an open fire, oil sticks, fried garlic, flatbread with chives, roses, magnolias, purple-y wisteria vines over the endless bike racks, diesel fuel. I smell things in Berwyn: magnolia trees, dill, basil, wet grass, french fries, exhaust fuel hovering above pavement, dead squirrel, and then the sharp harsh smell of some tree that I haven't yet identified. I love them all (even the squirrel) because they make me feel alive.
I pull up to a bike rack at my station and in one fluid motion, I dismount, set down my heavy bag, unhook my pant tie - and in a moment - I'm a professional. I wheel my black briefcase into the coffee shop, pausing to wipe the sweat with a tissue. And then I'm on the train.
I like the reverse commute. Who would ever drive this route? You're all crazy, just so you know. I listen to NPR and sip cinnamon dark roast coffee while planning my day on my Dell. My favorite conductor is Bill with the reddish-brown beard. He winks at me most days when he punches my 10-ride ticket. I smile and twinkle back - friendly.
I exit at a tree-lined station and walk the final mile. I smile and say "good morning" to every person I meet. They mostly like it, although some look at me like I'm crazy. But it makes me laugh when they do that. How did people get so disconnected anyways? I get lots of stares again: maybe it's because I'm still a little bit cute and not quite old or fat yet. Or maybe my fly is open. Who knows? Maybe it's boogers. Or maybe people just like to watch other people as much as I do. But I get stares every single morning - walking or biking. Maybe Americans aren't used to seeing active people in everyday pursuits. I guess I'm supposed to go put on a sports bra and spandex. But then, I'd still get stares, now wouldn't I?
I like this lifestyle. When I buy my house, it's going to be next to public transportation like now.
Well, at least, I didn't,
I don't want one you see. I've been living without one for over a year and I can count the times on one hand I've really needed one.
I bike. And El. And Metra.
I'm a reverse commuter. It takes me an hour and fifteen minutes door-to-door to my new job. I hop on my orange Trek in my black dress slacks, frilly taupe blouse, and over-sized silver hoops. My 2 inch t-strap wedges dig into the sharp-toothed pedals. And I go.
I hurtle through the early-morning traffic and snigger at the daily pileup at Roosevelt Rd. You poor slobs. I slip through the 12-inch opening. I meet the stares and smile broadly. Why is it so weird for a dressed up woman to bike? Men do it all the time.
As I travel, I smell things. In China, I used to name stinky smells: fried rotten tofu, gym socks smell, seeping sewage, chemical smells, burning coal, garlic-n-body odor. They were distinct smells - encountered on a daily basis. But there were other smells too (most of them food) - spicy mutton fat over an open fire, oil sticks, fried garlic, flatbread with chives, roses, magnolias, purple-y wisteria vines over the endless bike racks, diesel fuel. I smell things in Berwyn: magnolia trees, dill, basil, wet grass, french fries, exhaust fuel hovering above pavement, dead squirrel, and then the sharp harsh smell of some tree that I haven't yet identified. I love them all (even the squirrel) because they make me feel alive.
I pull up to a bike rack at my station and in one fluid motion, I dismount, set down my heavy bag, unhook my pant tie - and in a moment - I'm a professional. I wheel my black briefcase into the coffee shop, pausing to wipe the sweat with a tissue. And then I'm on the train.
I like the reverse commute. Who would ever drive this route? You're all crazy, just so you know. I listen to NPR and sip cinnamon dark roast coffee while planning my day on my Dell. My favorite conductor is Bill with the reddish-brown beard. He winks at me most days when he punches my 10-ride ticket. I smile and twinkle back - friendly.
I exit at a tree-lined station and walk the final mile. I smile and say "good morning" to every person I meet. They mostly like it, although some look at me like I'm crazy. But it makes me laugh when they do that. How did people get so disconnected anyways? I get lots of stares again: maybe it's because I'm still a little bit cute and not quite old or fat yet. Or maybe my fly is open. Who knows? Maybe it's boogers. Or maybe people just like to watch other people as much as I do. But I get stares every single morning - walking or biking. Maybe Americans aren't used to seeing active people in everyday pursuits. I guess I'm supposed to go put on a sports bra and spandex. But then, I'd still get stares, now wouldn't I?
I like this lifestyle. When I buy my house, it's going to be next to public transportation like now.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Blogging Amityville Horror
I am live blogging the original Amityville Horror. I thought it was time to see it. This post is filled with spoilers.
10:00 I hate scary movies. Why am I watching this?
10:10 The realtor looks exactly like this woman from my parents' church. Husband mentions it and I laugh.
10:15 Why does the evil house wait a month to get nasty? Doesn't it hate them immediately? Is it waiting for autumn?
10:20 What exactly is happening to the priest in the upper room when he tries to do his exorcism? Are they buzzing him to death? Sucking his breath away with their high-powered wings? Are they impregnating his lungs with thousands of larvae in some sort of evil twisted virgin fly birth?
10:25 Margot Kidder is doing partially-nude ballet in the bedroom. Do any women actually do this? Shout out if you do please because I'd like to know.
10:30 Husband posits that they had to pull on the black cat's tail to get it to yowl like that. This makes me think of 3rd world zoos, where you can usually slip a few extra bucks into the attendant's palm to get them to poke the lions with a sharp stick so they'll roar. "Look kids....lion!"
10:33 A nun with some flowers is seriously freaking out. Where are the flies, I ask you? She's driving away in a rusty gran torino look-alike and now, puking. Evil houses make people of the cloth sick. Got it.
10:40 Ooohhhh! Evil house can control cars remotely. It crashes with the priest. Ha! There's a fly on his windshield. It's those omnipotent flies again. Do they cause the trouble? Or do they only show up because of the imminent feedings?
10:40 There's a babysitter with full dental head gear! In broad daylight! In public! Hooray!
11:00 MIDPOINT: Jody is a spirit girl who can control flies toward malignant purposes. Through Jody, flies cause breathing trouble, puking, open festering wounds, and car brake malfunctions. Jody apparently doesn't like people in her house. But she also really likes killing them, since she waits to take any nefarious actions until well after the time when she might have easily kept people from her home. Jody can close doors, turn off lights, and do cheap disappearing magic tricks with grooms' pockets and money. I don't know where the money goes. She can also mess with phone lines, or perhaps aural cavities (not sure which). Jody befriends precocious cute little girls in order to eventually throw blame, presumably so that she can keep up her dirty deeds as long as possible. Finally, Jody incites adult male madness.
11:05 I'd like you all to know that James Brolin is wandering around at night in his tighty whiteys. This makes me very happy.
11:15 James Brolin (now fully-clothed) has chosen to steal a rare book from the library. Why in the world didn't he use his library card? And now Margot Kidder is praying for help, which God has answered in the form of her scrappy lumberjack neighbor........ Who has just disappeared......Hmmmmmm.
11:30 There's a secret room in the basement (which is "a secret passage to hell"). James has just seen his face with red Halloween plastic devil horns on his head. Oh.....the cross has turned itself upside down and is all oily. That mischievous Jody.
11:40 Jody, or perhaps her flies, are trashing the angels at the church while the priest prays frantically. Wait a minute, that clever monkey, she only made him think that it was being trashed - thus blinding him. (No that sentence doesn't make any sense but it's exactly how it happens). Literally he sees the angel falling and then he's blind - but the angel didn't really fall.
11:40 I want to know why Jody sounds like a scratchy old polish man when she yells at people to get out.
11:50 Why is the helper-priest so unhelpful? There's no reason to be surly. Wouldn't he want to help everybody out?
12:00 And now, all hell breaks loose. James Brolin with wild crazy eyes, stomps about the house with his sharpened ax. Jody, who kind of looks like a baby gorilla with red eyes, watches from the upstairs. Margot Kidder turns a hundred and two (kind of like what she looked like in superman). Windows burst, stairs bleed profusely. James Brolin gets the family out and then goes back for Harry. He is drawn to the basement which is seeping smoke. He falls through the floor (no, no Jody - naughty monkey) and into oil. He's rich! No, but almost dead, if it weren't for Harry the wonder dog, who looks menacing but really just wants to save him from the goo. They leave together with a now goo-free James Brolin.
The end
10:00 I hate scary movies. Why am I watching this?
10:10 The realtor looks exactly like this woman from my parents' church. Husband mentions it and I laugh.
10:15 Why does the evil house wait a month to get nasty? Doesn't it hate them immediately? Is it waiting for autumn?
10:20 What exactly is happening to the priest in the upper room when he tries to do his exorcism? Are they buzzing him to death? Sucking his breath away with their high-powered wings? Are they impregnating his lungs with thousands of larvae in some sort of evil twisted virgin fly birth?
10:25 Margot Kidder is doing partially-nude ballet in the bedroom. Do any women actually do this? Shout out if you do please because I'd like to know.
10:30 Husband posits that they had to pull on the black cat's tail to get it to yowl like that. This makes me think of 3rd world zoos, where you can usually slip a few extra bucks into the attendant's palm to get them to poke the lions with a sharp stick so they'll roar. "Look kids....lion!"
10:33 A nun with some flowers is seriously freaking out. Where are the flies, I ask you? She's driving away in a rusty gran torino look-alike and now, puking. Evil houses make people of the cloth sick. Got it.
10:40 Ooohhhh! Evil house can control cars remotely. It crashes with the priest. Ha! There's a fly on his windshield. It's those omnipotent flies again. Do they cause the trouble? Or do they only show up because of the imminent feedings?
10:40 There's a babysitter with full dental head gear! In broad daylight! In public! Hooray!
11:00 MIDPOINT: Jody is a spirit girl who can control flies toward malignant purposes. Through Jody, flies cause breathing trouble, puking, open festering wounds, and car brake malfunctions. Jody apparently doesn't like people in her house. But she also really likes killing them, since she waits to take any nefarious actions until well after the time when she might have easily kept people from her home. Jody can close doors, turn off lights, and do cheap disappearing magic tricks with grooms' pockets and money. I don't know where the money goes. She can also mess with phone lines, or perhaps aural cavities (not sure which). Jody befriends precocious cute little girls in order to eventually throw blame, presumably so that she can keep up her dirty deeds as long as possible. Finally, Jody incites adult male madness.
11:05 I'd like you all to know that James Brolin is wandering around at night in his tighty whiteys. This makes me very happy.
11:15 James Brolin (now fully-clothed) has chosen to steal a rare book from the library. Why in the world didn't he use his library card? And now Margot Kidder is praying for help, which God has answered in the form of her scrappy lumberjack neighbor........ Who has just disappeared......Hmmmmmm.
11:30 There's a secret room in the basement (which is "a secret passage to hell"). James has just seen his face with red Halloween plastic devil horns on his head. Oh.....the cross has turned itself upside down and is all oily. That mischievous Jody.
11:40 Jody, or perhaps her flies, are trashing the angels at the church while the priest prays frantically. Wait a minute, that clever monkey, she only made him think that it was being trashed - thus blinding him. (No that sentence doesn't make any sense but it's exactly how it happens). Literally he sees the angel falling and then he's blind - but the angel didn't really fall.
11:40 I want to know why Jody sounds like a scratchy old polish man when she yells at people to get out.
11:50 Why is the helper-priest so unhelpful? There's no reason to be surly. Wouldn't he want to help everybody out?
12:00 And now, all hell breaks loose. James Brolin with wild crazy eyes, stomps about the house with his sharpened ax. Jody, who kind of looks like a baby gorilla with red eyes, watches from the upstairs. Margot Kidder turns a hundred and two (kind of like what she looked like in superman). Windows burst, stairs bleed profusely. James Brolin gets the family out and then goes back for Harry. He is drawn to the basement which is seeping smoke. He falls through the floor (no, no Jody - naughty monkey) and into oil. He's rich! No, but almost dead, if it weren't for Harry the wonder dog, who looks menacing but really just wants to save him from the goo. They leave together with a now goo-free James Brolin.
The end
Friday, July 10, 2009
Biking Through Woods on a Rainy Day
Do you think Frost will mind? And is mimicry truly the sincerest flattery? (probably)
Perhaps it is that my body is comprised of organic material. Something deep inside of me craves the flutter of wind-tickled leaves and the luminescent golden hue cast upon faded brick in the last 5 minutes of sunset. I need to bury my hands in powdery humus and to squish my toes in wet earth. And sometimes I need to immerse my entire being in the dark, mossy, decaying and vaguely menacing faerie world into which a steady drizzle has transformed my cheerful woods.
I set out clad in a red sports tank, my black yoga pants-leg affixed by an old hair scrunchy as protection against the tire chain that longs for a taste. Why didn't I get a chain guard? Or a kickstand for that matter? Oh, that's right, because it wasn't cool 10 years ago when I bought my Trek.
I pedal through middle class neighborhoods with those distinctive brick bungalows which looked frighteningly urban to me when I first moved here from Idaho. I cross heavy traffic and am deposited by a meandering street into an upper class neighborhood of 19th century Victorians and Frank Lloyd Wrights. Usually this drive is beautiful and soothing to me but today it is too staid; too safe. It is wildness I seek. Some do not seem to need such things - perhaps it was bred in me in childhood - in the mountains.
Only a few drops are falling so I press on, but it does not really matter - only the materialization of the threatened thunderstorm will send me back. The path suddenly appears on the right and I swerve, disappearing instantaneously from prying eyes. They are safe and warm in their little cars; I pity them. But they are already gone from existence. Here lay miles of forest preserves richly inhabited by robins and fauns and beavers. I am no longer in Chicago at all, cannot hear the hum of traffic.
The river to the left is engorged from this summer's heavy rains. Perhaps it will overflow again. The rain increases alongside the steady pumps of my legs; my clothing draws it in, becoming heavy and sodden as the waterproof sunscreen on my skin begins to intermingle with the rain in chalky rivulets down my arms. Why does it do that?
I lose myself to Tolkien's Mirkwood or perhaps the Direwood - inhaling the rich scent of decomposition. The wood is vast and impenetrable. I am aware of ancient moody stares which follow along the trail. The rain's transformation is complete. Mud splatters up my back and hair; I embrace it, knowing that I am being transformed as well. The woods will accept me in this guise. A coiffured and pampered being has no business here - not in a Rainy Wood.
Two speckled fauns gaze at me in surprise, flagging their little white tails which brings their mother to investigate. But I am already gone, whizzing down the path in a drenching downpour. I am a fool. I have put on mascara; it is melting down my face in two black pools. I smile. I am a ghoul.
And then there is a peal of thunder. Surely lightning must follow. I recall my close shave with that fierce lightning storm in that one lake that one summer. I shudder and turn my bike. It is glorious to feel otherworldly and omnipotent; it is terrifying to understand one's mortality. The thunder recalls me to earth and I am just a wet, filthy, crazy, vain woman with aching, burning 34-year old lungs. I increase my speed further, now racing against time.
I burst from the forest preserve onto a major road. Silver Hondas and gleaming red Pontiacs gaze at me in dismay. I do not belong here in the living world. I careen through a muddy puddle, spraying muck in a wide arch. I glance at myself. I am a mess. I wonder what these by-passers see? I raise my face to the rain so that it can penetrate my being even deeper. I barrel through the traffic light, ignoring the red - a whizzing, splattered, sodden creature with raccoon-eyes and crazily-spiked hair. I make contact with pitying eyes and grin broadly. They do not know what it is to be wild.
Perhaps it is that my body is comprised of organic material. Something deep inside of me craves the flutter of wind-tickled leaves and the luminescent golden hue cast upon faded brick in the last 5 minutes of sunset. I need to bury my hands in powdery humus and to squish my toes in wet earth. And sometimes I need to immerse my entire being in the dark, mossy, decaying and vaguely menacing faerie world into which a steady drizzle has transformed my cheerful woods.
I set out clad in a red sports tank, my black yoga pants-leg affixed by an old hair scrunchy as protection against the tire chain that longs for a taste. Why didn't I get a chain guard? Or a kickstand for that matter? Oh, that's right, because it wasn't cool 10 years ago when I bought my Trek.
I pedal through middle class neighborhoods with those distinctive brick bungalows which looked frighteningly urban to me when I first moved here from Idaho. I cross heavy traffic and am deposited by a meandering street into an upper class neighborhood of 19th century Victorians and Frank Lloyd Wrights. Usually this drive is beautiful and soothing to me but today it is too staid; too safe. It is wildness I seek. Some do not seem to need such things - perhaps it was bred in me in childhood - in the mountains.
Only a few drops are falling so I press on, but it does not really matter - only the materialization of the threatened thunderstorm will send me back. The path suddenly appears on the right and I swerve, disappearing instantaneously from prying eyes. They are safe and warm in their little cars; I pity them. But they are already gone from existence. Here lay miles of forest preserves richly inhabited by robins and fauns and beavers. I am no longer in Chicago at all, cannot hear the hum of traffic.
The river to the left is engorged from this summer's heavy rains. Perhaps it will overflow again. The rain increases alongside the steady pumps of my legs; my clothing draws it in, becoming heavy and sodden as the waterproof sunscreen on my skin begins to intermingle with the rain in chalky rivulets down my arms. Why does it do that?
I lose myself to Tolkien's Mirkwood or perhaps the Direwood - inhaling the rich scent of decomposition. The wood is vast and impenetrable. I am aware of ancient moody stares which follow along the trail. The rain's transformation is complete. Mud splatters up my back and hair; I embrace it, knowing that I am being transformed as well. The woods will accept me in this guise. A coiffured and pampered being has no business here - not in a Rainy Wood.
Two speckled fauns gaze at me in surprise, flagging their little white tails which brings their mother to investigate. But I am already gone, whizzing down the path in a drenching downpour. I am a fool. I have put on mascara; it is melting down my face in two black pools. I smile. I am a ghoul.
And then there is a peal of thunder. Surely lightning must follow. I recall my close shave with that fierce lightning storm in that one lake that one summer. I shudder and turn my bike. It is glorious to feel otherworldly and omnipotent; it is terrifying to understand one's mortality. The thunder recalls me to earth and I am just a wet, filthy, crazy, vain woman with aching, burning 34-year old lungs. I increase my speed further, now racing against time.
I burst from the forest preserve onto a major road. Silver Hondas and gleaming red Pontiacs gaze at me in dismay. I do not belong here in the living world. I careen through a muddy puddle, spraying muck in a wide arch. I glance at myself. I am a mess. I wonder what these by-passers see? I raise my face to the rain so that it can penetrate my being even deeper. I barrel through the traffic light, ignoring the red - a whizzing, splattered, sodden creature with raccoon-eyes and crazily-spiked hair. I make contact with pitying eyes and grin broadly. They do not know what it is to be wild.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Why I Took a Blogging Hiatus
I went blog-free almost exactly 6 months ago. It's really not a good idea to go missing when you are just starting out on a new venture. I took off for several reasons:
One) I have a fundamental mistrust of the internet. I have thoughts and I like to share them but do I really want them out there - in net-space - forever? I have a tendency to express myself impetuously and much more strongly than I may intend. Upon further reflection, I will generally balance myself. But I can't "balance" posts that are just.....there.....forever.....for anyone to read. (Okay, I have no following anyway and I can limit access to my blog but you get my point).
Two) Isn't blogging just so self-centered? Isn't it a little narcissistic? Does anyone really want to hear me blathering on about daisies and possums and Al Capone? Do I really have anything of value to say that hasn't already been said by someone else? And even if I do, is it self-serving to always have to put it out there? Why not just keep a journal?
Three) Is anonymity important to me? All two of you know who I am. Maybe if I were utterly anonymous I wouldn't have to worry about being impetuous or narcissistic. But then, I would not be known - and it is my opinion that most human beings want to be known - by at least someone.
Four) The title. What the heck am I going to do if I move to Forest Park? Or West Town? Can you change the title of your blog? Or is it irrevocable, once you've started a blog? Do you have to start a new blog to get a new title?
Five) Purpose. I don't know what I want this blog to be. Right now, it's about local living. In Berwyn. What if I want to write about other stuff? Maybe I should start a blog called, "Crap - From Me to You".
And yet, despite these reservations, here I am, blogging again. My desire to communicate must have overcome my reservations.
Now that you've made it this far through the post I might as well go into the most compelling reason for my hiatus. It has to do with that lady in the antique store on the south side of the Oak Park Metra stop in Berwyn. The truth is, I mostly quit blogging because going over the minutiae of my "discoveries" just seemed so empty in comparison with the magnitude of the pain that I saw in people's lives this year. Maybe that's all the more reason to keep on living the simple life and making joyful discoveries; no, it is DEFINITELY all the more reason to do so and it's the main reason that I'm back. But for awhile, about six months, life just seemed too complicated for blissful blogging.
In March I went for a history tour of southwest Berwyn. It was a self-operated tour (meaning: a book on Berwyn and my reluctant husband). It was a gorgeous day with plenty of sunshine; I was looking for the original homes of the founders of Berwyn (I found them, by the way; you can too if you want to). Just at the tail end of my tour, I spotted a charming little antique store that I'd somehow overlooked in my months of "Berwyn discoveries." I sent the husband down the street to look at books and stepped in.
I found myself in the awkward situation of interrupting a tete-a-tete between a 40ish weeping woman (clearly the owner) and a 50ish man, who appeared to be offering solace through food. They stopped to stare at me, she with the weeping eyes and he with the styrofoam carryout food container. I cleared my throat and tried to turn-about but she waved me in. I was trapped. I began listlessly circling the store as weeper and comforter continued their discussion. The reason for her tears became evident (and you've already guessed it anyway): she was losing her store. No, wait, she was losing everything - the whole caboodle - store, livelihood, savings and home - all in one fell swoop. Reasons for tooth-gnashing indeed.
Mr. Muncher gave a final squeeze and shuffled out the door, leaving me to face her grief and vulnerability - alone. I did the best I could, trying for gentle, compassionate honesty. Quietly, "Is the bank taking it?" "Yes," she replied. "Do you know what you're going to do?" "No," she answered. "It's just me and my kid. I don't know where we're going to go. Oh, I can let you have those books for forty bucks." I gazed down at the rare Mark Twain hardback I happened to be holding. "This one or the whole set?", I said uncertainly. "The whole set - all 23." I stared at the beautiful books trying to think of something else to say. Could I bear to buy the set from her for $40? I should have. I really should have. They had to go and they might as well go to someone who would love them. But at the time, we weren't experiencing an abundance of funds and $40 was a lot.
I set the book down and tried to think of anything that could give her comfort. I had no words. Only commiseration and gentleness. "We've been looking for full-time work for almost a year," I said. "Nothing yet." Her eyes lit up at the thought of helping someone else. "Oh, I know someone at the high school. Let me give you his number. Maybe it will help." I took the proffered card from her and reflected on the fact that a person losing everything could take comfort in perhaps helping someone else. I guess having to live as a recipient of sympathy and charity can become exhausting. Maybe people just want to feel the relative power and joy of being able to help others for a change. At any rate I pocketed the card and thanked her.
I headed for the door, pausing on the threshold. "Well, good luck to you." "Thanks," she said.
I know we're all tired of hearing about the economy, but its force is evident here in Berwyn. I see it in the for sale signs (at least 3 per block) and the boarded up windows still tressed in dangling Christmas lights. I see it in the hundred year old bungalow I looked at last year for $300,000 (lovingly restored by a sweet middle-aged hispanic couple) now in foreclosure at the bargain rate of $189,000. I wonder where they went? I see it in the kid who couldn't afford the buck for the pool party (which I provided) and the elderly Guatemalan mechanical engineer who is currently washing dishes after being laid off.
So that's why I quit blogging. I had nothing to say that I felt could transcend the reality of a single mom losing her life and dreams.
But here's the deal: life has a say of turning out okay. Most thing turn out okay eventually. Really. It may not seem like it, but it's true. It always gets worse before the upturn. True, you may lose stuff irrevocably and, true, things may be altered in the process, but there's always an upturn or at least a new-turn. And that's where I am. America may be forever poorer and people may never be able to climb back into who they were and what they had, but they will be someone else with other possessions and new priorities. You just have to make it through the steep plummet. And then you'll see what is on the other side. Joy and pain is always there.
One) I have a fundamental mistrust of the internet. I have thoughts and I like to share them but do I really want them out there - in net-space - forever? I have a tendency to express myself impetuously and much more strongly than I may intend. Upon further reflection, I will generally balance myself. But I can't "balance" posts that are just.....there.....forever.....for anyone to read. (Okay, I have no following anyway and I can limit access to my blog but you get my point).
Two) Isn't blogging just so self-centered? Isn't it a little narcissistic? Does anyone really want to hear me blathering on about daisies and possums and Al Capone? Do I really have anything of value to say that hasn't already been said by someone else? And even if I do, is it self-serving to always have to put it out there? Why not just keep a journal?
Three) Is anonymity important to me? All two of you know who I am. Maybe if I were utterly anonymous I wouldn't have to worry about being impetuous or narcissistic. But then, I would not be known - and it is my opinion that most human beings want to be known - by at least someone.
Four) The title. What the heck am I going to do if I move to Forest Park? Or West Town? Can you change the title of your blog? Or is it irrevocable, once you've started a blog? Do you have to start a new blog to get a new title?
Five) Purpose. I don't know what I want this blog to be. Right now, it's about local living. In Berwyn. What if I want to write about other stuff? Maybe I should start a blog called, "Crap - From Me to You".
And yet, despite these reservations, here I am, blogging again. My desire to communicate must have overcome my reservations.
Now that you've made it this far through the post I might as well go into the most compelling reason for my hiatus. It has to do with that lady in the antique store on the south side of the Oak Park Metra stop in Berwyn. The truth is, I mostly quit blogging because going over the minutiae of my "discoveries" just seemed so empty in comparison with the magnitude of the pain that I saw in people's lives this year. Maybe that's all the more reason to keep on living the simple life and making joyful discoveries; no, it is DEFINITELY all the more reason to do so and it's the main reason that I'm back. But for awhile, about six months, life just seemed too complicated for blissful blogging.
In March I went for a history tour of southwest Berwyn. It was a self-operated tour (meaning: a book on Berwyn and my reluctant husband). It was a gorgeous day with plenty of sunshine; I was looking for the original homes of the founders of Berwyn (I found them, by the way; you can too if you want to). Just at the tail end of my tour, I spotted a charming little antique store that I'd somehow overlooked in my months of "Berwyn discoveries." I sent the husband down the street to look at books and stepped in.
I found myself in the awkward situation of interrupting a tete-a-tete between a 40ish weeping woman (clearly the owner) and a 50ish man, who appeared to be offering solace through food. They stopped to stare at me, she with the weeping eyes and he with the styrofoam carryout food container. I cleared my throat and tried to turn-about but she waved me in. I was trapped. I began listlessly circling the store as weeper and comforter continued their discussion. The reason for her tears became evident (and you've already guessed it anyway): she was losing her store. No, wait, she was losing everything - the whole caboodle - store, livelihood, savings and home - all in one fell swoop. Reasons for tooth-gnashing indeed.
Mr. Muncher gave a final squeeze and shuffled out the door, leaving me to face her grief and vulnerability - alone. I did the best I could, trying for gentle, compassionate honesty. Quietly, "Is the bank taking it?" "Yes," she replied. "Do you know what you're going to do?" "No," she answered. "It's just me and my kid. I don't know where we're going to go. Oh, I can let you have those books for forty bucks." I gazed down at the rare Mark Twain hardback I happened to be holding. "This one or the whole set?", I said uncertainly. "The whole set - all 23." I stared at the beautiful books trying to think of something else to say. Could I bear to buy the set from her for $40? I should have. I really should have. They had to go and they might as well go to someone who would love them. But at the time, we weren't experiencing an abundance of funds and $40 was a lot.
I set the book down and tried to think of anything that could give her comfort. I had no words. Only commiseration and gentleness. "We've been looking for full-time work for almost a year," I said. "Nothing yet." Her eyes lit up at the thought of helping someone else. "Oh, I know someone at the high school. Let me give you his number. Maybe it will help." I took the proffered card from her and reflected on the fact that a person losing everything could take comfort in perhaps helping someone else. I guess having to live as a recipient of sympathy and charity can become exhausting. Maybe people just want to feel the relative power and joy of being able to help others for a change. At any rate I pocketed the card and thanked her.
I headed for the door, pausing on the threshold. "Well, good luck to you." "Thanks," she said.
I know we're all tired of hearing about the economy, but its force is evident here in Berwyn. I see it in the for sale signs (at least 3 per block) and the boarded up windows still tressed in dangling Christmas lights. I see it in the hundred year old bungalow I looked at last year for $300,000 (lovingly restored by a sweet middle-aged hispanic couple) now in foreclosure at the bargain rate of $189,000. I wonder where they went? I see it in the kid who couldn't afford the buck for the pool party (which I provided) and the elderly Guatemalan mechanical engineer who is currently washing dishes after being laid off.
So that's why I quit blogging. I had nothing to say that I felt could transcend the reality of a single mom losing her life and dreams.
But here's the deal: life has a say of turning out okay. Most thing turn out okay eventually. Really. It may not seem like it, but it's true. It always gets worse before the upturn. True, you may lose stuff irrevocably and, true, things may be altered in the process, but there's always an upturn or at least a new-turn. And that's where I am. America may be forever poorer and people may never be able to climb back into who they were and what they had, but they will be someone else with other possessions and new priorities. You just have to make it through the steep plummet. And then you'll see what is on the other side. Joy and pain is always there.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
A Genuine Possum-Hog
Movement in the window broke me out of my television-induced haze. A really, really homely albino cat was snuffling around the stairs and gazing longingly in my window. Then he turned around, sashaying his little behind at me and giving me a bird's eye view of his nether-regions. I started at his reticulated tail. What a minute - he's a rat - a big, BIG rat. He twirled again and approached the window, apparently under the misapprehension that I have accepted his advances.
He peeks in the window, not at me, but at the large garlic, rosemary, and thyme pots on the windowsill. He's not interested in me at all! It's the food! Oh, and he isn't a rat, he's a possum - a genuine possum. He sees me at last (watches me warily) - retreats...advances....retreats again.....and disappears in the bushes in the front yard. Later, I find his muddy tracks all around the sides of the house, the steps, and the ground floor window area.
I don't live out in Sugar Grove - this is Berwyn, I'm talking about. I would find this much odder, but I've already seen the parakeets. It doesn't get much stranger than that. Besides, our housing complex in China had hedgehogs and northeastern China is about as densely populated as a place can be.
My possum visited on Sunday. I think he was trying to one-up Groundhog Phil. And what does the shadow of a possum portent (weather-wise, that is), anyway?
He peeks in the window, not at me, but at the large garlic, rosemary, and thyme pots on the windowsill. He's not interested in me at all! It's the food! Oh, and he isn't a rat, he's a possum - a genuine possum. He sees me at last (watches me warily) - retreats...advances....retreats again.....and disappears in the bushes in the front yard. Later, I find his muddy tracks all around the sides of the house, the steps, and the ground floor window area.
I don't live out in Sugar Grove - this is Berwyn, I'm talking about. I would find this much odder, but I've already seen the parakeets. It doesn't get much stranger than that. Besides, our housing complex in China had hedgehogs and northeastern China is about as densely populated as a place can be.
My possum visited on Sunday. I think he was trying to one-up Groundhog Phil. And what does the shadow of a possum portent (weather-wise, that is), anyway?
A flock of green parakeets along the Gold Coast
I have to preface this post by mentioning that I don't know the difference between a parrot and a parakeet. I read it once at the zoo but forgot it by the time I walked out the gates. I'm calling them parakeets because they are small. It's as good a reason as any.
There is a flock of parakeets living among a set of tall pine trees along Riverside Drive (i.e. Berwyn's "Gold Coast"). They are bright green, noisy little guys who make for very surreal immigrants to the neighborhood. I first encountered them during a bike ride. There they were, 15 or so of them by my count, flying in and out of rather elaborate nests, looking as comfortable in Berwyn as they might have been in South America (or wherever). Their nests aren't the "bowl" style. They form oblong cave-like structures with a single side entrance. I saw several nests spread about the branches of one tree, so I assume that there are now several extended families living together like an old Italian family.
I asked around about it and, as the story goes, someone a few years back decided they didn't want their parakeets any more, so they released them to the wild. In an unusual reversal of fortunes, the hardy couple managed to overcome a rather large impediment to survival (mainly, a total lack of ability to adapt to freedom after a lifetime in a cage). They found a nice big tree, built a nest in it, and started reproducing. Apparently, they liked the neighborhood so they stayed long-term. And now there's a flock of them. And you can see them if you want. They are right on the south side of Riverside Drive, between Harlem and Morton West High School. There's a church right across the street from the spot.
I had heard that they don't fly south for the winter. I wanted to see how they were weathering the cold. But, no dice. I couldn't even see their nests. I did hear quite a bit of racket coming from trees around the area and their calls did sound like what I had remembered. Maybe they built winter homes in the eaves of the nearby house - for warmth. I hope they make it. I want to get a good look at them again this spring. I suppose if they've already been there for years, then they'll make it through this winter too.
There is a flock of parakeets living among a set of tall pine trees along Riverside Drive (i.e. Berwyn's "Gold Coast"). They are bright green, noisy little guys who make for very surreal immigrants to the neighborhood. I first encountered them during a bike ride. There they were, 15 or so of them by my count, flying in and out of rather elaborate nests, looking as comfortable in Berwyn as they might have been in South America (or wherever). Their nests aren't the "bowl" style. They form oblong cave-like structures with a single side entrance. I saw several nests spread about the branches of one tree, so I assume that there are now several extended families living together like an old Italian family.
I asked around about it and, as the story goes, someone a few years back decided they didn't want their parakeets any more, so they released them to the wild. In an unusual reversal of fortunes, the hardy couple managed to overcome a rather large impediment to survival (mainly, a total lack of ability to adapt to freedom after a lifetime in a cage). They found a nice big tree, built a nest in it, and started reproducing. Apparently, they liked the neighborhood so they stayed long-term. And now there's a flock of them. And you can see them if you want. They are right on the south side of Riverside Drive, between Harlem and Morton West High School. There's a church right across the street from the spot.
I had heard that they don't fly south for the winter. I wanted to see how they were weathering the cold. But, no dice. I couldn't even see their nests. I did hear quite a bit of racket coming from trees around the area and their calls did sound like what I had remembered. Maybe they built winter homes in the eaves of the nearby house - for warmth. I hope they make it. I want to get a good look at them again this spring. I suppose if they've already been there for years, then they'll make it through this winter too.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Capone in my Neighborhood
For more History:
http://www.berwyn.net/berwyn/history.asp
http://www.berwyninformer.com/history.html
maps.google.com (60 famous chicago places)
I've known for years that Capone operated out of Cicero for many years. His old Cicero headquarters was a few blocks from my first teaching job (as I understand it). I taught in the oldest school in one of the oldest schools in the district, so kids were learning their reading, writing, and 'rithmetic while Capone was around the corner, planning his next massacre. I know there was a Capone bombing right on that corner on Cermak too. You would have been able to see it from my classroom with ease. I wonder if it occurred during school hours. And I wonder how they would have handled it - screaming and running for safety or a mere glance, then shrug of the shoulders. "Oh well, there's that naughty man, up to his silly antics again."
There's a page on google maps that marks 60 or so known mob sites. I decided to go and find the ones nearest and was shocked at how many of them lived in quiet, unassuming, everyday neighborhoods. They are mostly pretty, simple middle class homes that you would never notice. They appear genteel - a place where your American-as-baseball mother would cool pies on the windowsill. Frank the Enforcer Nitti's home is in Riverside on Selborne Ave, just off of Harlem. It's brick, petite, and darling. Someone lives in it right now. I wonder if they know?
Frank killed himself somewhat close by. One afternoon, he told his wife he was going for a walk, gave her a peck on the lips, and then strode around in the general direction of North Riverside Mall (it wasn't there yet). He walked along the train tracks toward Des Plaines Ave. He leaned against a white board fence in the full view of two railroad workers and shot himself in the head. I wonder why he went that particular direction and chose that specific spot? Was he too lonely too die alone? Did he want company while he offed himself? Or did he just meander until he got the courage and he happened to get it at that spot?
Mobsters owned homes in Oak Park, Forest Park, and of course, in Cicero. I've located three different mob homes that are 4-8 blocks from where I live. There was a mob murder in one of the houses in Oak Park. Did the mobsters go all Machine Kelly on him in the streets, or was it a quiet murder? Did they sneak in with silencers while he slept in his safe suburban home? I wonder how those Oak Parkies handled that one. Did they whisper about it over the fences the next day as the nurses dragged the white-covered body down to the morgue wagon? Or were they too terrified? Violence was rampant in Cicero but was probably shocking in these other suburbs.
It amazes me how, once established, how entrenched things can become. It is almost as if affluence or poverty, corruption or violence, once it takes hold - it sometimes becomes a living entity. And then it rules actively in an area. Riverside, IL was always the play-place for wealthy Chicagoans. And it still is. Cicero has been violent and corrupt since the days of Capone (and before too). He was only there for about 6 years, but it is as if he exuded such corruption that it settled into the very concrete of his demesnes. Cicero largely continues to be exactly what Capone made it. Which is such a shame, because Cicero also has many beautiful buildings and parks. Factories in Cicero were considered very progressive because they were some of the first to adopt the concept that a happy worker was a good worker, so they invested in safe practices and in building the community.
People wonder why Chicago is corrupt as they watch the laughable-yet-awful behavior of Blagojevich. And for those of you who might, just might be wondering if he's not guilty: please, just stop. He is. Corruption is endemic in Chicago. It always was. From the very beginning. Once it got started off on that path about 150 years ago, it just kept right on going. And Chicagoans learned that as long as the the basics are met, to just ignore it. I'm not saying it's right; I'm just saying that after 150 years, you just kind of learn to cope.
And yet, it is strange how someone can be both wicked and good. I taught with a woman in Berwyn whose family was literally saved by Capone. Her grandfather ditched her grandmother, leaving the family destitute. Her grandmother made a meager living as a cook at an Italian restaurant. One day, Capone went out for dinner, liked the food, and hired her on the spot as his personal cook. He supported her whole family and paid for their education. She's alive and teaching today because of Mr. Al Capone, who not only gave the woman a job, but went beyond the call of duty for the whole family. Who would do that in this day and age? Who knows his motivation, of course, but it still matters that he did it.
Or there's my husband's friend. One day they were talking about Band of Brothers and he mentioned that he hadn't seen it. He hasn't seen any of the usual WWII movies. It makes him too uncomfortable. He grew up with an adoring grandfather, who took him everywhere and taught him everything; who used to quietly sing to him gentle songs from the motherland. Then one day, when he was in his teens, his grandfather drew him away from the rest of the family. Sequestered in a back room, he pulled out a box from a hidden recess in the closet. It was filled with Nazi paraphernalia. Not just any Nazi stuff either: SS regalia. After that, it became too painful to watch movies about those "dirty evil Germans" - those "slaughtering monsters" (you get that these quotations mean that I'm using those phrases ironically, right?). He couldn't reconcile those images of those acts with his loving and dear grandfather.
We like to make caricatures of most things, especially the things that bother us. We want people to be all of one thing. Maybe it makes the world feel safer. Or surer. We don't like to face the fact that all people have equal capacity for goodness and evil, and that people are constantly producing both of these, even simultaneously. I used to think that people fit neatly on a line graph from holy to evil. Now I'm not so sure. It is certainly true that some people seem to produce more good or more evil. How much joy did Jeffrey Dahmer produce compared with the pain he inflicted? How is your degree of goodness or your degree of vileness measured?
At any rate, there's Capone in my neighborhood. I've been trying to find out if there were any actual mob homes in Berwyn. I have a semi-confirmation that Jimmy Hoffa's Teamsters had their headquarters here.
http://www.berwyn.net/berwyn/history.asp
http://www.berwyninformer.com/history.html
maps.google.com (60 famous chicago places)
I've known for years that Capone operated out of Cicero for many years. His old Cicero headquarters was a few blocks from my first teaching job (as I understand it). I taught in the oldest school in one of the oldest schools in the district, so kids were learning their reading, writing, and 'rithmetic while Capone was around the corner, planning his next massacre. I know there was a Capone bombing right on that corner on Cermak too. You would have been able to see it from my classroom with ease. I wonder if it occurred during school hours. And I wonder how they would have handled it - screaming and running for safety or a mere glance, then shrug of the shoulders. "Oh well, there's that naughty man, up to his silly antics again."
There's a page on google maps that marks 60 or so known mob sites. I decided to go and find the ones nearest and was shocked at how many of them lived in quiet, unassuming, everyday neighborhoods. They are mostly pretty, simple middle class homes that you would never notice. They appear genteel - a place where your American-as-baseball mother would cool pies on the windowsill. Frank the Enforcer Nitti's home is in Riverside on Selborne Ave, just off of Harlem. It's brick, petite, and darling. Someone lives in it right now. I wonder if they know?
Frank killed himself somewhat close by. One afternoon, he told his wife he was going for a walk, gave her a peck on the lips, and then strode around in the general direction of North Riverside Mall (it wasn't there yet). He walked along the train tracks toward Des Plaines Ave. He leaned against a white board fence in the full view of two railroad workers and shot himself in the head. I wonder why he went that particular direction and chose that specific spot? Was he too lonely too die alone? Did he want company while he offed himself? Or did he just meander until he got the courage and he happened to get it at that spot?
Mobsters owned homes in Oak Park, Forest Park, and of course, in Cicero. I've located three different mob homes that are 4-8 blocks from where I live. There was a mob murder in one of the houses in Oak Park. Did the mobsters go all Machine Kelly on him in the streets, or was it a quiet murder? Did they sneak in with silencers while he slept in his safe suburban home? I wonder how those Oak Parkies handled that one. Did they whisper about it over the fences the next day as the nurses dragged the white-covered body down to the morgue wagon? Or were they too terrified? Violence was rampant in Cicero but was probably shocking in these other suburbs.
It amazes me how, once established, how entrenched things can become. It is almost as if affluence or poverty, corruption or violence, once it takes hold - it sometimes becomes a living entity. And then it rules actively in an area. Riverside, IL was always the play-place for wealthy Chicagoans. And it still is. Cicero has been violent and corrupt since the days of Capone (and before too). He was only there for about 6 years, but it is as if he exuded such corruption that it settled into the very concrete of his demesnes. Cicero largely continues to be exactly what Capone made it. Which is such a shame, because Cicero also has many beautiful buildings and parks. Factories in Cicero were considered very progressive because they were some of the first to adopt the concept that a happy worker was a good worker, so they invested in safe practices and in building the community.
People wonder why Chicago is corrupt as they watch the laughable-yet-awful behavior of Blagojevich. And for those of you who might, just might be wondering if he's not guilty: please, just stop. He is. Corruption is endemic in Chicago. It always was. From the very beginning. Once it got started off on that path about 150 years ago, it just kept right on going. And Chicagoans learned that as long as the the basics are met, to just ignore it. I'm not saying it's right; I'm just saying that after 150 years, you just kind of learn to cope.
And yet, it is strange how someone can be both wicked and good. I taught with a woman in Berwyn whose family was literally saved by Capone. Her grandfather ditched her grandmother, leaving the family destitute. Her grandmother made a meager living as a cook at an Italian restaurant. One day, Capone went out for dinner, liked the food, and hired her on the spot as his personal cook. He supported her whole family and paid for their education. She's alive and teaching today because of Mr. Al Capone, who not only gave the woman a job, but went beyond the call of duty for the whole family. Who would do that in this day and age? Who knows his motivation, of course, but it still matters that he did it.
Or there's my husband's friend. One day they were talking about Band of Brothers and he mentioned that he hadn't seen it. He hasn't seen any of the usual WWII movies. It makes him too uncomfortable. He grew up with an adoring grandfather, who took him everywhere and taught him everything; who used to quietly sing to him gentle songs from the motherland. Then one day, when he was in his teens, his grandfather drew him away from the rest of the family. Sequestered in a back room, he pulled out a box from a hidden recess in the closet. It was filled with Nazi paraphernalia. Not just any Nazi stuff either: SS regalia. After that, it became too painful to watch movies about those "dirty evil Germans" - those "slaughtering monsters" (you get that these quotations mean that I'm using those phrases ironically, right?). He couldn't reconcile those images of those acts with his loving and dear grandfather.
We like to make caricatures of most things, especially the things that bother us. We want people to be all of one thing. Maybe it makes the world feel safer. Or surer. We don't like to face the fact that all people have equal capacity for goodness and evil, and that people are constantly producing both of these, even simultaneously. I used to think that people fit neatly on a line graph from holy to evil. Now I'm not so sure. It is certainly true that some people seem to produce more good or more evil. How much joy did Jeffrey Dahmer produce compared with the pain he inflicted? How is your degree of goodness or your degree of vileness measured?
At any rate, there's Capone in my neighborhood. I've been trying to find out if there were any actual mob homes in Berwyn. I have a semi-confirmation that Jimmy Hoffa's Teamsters had their headquarters here.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Street-walking...um..wandering....Street-wandering
I remember myself from age 5 or so, walking through woodsy areas with my father who took great delight in pointing out the cascading shades of green pouring down the mountainside. The vast spectrum of autumn colors, the varied shapes of different leaves, ants walking single-file across a fallen log, how to stay silent until deer, quail, or jackrabbits might display themselves for our benefit. These are the things I learned from him; I learned to look for details, hidden things, oddities. I've carried it through my life. And the older I get and the more I experience life; the more I travel and see that the world is kind of like cascading greens down a mountainside, the more that I see that life is in the details. I've read that exact phrase somewhere (I don't know where), and it's true.
I've been away from a long time. Seven years in China - it changes you. You step out of everything you know, your known operating system - to some degree, you even step outside of yourself - and it makes you different. You don't see things the same anymore and you see new things you didn't see before. You look the same on the outside but you're profoundly different inside. Unfortunately, no one knows that you're different. They see only the shell and expect you to pick up where you left off. You don't know how to tell them that you can't and that you don't even want to. So you smile through awkward silences, refusing to settle into the old mold and go about restarting a life in a home that is now as strange as the orient is in many ways.
And you explain, for the umpteenth time, that "Konichiwa" is Japanese (not Chinese). And you smile painfully when they say, "right" and wait for a response anyway, blissfully unaware that there is even a difference between the two.
I take long walks through the streets of Berwyn. I look at the details and take joy in them. I notice where the best houses are (1. Between Oak Park and Harlem, from 15th to Cermak 2. Anywhere along Riverside Drive 3. Around the West and South sides of Proksa Park 4. Between Oak Park and Harlem, from the Amtrak tracks to Ogden Ave 5. Along much of East Ave 6. Along much of Oak Park Ave). I look at the endless rows of Bungalows noting the beauty in the brick patterns. Sometimes the brick is yellow, sometimes red or brown. Sometimes the bricks themselves were laid down horizontally, but sometimes the builder took time to make patterns, setting the bricks vertically or diagonally or in sunshine flairs around the rounded edges of the doorframe. The builder may have used the bricks to encase large pieces of stone along the corners of the house or even fashioning the entire fire chimney out of stone. Some houses even have the original copper edging and the raised tile roofing.
These are the best bungalows - the ones that were made in the 1920's/1930's by someone who loved beauty and who had a little extra cash to add into the details. They have the original stained glass windows (Each one is unique. I rarely see the same pattern. I always wonder who the glass maker was. I picture a Polish family, led by an elderly patriarch for whom glass-making was passed down for generations). I prefer the geometric designs over the flowered ones and wouldn't even consider purchasing a bungalow without the original windows.
There are hideous monstrosities, obviously laid out en masse by a building company during Berwyn's heyday. They are uniform, functional, and in coordinating colors, plunked down as cheaply as possible with no thought to beauty or the surrounding environs. They remind me of the blighted modern tract housing going up all over Arizona. In Berwyn, I can think of a row of these beauties on 14th and Clinton (or Home Ave or so) - little squat Brown Wilmas - nine identical homes with no redeeming loveliness of any kind that I can tell. But I shouldn't judge. Perhaps they offer a home to someone who wouldn't otherwise be able to afford it. But I still don't understand why someone would make something ugly when they could take an extra minute to make it beautiful. It wouldn't have cost more for the cheapskates to have set out a pattern....something!
So this is what I do on my walks, currently. I've never thought to notice the details in the bungalows. They were always just - there. So I'm pleased to find that they vary considerably and are genuinely beautiful.
I've been away from a long time. Seven years in China - it changes you. You step out of everything you know, your known operating system - to some degree, you even step outside of yourself - and it makes you different. You don't see things the same anymore and you see new things you didn't see before. You look the same on the outside but you're profoundly different inside. Unfortunately, no one knows that you're different. They see only the shell and expect you to pick up where you left off. You don't know how to tell them that you can't and that you don't even want to. So you smile through awkward silences, refusing to settle into the old mold and go about restarting a life in a home that is now as strange as the orient is in many ways.
And you explain, for the umpteenth time, that "Konichiwa" is Japanese (not Chinese). And you smile painfully when they say, "right" and wait for a response anyway, blissfully unaware that there is even a difference between the two.
I take long walks through the streets of Berwyn. I look at the details and take joy in them. I notice where the best houses are (1. Between Oak Park and Harlem, from 15th to Cermak 2. Anywhere along Riverside Drive 3. Around the West and South sides of Proksa Park 4. Between Oak Park and Harlem, from the Amtrak tracks to Ogden Ave 5. Along much of East Ave 6. Along much of Oak Park Ave). I look at the endless rows of Bungalows noting the beauty in the brick patterns. Sometimes the brick is yellow, sometimes red or brown. Sometimes the bricks themselves were laid down horizontally, but sometimes the builder took time to make patterns, setting the bricks vertically or diagonally or in sunshine flairs around the rounded edges of the doorframe. The builder may have used the bricks to encase large pieces of stone along the corners of the house or even fashioning the entire fire chimney out of stone. Some houses even have the original copper edging and the raised tile roofing.
These are the best bungalows - the ones that were made in the 1920's/1930's by someone who loved beauty and who had a little extra cash to add into the details. They have the original stained glass windows (Each one is unique. I rarely see the same pattern. I always wonder who the glass maker was. I picture a Polish family, led by an elderly patriarch for whom glass-making was passed down for generations). I prefer the geometric designs over the flowered ones and wouldn't even consider purchasing a bungalow without the original windows.
There are hideous monstrosities, obviously laid out en masse by a building company during Berwyn's heyday. They are uniform, functional, and in coordinating colors, plunked down as cheaply as possible with no thought to beauty or the surrounding environs. They remind me of the blighted modern tract housing going up all over Arizona. In Berwyn, I can think of a row of these beauties on 14th and Clinton (or Home Ave or so) - little squat Brown Wilmas - nine identical homes with no redeeming loveliness of any kind that I can tell. But I shouldn't judge. Perhaps they offer a home to someone who wouldn't otherwise be able to afford it. But I still don't understand why someone would make something ugly when they could take an extra minute to make it beautiful. It wouldn't have cost more for the cheapskates to have set out a pattern....something!
So this is what I do on my walks, currently. I've never thought to notice the details in the bungalows. They were always just - there. So I'm pleased to find that they vary considerably and are genuinely beautiful.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Diversity and what Berwyn could be
Since returning, I've beens surprised by the ethnic diversity of this area. When my family moved to Berwyn from Idaho about 20 years ago, all of my friends were Polish, Italian, or Irish. My friends all talked with fake, Chicago Italian thug accents (Hey dere youse guys - wanna go to da Jewel?). They would make fun of my Idaho accent (Yes, if you are from Chicago, then there is an Idaho accent. Conversely, if you are from Idaho, then there is a distinct Chicago accent. That's how differentiation works.). It took my 8th grade self all of two weeks to adopt the local lingo and to rat my bangs high and higher, mostly out of self-preservation. I talked like a third-rate mobster-actor for the next two years, when it suddenly occurred to me that I just sounded......stupid. I dropped the fake accent (but kept the high hair - for another few years) and learned to just talk like me. But I must have picked up some mixed language patterns, because now I get asked all the time where I'm from as soon as I open my mouth. I've identified the following words as apparent oddities: accent, trash, Al (as in Albert). They aren't quite "a" enough ("a" as in cat, hat, bat) for Chicagoans; they come out more like "ah" (as in father). The vowel isn't precisely "ah" either, but it sounds that way to Chicagoans. I also enunciate really, really clearly, which seems to confuse people. Americans in general aren't exactly in the habit of speaking clearly. They can't seem to understand why I'm so easy to understand (so to speak), I guess. At any rate, I learned proper enunciation from theatre, which then became solidified after years of teaching pronunciation primarily to Chinese, Korean, and Mexican students.
In high school, one encountered names like, "Przybulski" (the cheerleader triplets), "Isryzycki" (Mr. I - the math teacher - I'm pretty sure I've spelled his name wrong), "Fiore" (the Italian flower - my chem partner), "Salerno" (the English teacher). You wore dago-tees (instead of tank tops) and fiercely observed St. Paddy's Day. There was not a single black student and Asians were rare. In classes, there was an uneasy truce between the smattering of hispanics (who tended to band together) and the rest of the WASPs. When we went out to eat, you could choose Italian (Salerno's Pizza, Giovannis, Buona Beef) or Bohemian (Little Bohemia, Riverside Restaurant, Czech Plaza). If you wanted to sneak into a bar, everyone knew you hit Frank's Place, Frank O'Malleys Irish joint (which is not actually in Berwyn), which was cheerily pasted with posters of the green hills of Ireland.
Berwyn is different now - different and better. Sure, they still look largely like a bunch of uneducated yahoos (If you wish to refute this, then I suggest you talk a walk - as I did recently - past the mass of Berwynite humanity streaming into the Italian Fest on a hot summer's eve, tromping along in their triple-oversized sports jerseys and their machomacho walks; women straining at the seams of their size 24 stretchy cropped pants and flourescent sports bras under white strappy tank tops. Or, walk into North Riverside Mall. I dare you.), but there is a liveliness here now, a hint of potential, a hope of what may come, and I attribute that, at least partially, to the flux of newbies transforming the neighborhood.
In schools this year, I tried to impress the kids with my tenure at a high-achieving international school. They had some interest, but any glance at local classrooms will show a small united nations right here in Berwyn. There's a kid from Thailand who lives across the street. There's a Palestinian girl who wears a headscarf. Kids are from Mexico, Honduras, Guatemala, Puerto Rico, Poland, Russia, Indonesia, Korea, Pakistan. There is a growing number of black students, many of whom have just escaped the now-defunct housing projects. We sit at a table in an art class, exchanging lively banter on strange foods I've eaten in China, music, autism, and Michelle Obama's latest fashion pick.
Walk down the street, you'll see the same: the Indian woman in her sari, waiting for a bus on Harlem; the young Chinese couple at the Redbox, chattering loudly in Hanyu. Nor is it just an issue of ethnicity - there's also a small but steady trickle of much-needed individuals who are educated, who think freely, and who have life experiences outside of Berwyn, Stickney and a brief stint at Morton College. My neighbors (two doors down) lived happily in Lakeview for years, but they moved here two years ago because they wanted an affordable yard that was still close to their Loop jobs. I found a blog post from an elderly gay Northwestern professor who was looking for a quieter neighborhood and I was surprised that he was directed to Berwyn by a fellow blogger. I hope he considers it.
Mind you, not that I'm trying to force a "bigger and better" swap of Berwyn's singular eccentricities for a neatly uniform upper middle class neighborhood. I like Berwyn's oddities. I glory in the XXL sweatpant brigade. I'm sad that the Spindle is now a Walgreens. And for those of you with a slightly longer memory: I miss eating french fries at the Woolworths counter at the plaza; I miss buying candy from Jakovich's neighborhood store; I liked $1 cheap movies at the Olympic. Okay, now this is becoming a maudlin trip down memory lane. My point is that Berwyn used to just be dumpy, downtrodden, poor, hardscrabble, and a place from which one escaped. Which I did. For a decade. And I hadn't intended to come back. But here I am and I think the return is fortuitous. Berwyn has some potential. It doesn't need to change, in terms of breadth, it just needs some depth, so to speak. It needs rich layers of ethnicities, income, education, and life experience, instead of the usual broad plain of sameness. And those layers need to be interspersed and varied, instead of developing the usual hierarchy (which in my opinion, has occurred in many Chicago neighborhoods - too gentrified, too yuppie, too samey-samey rich).
In addition, the individuals need to interact across layers on a daily basis, which is what neighborhood living is all about. There need to be more businesses, both upscale and humble, so that people don't need to leave the neighborhood to get their needs met. There should be a Trader Joes, along with La Familia, the Berwyn Fruit Market and Jewel. There should be more nice neighborhood bars, like Fitzgeralds, that offer Fat Tire drafts along with the bottles of Old Style light. Why are there no charming upscale restaurants with sidewalk seating? Why isn't there a single coffee shop where I can work online while sipping a cuppa (Wait, there's one by Macneal - Common Grounds)? And while we're at it, why aren't there sidewalk stands? I'd like to buy a tamale from a slow-moving pushcart along Cermak for $1.25. And don't ever chase away my Gina's Italian Ice. I think about her lemon ice all winter. I WANT a Hell's Angels neighbor, like the one I've got, to chat with over the fence. And the elderly retired school administrator to make suggestions about the rotary club. I want to exchange vegetables in the summer with the guy munching on Japanese pastries and to sip wine with the Mexican artists.
Berwyn should become more like, well, Oak Park maybe (I'll have to think about that more). There are some really big beautiful homes in South Berwyn, along Riverside Drive and around Proksa Park. And if only Berwyn Bungalows with their unique stained glass windows, would become coveted.
Finally, there needs to be a culture shift. Everything should be walkable. Stop driving so much. Walk places. Bike places. Ride the bus. It's good for you.
Anyhow, I'm seeing good changes and I'm developing all of my favorite haunts. I get most of my needs met here and I can easily go elsewhere when I need to. Berwyn is slowly developing those deep layers. Keep it up.
In high school, one encountered names like, "Przybulski" (the cheerleader triplets), "Isryzycki" (Mr. I - the math teacher - I'm pretty sure I've spelled his name wrong), "Fiore" (the Italian flower - my chem partner), "Salerno" (the English teacher). You wore dago-tees (instead of tank tops) and fiercely observed St. Paddy's Day. There was not a single black student and Asians were rare. In classes, there was an uneasy truce between the smattering of hispanics (who tended to band together) and the rest of the WASPs. When we went out to eat, you could choose Italian (Salerno's Pizza, Giovannis, Buona Beef) or Bohemian (Little Bohemia, Riverside Restaurant, Czech Plaza). If you wanted to sneak into a bar, everyone knew you hit Frank's Place, Frank O'Malleys Irish joint (which is not actually in Berwyn), which was cheerily pasted with posters of the green hills of Ireland.
Berwyn is different now - different and better. Sure, they still look largely like a bunch of uneducated yahoos (If you wish to refute this, then I suggest you talk a walk - as I did recently - past the mass of Berwynite humanity streaming into the Italian Fest on a hot summer's eve, tromping along in their triple-oversized sports jerseys and their machomacho walks; women straining at the seams of their size 24 stretchy cropped pants and flourescent sports bras under white strappy tank tops. Or, walk into North Riverside Mall. I dare you.), but there is a liveliness here now, a hint of potential, a hope of what may come, and I attribute that, at least partially, to the flux of newbies transforming the neighborhood.
In schools this year, I tried to impress the kids with my tenure at a high-achieving international school. They had some interest, but any glance at local classrooms will show a small united nations right here in Berwyn. There's a kid from Thailand who lives across the street. There's a Palestinian girl who wears a headscarf. Kids are from Mexico, Honduras, Guatemala, Puerto Rico, Poland, Russia, Indonesia, Korea, Pakistan. There is a growing number of black students, many of whom have just escaped the now-defunct housing projects. We sit at a table in an art class, exchanging lively banter on strange foods I've eaten in China, music, autism, and Michelle Obama's latest fashion pick.
Walk down the street, you'll see the same: the Indian woman in her sari, waiting for a bus on Harlem; the young Chinese couple at the Redbox, chattering loudly in Hanyu. Nor is it just an issue of ethnicity - there's also a small but steady trickle of much-needed individuals who are educated, who think freely, and who have life experiences outside of Berwyn, Stickney and a brief stint at Morton College. My neighbors (two doors down) lived happily in Lakeview for years, but they moved here two years ago because they wanted an affordable yard that was still close to their Loop jobs. I found a blog post from an elderly gay Northwestern professor who was looking for a quieter neighborhood and I was surprised that he was directed to Berwyn by a fellow blogger. I hope he considers it.
Mind you, not that I'm trying to force a "bigger and better" swap of Berwyn's singular eccentricities for a neatly uniform upper middle class neighborhood. I like Berwyn's oddities. I glory in the XXL sweatpant brigade. I'm sad that the Spindle is now a Walgreens. And for those of you with a slightly longer memory: I miss eating french fries at the Woolworths counter at the plaza; I miss buying candy from Jakovich's neighborhood store; I liked $1 cheap movies at the Olympic. Okay, now this is becoming a maudlin trip down memory lane. My point is that Berwyn used to just be dumpy, downtrodden, poor, hardscrabble, and a place from which one escaped. Which I did. For a decade. And I hadn't intended to come back. But here I am and I think the return is fortuitous. Berwyn has some potential. It doesn't need to change, in terms of breadth, it just needs some depth, so to speak. It needs rich layers of ethnicities, income, education, and life experience, instead of the usual broad plain of sameness. And those layers need to be interspersed and varied, instead of developing the usual hierarchy (which in my opinion, has occurred in many Chicago neighborhoods - too gentrified, too yuppie, too samey-samey rich).
In addition, the individuals need to interact across layers on a daily basis, which is what neighborhood living is all about. There need to be more businesses, both upscale and humble, so that people don't need to leave the neighborhood to get their needs met. There should be a Trader Joes, along with La Familia, the Berwyn Fruit Market and Jewel. There should be more nice neighborhood bars, like Fitzgeralds, that offer Fat Tire drafts along with the bottles of Old Style light. Why are there no charming upscale restaurants with sidewalk seating? Why isn't there a single coffee shop where I can work online while sipping a cuppa (Wait, there's one by Macneal - Common Grounds)? And while we're at it, why aren't there sidewalk stands? I'd like to buy a tamale from a slow-moving pushcart along Cermak for $1.25. And don't ever chase away my Gina's Italian Ice. I think about her lemon ice all winter. I WANT a Hell's Angels neighbor, like the one I've got, to chat with over the fence. And the elderly retired school administrator to make suggestions about the rotary club. I want to exchange vegetables in the summer with the guy munching on Japanese pastries and to sip wine with the Mexican artists.
Berwyn should become more like, well, Oak Park maybe (I'll have to think about that more). There are some really big beautiful homes in South Berwyn, along Riverside Drive and around Proksa Park. And if only Berwyn Bungalows with their unique stained glass windows, would become coveted.
Finally, there needs to be a culture shift. Everything should be walkable. Stop driving so much. Walk places. Bike places. Ride the bus. It's good for you.
Anyhow, I'm seeing good changes and I'm developing all of my favorite haunts. I get most of my needs met here and I can easily go elsewhere when I need to. Berwyn is slowly developing those deep layers. Keep it up.
Friday, January 23, 2009
A walk along the Des Plaines river
Two Buck Chuck from Trader Joes isn't hideous. It makes great mulled wine. Alone, I'd go for the Beaujolais instead of the Cab or Merlot, but I'm drinking the Cab right now and it's really not that bad. I'll buy it again for a cheap, weeknight glass on my own.
I planned on burritos for dinner and decided to hoof it down to Jewel for salsa and chips. It's an 8 minute walk. I came back laden with everything from their two-for-one sales: Greek yogurt, Brownberry bread, butter, Healthy Choice soup, etc. Note to self: don't buy 20 cans of soup when walking home. And stop being "nice" to the bagger. Just cut in and distribute the weight evenly in the bags. They bag them to be carted around in cars. They don't really consider weight distributions for us carless ones. It's inconvenient to wait until I walk around the corner, set the bags down on the filthy floor, and then redistribute. Just speak up; they won't mind (less work).
Borrowed a car this afternoon so that I could get out in nature. Had planned on Graue Mill (Hinsdale 30 min), but chose the forest preserve by Brookfield Zoo (10 min) instead. I hadn't been on this trail since the fall. It is completely snowed over, but it does have a path tramped down by previous walkers. From the looks of it, there are plenty of cross country skiers who use this trail. Now, why haven't I ever thought of that before?
That reminds me of my PE classes in college. I was required to take a certain number and I took the following: cross country skiing, downhill skiing. I love Minnesota. I went for several hours every Monday afternoon for free. Which then reminds me of my childhood in Idaho, when we used to take off every single Friday for 3 months to go skiing as part of our PE . It cost an extra hundred bucks but you got the whole day off of school and got to enjoy great skiing. I love Idaho.
But the forest preserve:
The beginning of the trail looks kind of dumpy and I certainly wouldn't use the picnic area, since it's right off of 31st Street. I tried it once. On a romantic date, complete with wine and blankets, etc. Imagine trying to sip and whisper sweet-nothings amidst the whizzing of semis in your ear. The trail, once you've passed the picnic grounds, leads to a sweet-looking retirement home, with a prettyish garden on one side. I've never seen anyone in it. But it's nice to know it's there. Maybe they look at it from their bedrooms. Today I saw a gaggle of Canadian geese, coming in for a breather and perhaps a snack or two. They coasted in around to my left, making quite a ruckus and then settled down on the edge of the garden, eyeing me suspiciously. I like the sound of their honks. They were higher and lighter than those made by other geese. It was kind of melodic instead of annoying.
I had a friend who once fell prey to an aggressive goose. He had decided to bike a large section of the I & M Canal on his own with the intention of camping overnight and then returning the next day. He lofted his over-burdened backpack over his meaty frame and then settled that dead-weight mass onto his too-small second-hand bike. He tucked in his under-used Bible at the last minute in case he was inspired to seek guidance whilst communing with nature. And then he set out with a whistle that lasted all of twenty minutes.
About two miles into his spiritual and literal journey, while deeply contemplating the proper ratio of bacon to canned beans needed for the usual camp stew, he was jolted out of his reveries by a loud beastly grunt. From his peripheral vision, he saw a large creature charging from the surrounding forest toward him. Lightning reflexes caused him to avoid certain collision by swerving hurriedly to the right, without apparent consideration for the canal. He slammed on his brakes at the last minute which sent the heavy backpack sailing over the handlebars, portly frame still attached. The bike stood on the edge for a millisecond and then collapsed, landing in the canal at the same moment my friend, and all of his worldly goods, splashed into the drink. He looked to his left and saw that his beacon of hope- his Bible - was rapidly sinking into the mud. A glance behind revealed the nature of his attacker; it came in the form of a goose. It honked victory at him from the embankment and waddled off. He lifted himself, with the pack, and the extra 30 pounds of water which had now seeped into his tent, sleeping bag, and change of underwear, retrieved his sodden Bible, and set his bike toward home. His great adventure would last a grand total of 50 minutes. Such a bedraggled sight may perhaps never be seen again.
He got no guidance from his journey, I might add.
You think I'm making this up, don't you? I'm not. It happened, exactly as I'm telling it.
The trail then leads through a meadowy area, adjacent to the Des Plaines River. There is a crane that looks exactly like the one from Mike Mulligan the Steamroller....wait..no...Mike the....well, what the heck is Mike anyway? At any rate, it looks just like something from that book. After that the path follows the Des Plaines for many miles. I used to bike it all the time. It really is a great place if you need a quick get-away. There are plenty of places to spread a blanket and grab a bite. I wouldn't recommend a snooze though. It's pretty safe, but you never know.
I planned on burritos for dinner and decided to hoof it down to Jewel for salsa and chips. It's an 8 minute walk. I came back laden with everything from their two-for-one sales: Greek yogurt, Brownberry bread, butter, Healthy Choice soup, etc. Note to self: don't buy 20 cans of soup when walking home. And stop being "nice" to the bagger. Just cut in and distribute the weight evenly in the bags. They bag them to be carted around in cars. They don't really consider weight distributions for us carless ones. It's inconvenient to wait until I walk around the corner, set the bags down on the filthy floor, and then redistribute. Just speak up; they won't mind (less work).
Borrowed a car this afternoon so that I could get out in nature. Had planned on Graue Mill (Hinsdale 30 min), but chose the forest preserve by Brookfield Zoo (10 min) instead. I hadn't been on this trail since the fall. It is completely snowed over, but it does have a path tramped down by previous walkers. From the looks of it, there are plenty of cross country skiers who use this trail. Now, why haven't I ever thought of that before?
That reminds me of my PE classes in college. I was required to take a certain number and I took the following: cross country skiing, downhill skiing. I love Minnesota. I went for several hours every Monday afternoon for free. Which then reminds me of my childhood in Idaho, when we used to take off every single Friday for 3 months to go skiing as part of our PE . It cost an extra hundred bucks but you got the whole day off of school and got to enjoy great skiing. I love Idaho.
But the forest preserve:
The beginning of the trail looks kind of dumpy and I certainly wouldn't use the picnic area, since it's right off of 31st Street. I tried it once. On a romantic date, complete with wine and blankets, etc. Imagine trying to sip and whisper sweet-nothings amidst the whizzing of semis in your ear. The trail, once you've passed the picnic grounds, leads to a sweet-looking retirement home, with a prettyish garden on one side. I've never seen anyone in it. But it's nice to know it's there. Maybe they look at it from their bedrooms. Today I saw a gaggle of Canadian geese, coming in for a breather and perhaps a snack or two. They coasted in around to my left, making quite a ruckus and then settled down on the edge of the garden, eyeing me suspiciously. I like the sound of their honks. They were higher and lighter than those made by other geese. It was kind of melodic instead of annoying.
I had a friend who once fell prey to an aggressive goose. He had decided to bike a large section of the I & M Canal on his own with the intention of camping overnight and then returning the next day. He lofted his over-burdened backpack over his meaty frame and then settled that dead-weight mass onto his too-small second-hand bike. He tucked in his under-used Bible at the last minute in case he was inspired to seek guidance whilst communing with nature. And then he set out with a whistle that lasted all of twenty minutes.
About two miles into his spiritual and literal journey, while deeply contemplating the proper ratio of bacon to canned beans needed for the usual camp stew, he was jolted out of his reveries by a loud beastly grunt. From his peripheral vision, he saw a large creature charging from the surrounding forest toward him. Lightning reflexes caused him to avoid certain collision by swerving hurriedly to the right, without apparent consideration for the canal. He slammed on his brakes at the last minute which sent the heavy backpack sailing over the handlebars, portly frame still attached. The bike stood on the edge for a millisecond and then collapsed, landing in the canal at the same moment my friend, and all of his worldly goods, splashed into the drink. He looked to his left and saw that his beacon of hope- his Bible - was rapidly sinking into the mud. A glance behind revealed the nature of his attacker; it came in the form of a goose. It honked victory at him from the embankment and waddled off. He lifted himself, with the pack, and the extra 30 pounds of water which had now seeped into his tent, sleeping bag, and change of underwear, retrieved his sodden Bible, and set his bike toward home. His great adventure would last a grand total of 50 minutes. Such a bedraggled sight may perhaps never be seen again.
He got no guidance from his journey, I might add.
You think I'm making this up, don't you? I'm not. It happened, exactly as I'm telling it.
The trail then leads through a meadowy area, adjacent to the Des Plaines River. There is a crane that looks exactly like the one from Mike Mulligan the Steamroller....wait..no...Mike the....well, what the heck is Mike anyway? At any rate, it looks just like something from that book. After that the path follows the Des Plaines for many miles. I used to bike it all the time. It really is a great place if you need a quick get-away. There are plenty of places to spread a blanket and grab a bite. I wouldn't recommend a snooze though. It's pretty safe, but you never know.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Inauguration Day
I just saw myself on NBC news. For about 2 seconds. First, I saw myself in the background, standing to the right of the cheerful, homeless, spunky black lady they were interviewing. Then I saw myself again standing to the left of the the cheerful spunky lady with the goofy hat they were interviewing. Note to self: when cameras are present, be cheerful and spunky and wear silly hats.
Oh! I just saw the top of my head behind the women holding the flags! Come on, film me. I look all quiet, contemplative, soulful. Doesn't that count for something?
Decided to head to Tribune Tower for the big inauguration party. I did some research and considered the Silver Room or the Cat's Meow, but the truth is, I really wanted to be in the heart of Chicago with that beautiful skyline in the background. I wanted to brave the frigid air and stand in a mixed crowd. A warm, comfortable room just sounded too easy for some reason. And I was rewarded. I exchanged hugs with Goofy Hat (she grabbed me and I relented) and rubbed shoulders with HomeNToothless. I liked them both. A lot. I thought about grabbing that sweet old lady's hand when he took his office and I kind of wish I had. But I chickened out and lost my opportunity. I was too afraid that I would be grabbing her hand because she was black and not because I was just happy to be standing next to her. But I WAS happy to be standing next to her. And she looked kind of lonely. Now I really wished I'd grabbed her hand and stopped over-analyzing it.
I thought about Hyde Park too, but I figured that they would already be inundated with "outsiders" and that just doesn't seem right. They deserve their own chance to celebrate, among their own neighbors and friends.
I took the Blue Line and switched to the Red, exiting at Grand. The station at Grand is a superb dump. No, I mean a SUPERB DUMP. Even small-town train stations in China were nicer than that. Fix that, Daley.
I found a secret little enclave just off of the Wrigley Building. How is it that I've never seen this courtyard with this McDonalds? It is kind of charming and has windows overlooking the Chicago River, the Trump Dump, and the Wrigley Building. I had coffee and breakfast there, then headed to the Trib. It was cold.....CCCOOOOLLLLDDDDDD.....I was wearing my kicky boots and my $10 H&M wide leg black pants and my cool new belted charcoal wool coat. I looked sharp. But I was CCCOOOOOLLLLDDD. Next time I'll be less vain and more practical.
I was fixing to cry about every two seconds as I watched the Obamarama footage. Not because I believe all of the Savior-of-the-World hype, but just because I feel a little happy and dare to feel hopeful, you know. Until the cameras showed up and then I vacillated between emergent tears and involuntary spasms of rigor mortis whenever those digital eyes were upon me. I wish I were a camera-girl, but I'm not. I wish they'd go away and leave me to my private emotions. (Now that's not really true, is it? I kind of like having my image show up on NBC, don't I?) I just suck in front of cameras, that's all.
So, I watched it all, got some free coffee, walked down Michigan Ave, and visited the Chicago Cultural Center. The art exhibits didn't interest me so I headed back home. I'm currently celebrating with homemade chili dogs and a shared bottle of Goats Do Roam (South Africa. It really would be so cool if it were a Cotes du Rhone- why isn't it? What a missed clever marketing scheme).
Oh! I just saw the top of my head behind the women holding the flags! Come on, film me. I look all quiet, contemplative, soulful. Doesn't that count for something?
Decided to head to Tribune Tower for the big inauguration party. I did some research and considered the Silver Room or the Cat's Meow, but the truth is, I really wanted to be in the heart of Chicago with that beautiful skyline in the background. I wanted to brave the frigid air and stand in a mixed crowd. A warm, comfortable room just sounded too easy for some reason. And I was rewarded. I exchanged hugs with Goofy Hat (she grabbed me and I relented) and rubbed shoulders with HomeNToothless. I liked them both. A lot. I thought about grabbing that sweet old lady's hand when he took his office and I kind of wish I had. But I chickened out and lost my opportunity. I was too afraid that I would be grabbing her hand because she was black and not because I was just happy to be standing next to her. But I WAS happy to be standing next to her. And she looked kind of lonely. Now I really wished I'd grabbed her hand and stopped over-analyzing it.
I thought about Hyde Park too, but I figured that they would already be inundated with "outsiders" and that just doesn't seem right. They deserve their own chance to celebrate, among their own neighbors and friends.
I took the Blue Line and switched to the Red, exiting at Grand. The station at Grand is a superb dump. No, I mean a SUPERB DUMP. Even small-town train stations in China were nicer than that. Fix that, Daley.
I found a secret little enclave just off of the Wrigley Building. How is it that I've never seen this courtyard with this McDonalds? It is kind of charming and has windows overlooking the Chicago River, the Trump Dump, and the Wrigley Building. I had coffee and breakfast there, then headed to the Trib. It was cold.....CCCOOOOLLLLDDDDDD.....I was wearing my kicky boots and my $10 H&M wide leg black pants and my cool new belted charcoal wool coat. I looked sharp. But I was CCCOOOOOLLLLDDD. Next time I'll be less vain and more practical.
I was fixing to cry about every two seconds as I watched the Obamarama footage. Not because I believe all of the Savior-of-the-World hype, but just because I feel a little happy and dare to feel hopeful, you know. Until the cameras showed up and then I vacillated between emergent tears and involuntary spasms of rigor mortis whenever those digital eyes were upon me. I wish I were a camera-girl, but I'm not. I wish they'd go away and leave me to my private emotions. (Now that's not really true, is it? I kind of like having my image show up on NBC, don't I?) I just suck in front of cameras, that's all.
So, I watched it all, got some free coffee, walked down Michigan Ave, and visited the Chicago Cultural Center. The art exhibits didn't interest me so I headed back home. I'm currently celebrating with homemade chili dogs and a shared bottle of Goats Do Roam (South Africa. It really would be so cool if it were a Cotes du Rhone- why isn't it? What a missed clever marketing scheme).
Sunday, January 18, 2009
What Constitutes “A Neighborhood”?
I was actually exposed to neighborhood-living in China. I lived in the Wangdingdi neighborhood in a city of 10 million. We didn't have a car so I grew very accustomed to doing everything locally. I usually walked or biked everywhere: for groceries, restaurants, entertainment, work. We took public transportation or taxis when we wanted to go somewhere outside of our area (entertainment for the weekends, usually). But in terms of everyday living, if it couldn't be found in the neighborhood, we just went without.
I really like the intimacy that comes with this kind of life. It's small-town and it's personal. I had my vegetable guy for my daily veggies. We would chat as I picked up enough potatoes and carrots for dinner that day. I got my bike fixed at the stand on the corner. There were 3 different supermarkets within blocks of my house. Most of my friends were within walking distance. There was a butcher down the street. And at night, the street would be filled with my neighbors as they relaxed and drank at sidewalk food stands. I liked that everyone knew each other and were connected to each other through daily existence. You really have a sense of belonging and camaraderie, even when you drive each other crazy.
Chicago was (and often still is) largely based on neighborhood living. I think people way out in the suburbs are missing out, honestly. Berwyn was once designed for neighborhood living. My family moved to Berwyn when I was going into high school and I remember all of the little market stores (built in the 1920's just like the rest of the area I presume) every few blocks. Most of these are closed down now. But the schools are still set up on the neighborhood system. Most elementary students live within a few blocks of their school and it's fun to see them all filing down the street every day.
What is strange to me is that there are so many great places in the area and yet people will drive so far out of their environs to meet their daily needs. My mother lives this way. She drives a mile for her dry-cleaning even though there's a great Korean place just 5 blocks away (same cost). She drives 20 minutes to a bigger Jewel even though there's one literally at the end of her street. She says the close one is too small but honestly, does one really need more options on cereal brands and cleaning products?
I walk to the small Jewel and pick up enough items for a few days and walk them back in 30 minutes. I've gotten exercise so I don't need to hit the gym and I'm back in half the time it would take to go to the big one. In addition, I've greeted the elderly lady on the first block, looked at squirrels trying to stay warm in the trees (Don't they hibernate? Why the heck are they running around in January?), and gazed at potential houses on the other ones. Her trips are painful; mine are a delight.
So what constitutes "a neighborhood"? Well, I'm hoping that this type of life will catch on here, expanding the already existing selection of neighborhood businesses, as it has in Oak Park and LaGrange. I'm amazed at what has happened to those sleepy townships over the past 20 years (especially while I've been away). Berwyn isn't there yet, so some things do require a little more time and effort to get to currently. But not much more! For my Berwyn life, my neighborhood is defined as any place to which I can easily bike or walk, like I did in China. In general, this means a 10-30 minute walk or bike from my house (or short bus ride in winter). Your average suburbanite usually drives that far for basic necessities, so I think it's fair.
I really like the intimacy that comes with this kind of life. It's small-town and it's personal. I had my vegetable guy for my daily veggies. We would chat as I picked up enough potatoes and carrots for dinner that day. I got my bike fixed at the stand on the corner. There were 3 different supermarkets within blocks of my house. Most of my friends were within walking distance. There was a butcher down the street. And at night, the street would be filled with my neighbors as they relaxed and drank at sidewalk food stands. I liked that everyone knew each other and were connected to each other through daily existence. You really have a sense of belonging and camaraderie, even when you drive each other crazy.
Chicago was (and often still is) largely based on neighborhood living. I think people way out in the suburbs are missing out, honestly. Berwyn was once designed for neighborhood living. My family moved to Berwyn when I was going into high school and I remember all of the little market stores (built in the 1920's just like the rest of the area I presume) every few blocks. Most of these are closed down now. But the schools are still set up on the neighborhood system. Most elementary students live within a few blocks of their school and it's fun to see them all filing down the street every day.
What is strange to me is that there are so many great places in the area and yet people will drive so far out of their environs to meet their daily needs. My mother lives this way. She drives a mile for her dry-cleaning even though there's a great Korean place just 5 blocks away (same cost). She drives 20 minutes to a bigger Jewel even though there's one literally at the end of her street. She says the close one is too small but honestly, does one really need more options on cereal brands and cleaning products?
I walk to the small Jewel and pick up enough items for a few days and walk them back in 30 minutes. I've gotten exercise so I don't need to hit the gym and I'm back in half the time it would take to go to the big one. In addition, I've greeted the elderly lady on the first block, looked at squirrels trying to stay warm in the trees (Don't they hibernate? Why the heck are they running around in January?), and gazed at potential houses on the other ones. Her trips are painful; mine are a delight.
So what constitutes "a neighborhood"? Well, I'm hoping that this type of life will catch on here, expanding the already existing selection of neighborhood businesses, as it has in Oak Park and LaGrange. I'm amazed at what has happened to those sleepy townships over the past 20 years (especially while I've been away). Berwyn isn't there yet, so some things do require a little more time and effort to get to currently. But not much more! For my Berwyn life, my neighborhood is defined as any place to which I can easily bike or walk, like I did in China. In general, this means a 10-30 minute walk or bike from my house (or short bus ride in winter). Your average suburbanite usually drives that far for basic necessities, so I think it's fair.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
First Impressions
You're going to have to keep in mind that I've returned to Berwyn after 7 years in one of the ugliest cities in a developing country. Pretty much every place is now beautiful to me. I hadn't been back for a visit for 2 years. My first impression of Berwyn was of wide-open spaces with no people crowding on sidewalks, and clear naked blue skies that weren't wearing several layers of industrial smog. I spent the summer rejoicing in the silence, barely disrupted by the gentle hum of cars from Harlem Ave. I watched bunnies and birds and even some mice in my postage-stamp sized yard. Hell, I even hugged some 100-year old trees in the front yard. After that long away, Berwyn was a veritable paradise.
I've been back for 5 months now and have regained some of my senses. Berwyn is not a paradise. I have survived my first holiday season in 7 years, replete with severed heads hanging from the porch and hideous jumbo-sized inflatable Homer Santa's, which are apparently meant to evoke a warm and gentle Christmas-y feeling. I have also survived the infantile gang scrawlings across 6 blocks of my neighbors' fences and garages. I am currently weathering the ungodly -17 degree temperature we've all been enduring (weathering for me involves a heat bag and several rounds of spiced rum toddy). No, it's not quite Thailand or the Philippines, but it does have an intriguing mix of ethnic diversity, old-timey edifices and institutions, great food, and neighborly friendliness. So, I think I'll stick it out here and see what this place has to offer -at least for another year. I lift my rum toddy to you: "Berwyn, you kind of suck; I like you."
I've been back for 5 months now and have regained some of my senses. Berwyn is not a paradise. I have survived my first holiday season in 7 years, replete with severed heads hanging from the porch and hideous jumbo-sized inflatable Homer Santa's, which are apparently meant to evoke a warm and gentle Christmas-y feeling. I have also survived the infantile gang scrawlings across 6 blocks of my neighbors' fences and garages. I am currently weathering the ungodly -17 degree temperature we've all been enduring (weathering for me involves a heat bag and several rounds of spiced rum toddy). No, it's not quite Thailand or the Philippines, but it does have an intriguing mix of ethnic diversity, old-timey edifices and institutions, great food, and neighborly friendliness. So, I think I'll stick it out here and see what this place has to offer -at least for another year. I lift my rum toddy to you: "Berwyn, you kind of suck; I like you."
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