I hail from the city and the suburb. In the city, my working-class neighborhood consisted of noisy kids who played outside on unkempt lawns and sidewalks that were often cracked by tree roots, but when stepped on, would break our mothers’ backs. We rode tricycles and bicycles on those sidewalks, making popping noises with the cards we’d attached to the spokes with clothes pins--clothes pins being a staple then, as few households had clothes dryers. Clothes lines adorned all the backyards, and, in winter, work pants and house dresses often hung like frozen scarecrows. In summer, we played kick-the-can, cowboys and Indians, marbles and mischief. At the nearby park, I was dumped off the teeter-totter and had the wind knocked out of me as my older sister who was babysitting me, stood in horror, believing I was dead. But later, I swung to exhilarating heights trying to make the swing go over the bar from which it was suspended.
Johnny, my best friend, lived across the street. His mother and mine were friends. Our fathers worked together. Mrs. Pettibon, his grandmother, sat in a rocking chair on the front porch and knitted while she watched us play. We knew all our neighbors and they knew us. One neighbor, Mrs. Clark, whose grown son worked for Standard Oil in exotic Saudi Arabia, held story hour. She sat in a chair in her backyard, while we kids surrounded her on the grass and listened to her read us stories of far away places. Through her stories, we escaped to places unlike our neighborhood, places where it was always spring and everyone was rich and beautiful.
In winter, we bundled up in snowsuits and made snowmen and snowballs or we skated on ice rinks in the park and on lakes. Afterwards, we sipped hot chocolate topped with miniature marshmallows.
When I was ten, my father was promoted to vice president and we moved to the suburbs. There we had a whole acre of lawn, gardens and an apple orchard. Instead of the 2-bedroom, one bathroom bungalow with makeshift bedroom in the attic, our new home was a 2-story mansion, 3 bedrooms, a den, a kitchen with a breakfast nook and a dining room, a bathroom on each floor and a finished basement. All the houses in the subdivision stood, like sentinels, far from the street and no children played on front lawns; sidewalks didn’t exist. Instead of walking to school, I rode a yellow bus. There were no parks, just manicured lawns, carefully groomed flower beds and tall trees that dropped their leaves in the fall, requiring hours of raking into piles, tempting my siblings and me to jump in and scatter, despite the knowledge that doing so would lead to a reprimand. Later the leaves were burned, emitting the sweet, iconic smell of fall. Instead of the sound of children playing, the silence of summer was broken by power lawn mowers or a barking, lonely dog. At night, with the windows open, the whistle of a distant train beckoned me to dream of the places in Mrs. Clark’s stories. My dog Pat became my best friend. I rode my bike; she followed and together we explored the creek that flowed several blocks away, or I rode to the school yard where I could swing and think. I picked apples and wild asparagus and I roamed the woods, and climbed the trees. Winter, I looked out the window to a brilliant white, but dead and silent landscape.
From the city I developed an appreciation for friends and community. From the suburb, I developed a greater appreciation for the outdoors. Together, I have been blessed with a love for nature, a love for family and friends, and a belief that life is an incredibly beautiful journey.
