I walk to St. John Fisher in the morning between 6:00 and 6:30 A.M. - weather, laziness and time permitting. It is a solid mile to the church and my vigorous gait usually gets me there in under fifteen minutes. I mediate, plan the day, wallow in guilt and pray during this exercise.
Since childhood, I have had the attention span of parakeet ( 'bite the cuttle bone!' -'whack the bell!'-'head-butt the mirror!' - 'splash water!') and tend to flit the old noggin with varying perceptions - "this guy's lawn is worse than mine . . .Thank Christ. Charleston Chew wrappers!!!! Where they get Charleston Chews? Love those. These kids on Talman have more Fisher Price toys than Toys R Us . . . cool fort" for example.
Occasionally, this quality time of mine pulls together larger questions. These past few days, I have noticed the lack of property hedges - the Right angles of bushy shrubbery that at one time seemed to dominate neighborhood landscapes. Nellie Stevens Holly, Schip Cherry Laurel and Barberry shrubs once outlined our streets and walkways.
Where is the Chicago neighborhood Bungalow Bocage?
I remark merely on its absence and wonder how kids can grow up with their heads screwed on straight without having had the experience of being knocked into the hedge on the way to school.
Hedges were magical! They were castles, forts, Green Walls for Home Run Derby, jungles, zoos, hiding places, bushwhacking opportunities and the leaves could be made into musical instruments.
I spent many early mornings pulling myself out hedges on Honore, having taken the inside lane closer to properties and being Maury Lanigan-ed into a Cherry Laurel fencing the sidewalk in front of Al Balauskas's bunglow. Paper bag covered books torn, folders of sloppy homework em-barbed in the sharp branches and my ego shocked out of existence to delighted howls of my boon buddies - " Walk on the outside, Hickey!" - prepared me for this Vale of Tears that is our lot.
Each of us would spend time in the bushes.
Each of us, male and female, would learn that life is paved with unexpected checks into the boards.
The hedges helped.
Love this, Pat! I remember squared-off hedges lining the 25-foot-lot of my childhood home on Artesian. And our Washtenaw home was well-planted when we moved in 25 years ago although less-well-tended since then. Alas, this past spring I pruned the overgrowth without mercy and used the reclaimed space for what turned out to be an epic tomato crop. The fun discovery though was a collection of baseballs - many decayed down to the strings - that probably dates back to the 1950s when those hedges were first put in.
ReplyDeleteMy prequel to your story sounds like a takeoff on the old folk song. Where have all the baseballs gone? Gone to hedges, every one.
Hope you are well!
Love this, Pat! I remember squared-off hedges lining the 25-foot-lot of my childhood home on Artesian. And our Washtenaw home was well-planted when we moved in 25 years ago although less-well-tended since then. Alas, this past spring I pruned the overgrowth without mercy and used the reclaimed space for what turned out to be an epic tomato crop. The fun discovery though was a collection of baseballs - many decayed down to the strings - that probably dates back to the 1950s when those hedges were first put in.
ReplyDeleteSo the prequel to your story sounds like a takeoff on the old folk song. Where have all the baseballs gone? Gone to hedges, every one.
Hope you are well!
My husband grew up on 75th and Honore about the same time you did. I remember him mentioning Maury Lannigan. My husband, Bob Spreyne, may have been the one doing the pushing!
ReplyDelete