The Girl Next Door

Here is what I would like to say to the child who is always here, "do you have something to do at home? Maybe help your grandmother? Unload the dishwasher or put away laundry?".

Early in the summer she appeared at the back door, in the morning as I turned on the tea kettle, the rest of the house still sleeping. She startled me; in the city people do not show up at your back door, or your front, both being behind gates and locked entry doors. She waved and I opened the door, "the girls are still sleeping", and she skipped off to another house.

She's been back every day, and more often than not she finds two very willing play mates. From time to time I must tell her no, that they cannot come out as they are reading, or cleaning their room, or doing something far less exciting than running from yard to yard with no direction or purpose. Occasionally she catches me alone, as she did last week when the girls, back from the beach, were showering, and I was savoring those moments of anticipated solitude on the back deck with a book. She sat down on one of the chairs when I told her the girls were busy inside.

"What are you doing?", and she looked as though she just might stay.
"I'm going to read my book, at least until the girls are finished showering."
"And then what are you going to do?"

She stayed. And I put down my book and learned that her mother has just returned after a long absence, exact whereabouts unknown,  and that her father lives in a state very far away and calls occasionally. That she lives with her grandmother and brother, and now her mother, who works as a waitress in town, and that they have two bedrooms and no dishwasher, so there is no dishwasher to unload.

And here is what the child who is always here said to me, "You spend all summer with the girls? Really? You do everything with them? That's amazing".

Come on in, but you may need to help with the dishes.

Shooting: Gun Violence in my Northside Chicago Neighborhood

"Did you know, the only person to actually die this year, as a result of a shooting, was the man who died after the church shooting?"

I looked over the top of my glasses, across the table, at my husband who offered this information, seemingly, to calm my growing concerns over gun violence in our neighborhood.

"Did you know that I don't want to get shot? Nor do I want you or the girls to get shot? Or anyone really, no more shooting."

"But come on, doesn't it make you feel better to know that statistically you are not likely to actually die if you are shot, at least in our neighborhood?"

"No."

Statistically I am less likely to get shot because I am a white female but even that, combined with Jack's gunshot survival rate, isn't slowing my growing concern. It may not be me, or my children, but right now it's going to be someone, and that is too many.

His angle used to be that we were safe because none of the four of us were knowingly affiliated with any gangs and gangs were the ones doing all the shooting. He gave that up when the gangs, to whom he seemed to have attached a high level of intelligence and target acumen, began shooting wildly at anyone moving near their intended target. When they started firing from cars across busy and crowded streets, this conversation was over.

In the past month nine people have been shot in our neighborhood, and we live on the north side of the city, where people assume you are safe. The news focuses on crime on the south and west sides where shooting is more prevalent and young people dying is much more common. Our nine shootings don't even put us in the top 12 violent neighborhoods in the city. Gun violence is so common in Chicago that neighborhood shootings are no longer the lead story on the 10:00 news.

Last week someone was robbed at gunpoint in front of our neighborhood library.  The week before that there was an assault at the park at the end of our block, around lunch time.

Two weeks ago, the same week that the Navy Yard shootings took place, 13 people were wounded when a gunman fired an automatic weapon into a crowded city park. That no one died is a true miracle, that no one died kept this story from being major national news. Five people have now been arrested; it appears they were mad because one of them had earlier been shot, grazed in a drive by shooting. Retaliation for that, open fire on a crowded park. Someone might have thought that seemed reasonable.

In Chicago, our shooters are not generally ones with long histories of mental illness. They are young people who are angry. They are young people who have ready access to guns and, it seems, limited access to good decision making skills. One day last week I had the Tribune spread out all over the library desk at school, reading the article about the the then three (now five) young men arrested in connection with the park shooting. One of the older students looked over my shoulder, "oh, I know him", and he pointed to one of the mug shots in the article. I whirled around, "you do?".

He looked again, "oh, no never mind. Not that guy, but a guy from my block got arrested last week, but that was another shooting", and he shrugged his shoulders.

"Was he a friend of yours?".

"Nah, I didn't really know him, he's older. But we all know who he is", and he walked off, back to class, as casually as if he had told me he had pizza for dinner the night before.

During the 2011-2012 school year, 319 Chicago Public School students were wounded by gunfire, 24 of them fatally. My children, my CPS students, barely notice the sirens we hear almost daily outside our apartment.  They see police cars outside neighborhood schools and rarely question why. They participate in lock down drills at their school and say good morning each day to the off duty police officer who stands at the top of the stairs when they make their way into the building. What is scary to me is a way of life to them, and that scares me.

The week before the park shooting FBI numbers showed Chicago as the murder capital of the United States. Almost immediately that was refuted, numerous writers pointing out that per capita you were much more likely to be shot in Flint, Michigan, a town with a population around 100,000. I'm not standing on title, hand it off to Flint, MI if necessary but find a way to stop the people in Chicago from shooting each other.

When I started writing this last week, 277 people had died in Chicago thus far this year as a result of gunshot wounds. Today, about one week later, that number is 282. And tonight on the news, three teenagers shot on the city's south west side. It's enough to make you very angry.
 

Fear is a Factor

Several months ago, while wandering the aisles at my favorite used book store, I came upon a stash of Agatha Christie books. Immediately I scooped up four of them and have been on the lockout for others ever since. I'd forgotten how much I loved her books, how much I loved hiding away in my room, safe on the second floor with my parents down below, as I read story after story of Jane Marple or of Hercule Poroit. Miss Marple was my favorite, her tottering self so sharp and so far ahead of me as I struggled to piece together the clues that were so obvious to the seemingly ancient detective.

Those lovely books are gathering dust on the shelf in the guest room; I'm afraid to read them. I haven't watched one Law & Order rerun all summer, scary movies are not even mentioned and sadly, the local news is proving to be a bit too much. Small towns terrify me.

This summer, for the first time, the girls and I are spending most of our days, and nights, in our favorite Michigan beach town, a charming, and small, spot on the water with a population that swells to less than 10,000 during the summer. Terrifying.

Jack assures me that absolutely nothing happens here. My neurotic checking of online data shows that this is simply not true; just last week some poor man was stopped for a minor traffic violation (specifics not revealed to protect the offender) just blocks from our house. I am fairly certain that I remember hearing the sirens on that fateful day, quite possible in that the only other audible sound for blocks was my children screaming at each other over the badminton net in the back yard. Also a possibility, me screaming at my children to lower their voices so as not to disturb our quiet neighborhood.

This is the problem, it's a little too quiet here. Also, very dark. Maybe one or the other but together, scary. We don't have quiet in Chicago, and we certainly don't have dark.  Last week the girls and I drove home around 9:30 pm after dropping Jack at the train. We passed one car. I cannot remember the last time I went outside in Chicago and didn't see another soul. In a city where the rising crime rate consistently makes national headlines, where the idiots in the neighborhood think shooting at each other is just as acceptable as yelling insults from car windows, I feel safe. Er.

It's been over twenty years since I lived on the ground floor of anything; for 20 years I have lived in a world where access to one of our windows required a ladder or climbing equipment. Our bedroom window in Chicago faces a brick wall. The only people that can see in any of our windows are the Vietnamese couple whose kitchen sits about one arm's length from the dining room windows. Watching Mrs. Pham putter around her kitchen is comforting, I open our windows to smell the fish sauce and garlic and wave when she looks up from her chopping. The entire world, or almost 10,000 of them, can see in the windows when we are in Michigan. You know what is outside the dining room window there? Darkness. Scads and scads of dark, as far as you cannot see.
 
It's back to reality next week, home to the familiar paranoia of living in the city and away from the comfortable horror of living with open windows and unlocked doors. Several days ago, not far from our apartment in Chicago, five people were shot when a few gang geniuses got confused about which side of the street they were allowed to stand on, or something equally important. That should be terrifying but sadly it's not, it's home. Nothing Miss Marple faces could scare me more than that.

The Things We Carried

A lifetime ago my mother visited me in Chicago. As we walked the five blocks from my apartment to the garage that housed the car I used so infrequently it never occurred to me that five blocks was a long way to walk to park your car, she asked "how do you walk so far with your groceries?".  She said this at the exact moment we crossed the street, only one block from my apartment, passing my neighborhood grocer. My mother, a woman who once drove home from her suburban grocery store without the groceries she had just purchased, was just shocked by this idea, "you walk to the grocery store!" and was quite worried about me carrying home, for one block, Tab and Triscuits.

Oh Mom, we carry everything home: groceries, children, curtain rods, tables, dinner.

Years ago I carried a wreath home from work that was only marginally smaller in circumference than I was tall.  I have carried a full set of china, an antique baby rocker and, on more than one occasion, a full complement of weekend cocktails. Every December we carry home a Christmas tree which used to be a joint effort, one of us at each end, until two years ago when I finally convinced Jack that we needed two trees. Successful lobbying means that now I carry my own tree but he's kind enough to give me the dining room yule, much smaller than the living room tree which seems to grow in height each year.

Last week the girls got new mattresses, so grateful they are still in twin beds.

Really, Some of Our Best Friends are Hispanic

Several months ago Kate wrote a letter to the Alderman, pointing out the lack of coffee shops and bakeries, and the abundance of banks, in her neighborhood. We never heard back, he did not email or mail any response, which I found to be a bit odd, especially for a newly elected Alderman whose correspondent was a 7 year old future voter. We stopped in his office last week, on the way home from school; the Alderman did not remember getting her letter but apologized and spent some time listening to my daughter voice her concerns about the neighborhood.


Kate labored on for quite some time about the abundance of banks within walking distance of her apartment but a sad lack of restaurants and coffee shops. He assured her that she was not alone and that they were working hard to bring more dining options, and fewer banks, to the neighborhood; in fact they had just turned down a proposal for a new bank on a corner only two blocks away from home. This was all good news, and good news has the effect of making Kate just a bit more talkative. The Alderman asked her about school: where she went, what grade was she in, what did she like to study? He should have cleared his calendar for the afternoon.

How did we choose our school? What did we like about it? Rather than cede the floor to her mother, to offer the chance to blather on to an elected official about the painstaking process of getting two children into a Chicago Public School, Kate took this one. It went something like this, although I was so horrified that I might have blocked some of the more painful statements from memory.

"The first school we tried was not a good fit. Everyone was Hispanic! At first we liked that, because we are learning Spanish, but then, oh no, it was crazy! We went to the first meeting at school and looked around the room and saw NO white people, not one. Not one other person in the room who looked like us. And then it just got crazy, everyone yelling at each other. There were children running wild and the principal was just screaming over everyone. I saw several older boys throwing chairs with absolutely no consequences at all, none! Mom and Dad just decided that was not the school for us, even if they spoke Spanish. We could not go to a school where we were the only white people!"

I smiled over her head and said something profound like, "it's interesting, isn't it, the interpretation of our perceptions?". Kate continued on, speaking for what seemed like hours on her family's general distaste for minorities, ethnic and cultural differences, and Mexican food. I cowered, and tried unsuccessfully to interrupt and get her out of there.

The Alderman was quite nice, and humored me, listening to my nervous chatter trying so hard to explain our want of diversity in a  school, not accomplished with one ethnicity alone. Unable to stop myself, I felt it important to point out, repeatedly, that our favorite restaurant in the neighborhood, hands down, is the small taqueria near our apartment, "Oh we are just like family there, really!".

He promised to try it soon, perhaps we might run into each other? But not for breakfast, they don't serve desayuno, most unfortunately for Kate.

Take This One, Really

He hit the corner just before I did, which is exactly what you don't want to happen when you are running late for a funeral. His arm went up to flag the only taxi in the oncoming pack of cars. I stood, checking my watch, silently berating myself for taking the 30 seconds to stop and wave at the family who runs the corner taqueria. It began to drizzle.

"Do you need a cab?"

Taunting, of course I do.

"Here, take this one, I'm in no hurry".

I peered at him over the top of my glasses. He switched the 12 pack of Bud Light to his other arm and opened the door for me, "take it, really. I can wait".

For nine months I rode the train to work, pregnancy oozing from me at every available egress, and I can count on one hand the number of times people stood up and offered my swollen self their seat.

My calloused soul climbed into the back seat, "thank you so much, I mean, it's just that I am late for a funeral and I, I just don't know how to thank you". He smiled, moved the Bud Light again, and closed the door.

Cheers kind man, and thank you.

Glamour Shot

The picture of me on my Mastercard is at least twenty years old. It was taken at a black tie event soon after college and it follows then that I look quite glamorous, dashing really. My hair is longer, a bit lighter in the front and, as it was taken in the summer, there is a warm glow radiating from my wrinkle free skin. It looks nothing like me.

About once a week I stop at the corner market. The same woman is there behind the counter every single time, as she has been for the six years that I have been going to her store. She knows me, she knows my children and she knows that I really like Nantucket Nectars Big Cranberry juice, which I always pay for with my Mastercard.

"Is this you?" she asked.

It's not unusual, I am frequently asked to confirm that the dazzling young woman in the picture is actually me. Not generally from someone who has seen my card roughly 200 times but it's possible.

"It is, it's me, it's just an old picture".

She looked again, and back to me once more, "Really? I would have never guessed this was you, never". I smiled back at her.

"Well then I guess now we know that those girls might just grow up and be beautiful".

Now we know.

Where Everybody Knew Our Names

For Kate it was always a scrambled egg, toast and hash browns. Mary stuck with pancakes, occasionally switching from silver dollar to full size, and back again. It was our every lazy Saturday breakfast spot, and the place the girls always chose to begin their birthday. We knew the servers, and the busboy, all of whom spoke Spanish and were more than willing to listen patiently while Kate ordered "huevos revueltos y leche por favor".

After almost 40 years in business on the same corner, Arnold's closed last week. The economy is the given reason, in a short note on the door thanking their loyal customers, but I suspect that Mr. and Mrs. Arnold might like some rest, maybe a lazy Saturday themselves at a local diner. We'll allow them that, although we'll miss them terribly. This was the place I assumed we would visit when the girls were home on break their freshman year, twelve short years from now.

Arnold and Mrs. Arnold bought raffle tickets for the school auction and pledged money to support the girls at the annual walk-a-thon. One year, when Kate opened a birthday card, minus the five dollar bill that had been in Mary's, Mrs. Arnold dashed over with a quick replacement to cover the oversight. They introduced Mary and Kate to other customers, reminding most that the girls had been eating there since before they were born, and each year hung our Christmas card photograph on the old cash register, to the squealy delight of the six year old breakfast lovers.

Mrs. Arnold took her plants, the pictures that once covered the east wall have been removed and the singles connection board, right next to the counter, is empty. We'll look for the holiday decorations in November, the painted windows that were the early mark of the season, but rather than poinsettias, we'll find darkness. The old soda fountain, clearly installed for the grand opening, may appeal to someone interested in a retro looking greasy spoon, but more likely, our quirky neighborhood diner will become a Chase or Fifth Third Bank. There isn't one of those for at least two blocks, next to the Starbucks, right across from the Currency Exchange.

It's true, people in the city can be curt and impatient. This is not Mayberry, the place I wanted to live most when I was a child growing up in an anonymous suburb. Far from, this is a dense, and sometimes grimy, city. But in our neighborhood, one full of interesting and dynamic people who ride the bus, play at the park and eat breakfast together, we look for places like Arnold's, and the people who make us feel welcome every time we walk in the door. Eggs over medium and rye toast, served with amazing speed and genuine kindness, that's just not something you find on every corner.

A Story of Zen

We first met about four years ago, she stopped me as I was walking up our street, pushing the double bus with two almost two year olds, the beagle tied on to the side. At the time I was trying to help an older woman corral her dog who had escaped his leash and was running towards us, the older woman falling further and further behind. Krissy grabbed my stroller, I grabbed the dog and we introduced ourselves. Her first words were something along the lines of "they are twins? And you look rested, reasonable". She may have said normal, I was laughing too hard to be sure.

Her twins were brand new, just two months old, and she was not rested, nor reasonable, in her mind. She was exhausted and not certain that she had the will, the strength, to continue on without sleep, or sanity. We exchanged information, both happy to have found someone, a neighbor, who could understand the unique madness of raising twins. In many ways it is an oddly lonely situation, so few able to really empathize with the foggy days and catatonic nights. With almost two years experience, I was somewhat removed from the total exhaustion associated with the first few months of multiples, but not so far away that I didn't remember.

If I was evidence that it was possible to survive the early months, Krissy was proof that it could be done with energy and enthusiasm. Working full time as a nurse, she juggled the early schedules with their dad, a teacher, and somehow found more time at the park at the end of the street than we ever did. Last year she switched gears, taking a job teaching at a private school, assuring her twins acceptance into their kindergarten program, ironically as she had done far more research on schools than I had even considered. She was more than generous in sharing her findings when I was scrambling for a school.

In my inbox, sometime in late June, I found a Facebook message from her, the subject read simply “my son”. "My son has cancer" it began, and followed with a haphazardly written account of her last 24 hours. Maybe it was a hoax, certainly it was not real, certainly this was not happening to the family down the street.

Zen had blood in his urine, a tumor was found, and then the diagnosis that immediately blurs your eyesight and makes the still room spin, cancer. A very rare form, he is now in stage IV of Wilms, seen in only 20 children annually. It has spread, from kidneys to lungs and heart. The prognosis changes daily. He is undergoing chemotherapy and radiation. He has had multiple surgeries. His heart is responding, the lungs and the kidneys are problematic and struggling. Zen, the keeper of all of this, bravely fights.

As we know, having recently spent two nights at Children's Memorial (for a now insignificant bump on the head), time spent at the emergency room can be costly, even when you have very good private insurance. Our portion of that bill is easing towards $1,000; Kris and Carlos are facing medical bills difficult to truly comprehend. Imagine the emotional lob hurled at you when you deplete your child’s college tuition fund to pay for the medical care to save his life?

Support comes in many forms. Neighbors have come together to raise money, a local coffee shop is planning a fundraiser, coworkers and students are working together to support this family. Cancer is horrid, pediatric cancer even more difficult to grasp and, as the mother of twins, watching this battle being fought by one of two, more than I can reasonably understand. Solstice, Zen’s sister, is herself a mighty brave four year old. My children struggled this year with separation, two first grade classrooms, a departure from being together in kindergarten. Solstice’s own battle certainly makes two first grade rooms seem quite workable.

Two years ago, at our annual holiday party, Zen pulled on one of the Christmas stockings, bringing it, and the large metal snowman holding it on the mantel, down on his face. Zen was brave, just a little crying, I suspect possibly from fear more than pain. Last year the large snowman was gone, replaced by little hooks that, if tugged on, would fall and do no damage at all to the small curious face below. I will think of Zen then, as I do almost daily now, when I hang the Christmas stockings this year and marvel at what a truly brave and remarkable little boy he continues to be.

One Bath Alley

In the yet to be published guide book of particular interest to those who like to let fly and relieve themselves outdoors, the alley behind our apartment will surely be noted with no less than five stars. Not restricted to those of limited financial means, our back entry is a public toilet for lost Cubs fans, drunk smokers, and yes, those who are temporarily without adequate housing. Imagine my thrill when the construction company working across the way set up a LepreCan just outside our garage, presumably for the use of their employees and not the first step in a true convenience conversion? Why not throw down a mattress or two and call it a Night's Out? Room service?

But I was wrong, this eyesore has not actually increased the urinary traffic, rather the flow has remained somewhat steady. It appears, to the untrained voyeur, that our alley is not simply a destination urination station but a fabulous place to thrill in the great outdoors and revel in all things exposed. The regulars pass right by the big green outhouse, seeking out their usual quasi hidden spot next to the electric pole. The thrill would be gone, I suppose, the LepreCan being far too utilitarian for these daredevils.

But here is the real story: I called 911 this week to request that my neighborhood police officer be sent round to remove an offending outdoorsman. A rude and obviously crude man, his real skills clearly not truly realized as he was able to go hands free, gesturing wildly with one finger while waving the other hand. Hoping to startle him, although in retrospect I know allowing him to remain somewhat focused was best, I honked while flying past, my two small children in the backseat wondering why their mother, honking and speeding, was shrieking wildly. No answer, six rings, no friendly voice saying "911 operator, what is your emergency?", and he was gone without assistance, running out of the alley onto a busy street. Disgusted I hung up and then waited, surely they would call back, surely my city would ring back to check on me, to make certain that I had not just been stolen, stabbed or beaten senseless. They did not, the call did not come, and our alley remains the safest spot in the neighborhood to seek personal fluid freedom. No emergency, I understand, but adequate response time to be noted in the travel guide, most certainly another star next to our listing.

Take Me Out to the Ballgame

For the first two years they wore snowsuits and lasted only two or three innings. Things warmed up in 2008, sweaters and jackets, but the Cubs lost.

2008

The next year was back to freezing: warm coats, hats, mittens, and even a blanket. Hot chocolate, peanuts and another Cubs loss.

2009

It looks like it's going to be a good year, and the Cubs won.

2010

This Ain't My Fault

When I looked up there were at least 15 two liter bottles of Diet Coke being added to my bill. "Those aren't mine", although 10 years ago this could have easily been my shopping cart. The woman behind me grunted and the cashier said, "what? there weren't no bar", which I will assume meant that she held herself not at all responsible for this minor error and would not be taking any extraordinary steps to remedy the problem. I was correct. The woman behind me, who had earlier tried to cut into the very long grocery line in front of me, said "Well it sure ain't my job to put the bar there", leaving me to wonder who was responsible for dividing the groceries, but not so curious as to spend anytime discussing it with these two.

"That's fine, I'm sorry, can we remove them from my bill please?".

The cashier was not pleased. I can only guess that she thought perhaps I was just going to go ahead and actually buy this arsenal of soda as it was now included in my total. "This ain't my fault", which then began what can best be described as a full on attack of the English language with a few jabs at the responsible nature of adults thrown in for good measure. At this point I had no interest in casting blame, and I would guess the 8 people in line behind Soda Lady felt the same. Cashier Lady called for back up, this would involve a manager. Beep, beep, beep, the gallons of Diet Coke ticked off my total, which was, by the way, quite small to start with, this being a quick run to the neighborhood store, a store I detested, for chocolate chips and brown sugar (cookies for school lunch, of course). Soda Lady rolled her eyes; I swiped my card, grabbed my bag, and ran.

"Did you see that? She knew, it was her fault". Soda Lady and Cashier Lady had finally reached an agreement.

Pride

For the first time I hesitated, not sure we should take the girls to Sunday's Pride parade. They've been every year, enjoying the music (although Kate firmly holds her ears when the very loud thump thump floats pass by), the color and the scenery. Last year there were a few questions but we prefaced the outing with a conversation about this parade being a chance for people to get together and just be silly, so we came back to that in our answers. But this year could be different, they are completely in tune and question everything. There was no way I was ready to answer these questions.

But Sunday was a beautiful day, sunny and warm, but not at all hot, and the best place to be outside was the parade so off we went, having a very similar conversation to last year on the walk down. It was crowded, from our shoulders the girls could only see the biggest and most extravagant floats; loud music and bright colors were everywhere, delightful to a four year old. "Mom! That man is wearing a bathing suit!", right then, that's no bathing suit but from this vantage point, why not? "Mom! Pink flamingos!", "Mom, rainbows everywhere!". We didn't last long, turns out it does get a bit warm, even with a lovely lake breeze, when holding a 35 pound toddler on your head.

There were no questions, not one. On the walk home I struggled to find the antonym for alternative, Jack suggested mainstream. The reality is that the parade represents nothing to my children, nothing beyond dancing and music and adults in bathing suits in the middle of the day. Some of the people they love most lead a commonly defined alternative lifestyle but to Mary and Kate there is nothing alternative about it; at four they have not yet assigned the labels we insist upon having.

This will change, soon enough they will find that this parade does in fact represent something to many, it is important and it is something to be celebrated. But for now they live with a wonderfully naive understanding that it's really alright to love just about anyone.

Can You Tell Me How To Get to Sesame Street?

Monday afternoon the power went out, just as the girls were waking up, just as I finished some writing in word (that I had not saved), boom, no power. It was late afternoon, just the time when you really need to have lights on, especially in the back of the long narrow apartment that faces west. With no flashlights to be found I lit a candle and helped Mary and Kate dig out their sandals from the floor of their overgrown closet.


Monday was a perfect spring day so we headed outside with Mrs. Roosevelt, curious to see if it was just us or if everyone was in the dark. Immediately I knew, the whole block was out, neighbors and friends were pouring out onto the sidewalk. We wandered down the street stopping and talking to people I had never seen before, all curious about the power, most blaming the construction going on at the end of the block. The play lot was full, everyone grateful for the nice weather and the forced reason to be outside.

Just for a moment I thought we were living on Sesame Street. Even though we don't escape through our garage to our car every day, we really don't spend the time spouting from the front stoop that I find integral to city life. The girls love to play in front, defacing the public sidewalk with chalk, riding their tricycles into others gates and over the flowers, and having meetings with their friend Evelyn (which consists of huddling under our "tree" in the mud) but my always romanticized version of urban life has me sitting on our front stoop chattering with our diverse neighbors for hours. The children are playing in the open fire hydrant (it's always summer in my dreams), the grandmother like woman next door brings out cookies for the girls, and we spend hours speculating as to what really goes on with the old Asian woman who walks the street everyday wrapped in a wool scarf with her daughter about five steps behind (this actually happens but I do the speculating all by myself).

We've got a full summer ahead of us, there is a fire hydrant in front of our building and the construction will be going on for months. Maybe they can knock the power out once a week, I'd really like someone else's take on the old gal in the scarf, I'm a bit tired of my own opinion.

Bad Bread, Good Friend

Old and soon to be rotten bananas, check. Flour, sugar, vanilla, cinnamon, butter, fine. Eggs? Really? I called my friend and neighbor Allison, an accomplished baker, "I'm baking...", both she and Jack, in our kitchen, started laughing. I continued, "banana bread, and you need eggs" more laughter, "may I borrow an egg?". Hours and hours in the kitchen, I am at my happiest toddling away, mixing, adding, dashing and creating but baking, I'm terrible. Really bad, occasionally painful, we've spent many Thanksgiving dinners spreading butter on virtual rocks, but I press on, certain that these treats I offer will be received with love, confident in our very good dental insurance.


We have a bread machine, foolproof I was assured, can't go wrong, delicious every time! Taped to the top of the bread machine is a large sign "Don't forget the yeast", left there by my wise husband. Foolproof is a relative term, subjective when considering the fool.


There is a long list somewhere of things I really don't do well but at the top, next to baking, you will find gardening. Similar to my singing delusions, I believe in my botanic abilities. My husband thought that by housing me in a small urban space I would surrender my dreams of garden grandeur, not so my love. Every spring I drag the family to the nursery, filling our cart with hanging baskets, flowers and herb plants, with all the best intentions. Last year, in a show of support, Jack bought me a book on urban gardening. I read all the pertinent sections, made lists, and confidently set out to outfit our small porch with flowering plants, to be enjoyed all season long. By Independence Day we were enjoying kindling, concerned about a misguided firework hitting a hanging plant corpse and sending the whole building up in flames.


Allison the baker is on to me. In our take on suburban lawn envy, she surveys the devastation on our front porch while I gaze at her jungle like back porch, overgrown with flora, green with envy. Occasionally she will casually mention that she waters her plants every morning, as if that might be the secret to botanic genius. Right, if I only remembered to water, well maybe that would actually help. And, to top it off, she's not afraid of yeast, not at all, bakes bread constantly. Yeast terrifies me. Who can live next door to this kind of domestic maven?

Gardening, like baking, requires nurturing, patience, and care. Similar qualities are generally attributed to mothers as well, as any of the Mother's Day cards available now will attest. I do remember to water the children, they are fed, reasonably clean and left in the sun occasionally, albeit slathered with sunblock. They continue to grow and flourish, despite my horticultural inadequacies. And fortunately a good loaf of bread is only a short walk away, with a good friend who is willing to share.

The banana bread? Burned both loaves.

Happy New Year

My husband did not eat Chinese food until he was 24 years old. At lunch with a client, and unsure as to what to order, he safely chose beef and broccoli. He now asks for the Chinese only menu where available, the one that warns "may require acquired taste". His children had Chinese food before 24 months; we discovered early on that tofu and vegetables was a certain hit when calling for delivery. And now they nibble off his plate, acquiring this taste at an early age.
We don't have a backyard, nor do we have a front yard, and we live with people both upstairs and down. But we have ethnic neighborhoods and with that, celebrations that take us far beyond the Chicago city limits. Sunday was the New Year parade in Chinatown, and for the first time that I can remember, not painfully cold, so we stood amongst the crowds watching the dragons dance by, sans fireworks this year, a blessing for our hearing sensitive Kate. In and out of stores to stay warm, we came home with a new wok, a creme cake roll from the Chinese bakery and some snappy red "Chinese dancing slipper shoes".
We have a park at the end of our street and we can tolerate the noise from upstairs but we can't give up the opportunity to escape to China or India or Vietnam any day of the week. And when we are so cold, so tired of the snow and the ice, we bundle up and head to the Pilsen for Mexican food and mariachis and just, for a few hours, a warmth that makes even February in Chicago livable.

This Old Lady

My friend Megan wrote a beautiful piece about old houses recently, an opinion I am absolutely terrible at expressing. I usually end up insulting someone, not my intention, rather than voicing my love and respect for the old bones of a beautiful home. Soul, old homes have soul, and character, and history, they command respect for what they are and what they have endured. I love that my family gives life to our little apartment, a wonderful old gal with plenty of spirit, and amazingly beautiful details not yet destroyed by progress.

Our neighborhood is slowly being robbed of much of its character, brand new three flats replacing the old gray stones that stood for years before them. I shudder to think that one day that will be the face of this great old neighborhood, so long known for the old stone buildings built after the Chicago fire.


But then, I am a lover of stories, and storytelling. And old homes have stories that new homes do not, not yet. As is the case with the things in our old home, most come with requisite baggage having been handed down from my family, or acquired on our travels, or received as true gifts from friends and family, all with their own story to tell. Stop by, I'll be happy to bore you to tears with their saga, that old wooden bottle from a Romanian hotel is dying for it's chance to speak.

Come in From the Cold

While enjoying yet another round of Mary Poppins, as performed by Mary and Kate, I heard horrid screaming coming from the street. Out our office window I could see Melvin, on his front porch, yelling and screaming to no one in particular. Just this weekend our next door neighbor told me that he thinks the people across the street lock Melvin out during the day, explaining why he wanders the neighborhood in the afternoon.

We are hoping for a high temperature of 5 today, up from yesterday's -1. It is bitter out, the air slaps your skin, stinging it instantly. Even Eleanor Roosevelt, who usually likes to linger outside as long as possible, trots out and back inside in record time. It is far too cold to be outside, and ridiculous to be trapped outside. I called the police. Mary, Kate and I stood in the office watching and waiting, two cars arrived, the officers talked to Melvin and then put him safely in the back of one warm car. They wandered around the house for a bit, discovered nothing, and left with Melvin, hopefully taking him to a warm shelter where he can spend the day.


We're making cookies this afternoon. Mary asked if we could give some cookies to Melvin, when he gets home. It's cold out, time to check on our neighbors, offer cookies to all and keep those we love close and warm. Happy almost Christmas!

In the Neighborhood

Our neighborhood bar is a wonderful place: close, cozy, decent patio, huge windows, better than bar food and very kind to us when we bring our children, which is often now that there is no smoking. We are part of the early crowd, before the real fun begins, in the summer outside or now, all tucked into a booth eating burgers (black bean) and sweet potato fries. And our neighbors love it also which is a nice quality in a neighbor, and a neighborhood bar. Last week we had plans to all meet for dinner on Friday night, inaugurating our new monthly outing, three little girls included.

Kate announced to everyone at soccer, coaches, parents, and children, that she was meeting her friend Evelyn at the bar later. She's honest, and I like that in a child, and a friend, and in a neighborhood bar.