Broken Windows and Silver Doorknobs

Bad neighborhood. Sketchy. Rough area. Borderline. Ghetto. Have you heard any of these descriptions, however offensive they may strike you? Have you heard either more negative terms or their euphemistic replacements?

Come, take a walk with me.

No. Right now. Don't be afraid.

Observe this block. Schuyler Street. Take in the parade of two-story, two-family houses, built in the 1920s and '30s. Lawns manicured, adorned with daffodils, mulch, shrubs, trees. No litter. Structures not thirsting for paint or carpentry. Across the street, much the same: different architectural styles, smaller, more modest. Up the block, historic Myrtle Hill Cemetery. Graves dating to the 1800s, including that of a Civil War Congressional Medal of Honor recipient. Several blocks distant, over on Milton Avenue, a house overrun by fallen maple limbs and uncut grass, by weeds, a house choked by its longtime neglect, its metal fence interweaved by sprawling hedge branches, an empty pack of Newport 100s, a discarded Brisk ice tea, a crumpled invoice for car repair, a lone latex glove. An official notice of condemnation posted on a window and door. Blue recycle bins, tires, broken trikes, and split-open trash bags on Herkimer and Emerson. And up the hill, on Pharis Street, overlooking city and suburbs, a pristine lawn with a sign warning against having your dog use the lawn as a private bathroom, in front of a pristine Arts and Crafts bungalow freshly painted yellow, brown, and black, with a shock of red on the door.

Care and neglect coexisting. Pride and privation. Gain and loss. A fabric of multicolored threads and textures, sewn and patched, stitched and shored up. Some more than others, some less, some not at all.

Let's walk some more, keep pace, stretch your stride, down the hill, toward the creek. Oh, you'd rather not, this is a "bad neighborhood"? Be brave. Suck it up. Trust me. Really.

True, that broken, rusted pickup in the driveway looks unsavory, so does the mosaic of tossed Burger King wrappers and soda cups. An eyesore. It makes my eyes sore.

But look across the street, that Victorian painted lady, emerald and cream with surprises of vermilion. Do you see its new siding, every storm window sparkling new, the shiny metal roof? The rebuilt porch? That house could pass for brand-new if you didn't know better.

I am sure this is obvious, but I can't help noting it: we are not dodging bullets, street-corner hustlers do not catch our eye, wondering if we covet their gaze and proffered wares.

Form your own conclusions, as you will. 

In my Age of Coronavirus walks, the gods and goddesses of surprise have been my tour guides.

Surprise, surprise.

If we look for broken windows, they appear. If we search for silver doorknobs, we find them.

p.s. Ever hear the expression "my mind is a bad neighborhood"? (It's popular in wellness and recovery circles and can possibly be traced to an Anne Lamott quotation, but its provenance is uncertain.) As with the physical neighborhoods described above, be careful what you look for. As Leonard Cohen suggested, "look among the garbage and the flowers." You never know what you will find.

hardscrabble, softscrabble, scrabble

If you had one word to describe your neighborhood, what would that one word be? (This is assuming you have a neighborhood. I am not so sure that suburban or rural areas qualify.)

"Hardscrabble" was the first word to pop into my head. But, consulting Merriam-Webster, I'm not so sure it is an accurate adjective:

1

a :  being or relating to a place of barren or barely arable soil hardscrabble

farm> <hardscrabble prairies>

b :  getting a meager living from poor soil hardscrabble farmer>

2

:  marked by poverty hardscrabble

cotton town> hardscrabble childhood> 

 

Since there is not too much unpaved or ungrassed soil, I'll skip sense 1 of the M-W definition. As for sense 2, I'll buy that. I'll buy poverty. (How much does it cost? You can't afford it. Don't ask; don't tell.) But even that is hard to tell. Some folks seem to go to work; others seem to malinger, especially by that nefarious-looking cornerstore.

Maybe we're a softscrabble neighborhood.

Or, for those given to wordplay, maybe we are merely a scrabble neighborhood. And if you are talking about that famous board game, cap that initial S.

garage sale: yes, we have no bananas

But we do have books, high-brow, low-brow, no-brow, pulp, pop, fiction, non-fiction, poetry, biography, spiritual, you-name-it. We put some books out for the annual Tipperary Hill Neighborhood Association garage sale. Also put out a few bicycles, a scooter, a hula hoop [should that be capped, as a brand name? Too lazy to look]. Sold the bikes, for $7 and $10 respectively. Sold some books, 10 for 10 bucks hardcover, 50 cents or best offer for paperbacks. (I typically worked out a deal for less. Just want to clear space on my shelves.) One young fella, Yankees fan, from down the street on Tipp Hill, came back to talk to me. I had given him a postcard promoting TIPP HILL LITANIES, my poetry book about Tipp Hill. He was all excited. He said he had heard me on the radio last year, on "Upon Further Review," talking about my baseball book. I happened to have a copy on the step. BASEBALL'S STARRY NIGHT. He bought one. I signed it. Good day.

Teapot Dome Mystery

Picture this.

An abandoned house.

Out of nowhere a teapot and a coffeepot appear on the front steps.

Handsome.

From where?

By whom?

Why?

Tell me.

Urban Legends 3

Phonics

Wearing a straw hat that gives me a slightly Amish look, I walk the dog in the hot dusk. Up by the muni pool, a kid asks me if I have a cellphone he can borrow. "No," I quickly lie. His eyes catch me. We size each other up, face to face. He says, "I'm tryin' to find my brother and I can't find him. I don't know where he's at up here." "Your brother?" I say, almost adding, "You don't know where your own brother lives?" He gets the implication just the same and says, "Not my brother like dat. My friend, I'm looking for my friend for about twenty minutes. I can't find him." The private joke between us is that we both could be laughing over this term brother, as if I don't get it but I do, and vice versa. He's tall, gangly, maybe 16; maybe 14. His bike is way too small for him, tricked out in duct tape around the handle bars and a peace symbol uniting several cables just above the front tire. I reach into my right pocket and take out my shitty, worn cellphone. I ask for the number he wants to call; he calls out the numerals; I punch in the digits. When it starts ringing, I hand him the phone. No answer. We try again. Finally, he gets a response. "Yo, where's your crib at? Hunh? I'm on it. I been up here waiting on you. For like twenty minutes. 270? Aaight." He gives me the phone. "Thanks," he says. "Have I good night," I say. He rides off, but I lose track of him, mildly curious as to which street he goes to. I walk the dog home, down the half-block.

Histrionics

After supper, I'm in my car, roll down the window, and approach Richaaargh. "Hey, Rich," I say. "I saw how you tracked down that hot rod the other night. You're crazier than I am." He says, "Yeah, I followed him all the way down the hill, even knocked on his door, but he wouldn't come out." I convey my doubtful admiration for Richaaargh's persistence. "I had to laugh when I saw you out there checking his car out with a flashlight. You're gonna get yourself killed." Rich laughs (though he's not The Laughorist). "His plates don't match the registration sticker." I tell Rich all he has to do is call the cops and they'll tow the Firebird Z28. "I know, " Rich says. "But I'm gonna get that car." "How's that?" I ask. "Next time, I'll stand in the road, and all he has to do is just touch me and I'll fall down, then the car is mine." I chuckle. "Well, then, we never had this conversation, then, did we, Rich?" I tell him. "What conversation?" he says, and I drive away.




Tonics
Not far from my neighborhood but oceans away in other respects, in the upper room, at the top of the church stairs, they are talking honestly and openly. I am late. No one seems to mind. Of the dozen or so in the room, I am the only white male. And an old one at that (but likely not the oldest person in the room; hard to say). No one seems to know, or mind. There is the occasional laughter, and yet an aura of serenity. When someone talks, no one interrupts. I sit by the window. I feel perfectly safe, as I close my eyes and listen and faintly smile. The breeze is a welcome tonic, as is the lilt of their voices, their stories, their journeys, their amens.