The crickets’ shrill, circling song wraps around the cicadas’ steady thrum. Sharply scented leaves still shine with the morning dew as I snag one of Michael’s cherry tomatoes for an energy boost. Behind my evergreens, thistles thrive despite Roundup doses, but beyond the maple trees on Morton, the morning sky glows with sherbet pinks and yellows. The red truck pulls in across the street to pick up Anthony. Every weekday morning, the same time, the same truck, and the same three quick beeps of the horn – followed three minutes later by the long-suffering H-O-N-K. Rounding my driveway to the sidewalk, I smile, knowing that my morning walk is as much a part of the neighborhood routine as Anthony’s carpool.
Crossing Congdon, I pass Ben’s old house – looking good under the care of new owners. I suffer my daily twinge of guilt for years that passed while Ben lived so close . . . But my metronome feet move me past his house just as all those years moved our lives without “should” ever evolving to “did.” Heading west on River Bluff, I cross Duncan, remembering baby deer, amazing Hallowe'en decorations, and crisp fall walks along that road to Dundee.
And then, I am really in the old hood – my little boys left their toddler years here – Nate’s tiny blue-Keds feet balancing on this cement garden ball, AJ’s marble blue eyes staring down the thistles and Yuccas, arms extended so that Mommy wouldn’t be attacked by prickles. There lived the boys who wouldn't play with Nathan, there the doggy friends who would. AJ and Ben-Ben rode their bikes – hell bent for leather – around these corners while Paula, Heather, and I talked politics, teaching, and parenting in that ancient mother tongue punctuated with cautions, corrections, and praises for the younger ones toddling beside us. I miss them on these walks, even as I smile in gratitude for the idyllic years of neighborliness we shared.
Nostalgia mixes liberally with a sense of pride as I scan the neighborhood. I check up on the houses and in doing so, keep track of the friends and neighbors who have been my world for 25 years. A symbiotic existence – the home and the family it shelters. The weeds in Bill's once pristine yard attest to the sad progress of his illness, and across the street, Judy's thriving garden touts her continued remission. I see that Geoff still has the trampoline up; his car’s in the drive, so he’s not flying today. Five years since his divorce, and still I wonder how he lives in the home of his dreams, alone until the girls’ rotate back to him. I hope he moved on and found someone to see his capacity in the love he put into that home. A realtor’s sign at the Erickson’s tells me that “someday” has finally come for them, too. The mullioned windows reflect the rising sun, and I know the sunroom and deck still hold the damp quiet of the woods looking over the Fox River. I send up a little prayer that a new family will love the gorgeous home as much as they have. The Pintos are selling too – another great house for someone new to love, but the 4th of July parade won’t be the same for me without Doc Pinto and his motorcycle.
Changes. This neighborhood has sheltered me and mine for 25 years. I have watched the original homeowners age and pass on (Alice lived in her home for 70 years). I have seen divorce and death and good fortune move people on and around. I have seen homes crumble with neglect to rise again in painted lady glory – and seen the comings and goings of JB Harris’s painting and carpentry, Tom’s plumbing, and Veteran’s roofing. I have watched as immigrant families moved in to the tiny Cape Cods and bungalows. And I have smiled with interest as planters of geraniums, petunias, and roses sprang to life along sidewalks and on porches. I have smiled in pride as Saturday work parties replaced crumbling porches and weed filled lawns. In the evenings, the sounds of mariachi bands mingle with the shouts and squeals of little ones racing down the sidewalks, through the yards, across time. My neighbors’ kids run in and out of their houses as Ben-Ben, Jakie, and AJ used to do, bikes crashing to the ground and screen doors crashing behind thundering feet.
My morning walk circles me back to my house. Soon, I will walk new streets collecting new memories and recording other lives. When I return, Christmas trees and holiday parties will shine out from my neighbors' windows, and I will wrap myself in winter clothes to enjoy the seasonal sights. So, caught this week between times and places, I grab one more tomato for the memories and savor taste of late summer in Elgin.
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