Empty Street

When I moved to this street 52 years ago, the neighborhood was full of children. The street is only a block and a quarter long, with a dead end. We were all creating the Baby Boomer generation. On this short street, there were over sixty children, ranging in age from 9 months ( my youngest) to 18 years old.
The houses were built in 1951, with two stories and full basements. The yards were small, but with a couple of exceptions( houses where mean old ladies who always threatened to call the police if a child set foot in her yard) the children  pretty much had the run of the neighborhood. At the end of the street was-and still is- Dix's woods, the owners of which let the kids roam there freely, with a hill for sledding. The kids played well together, no fighting, except for a couple of boys who tried to bully the smaller kids. It was the era of stay at home mothers, so any problems were quickly settled.
The area was close enough to downtown, the library, the movie theater and school, so everyone walked once they were old enough to go places on their own.
In the summer, there was constant activity. Out after breakfast, in for lunch, out again until dinner, out again until bed time. Almost every summer evening the whole gang would be in the street playing "mush ball," so-called because it was played with a semi-collapsed toy ball about the size of a soccer ball, using a large plastic bat. Even though most of the boys were also in Little League, usually played early in the evening, mush ball was more fun and not confined to boys only. Very seldom did a car interfere with the game, since the street was a dead end one. When it was time to come in, each family had its own way of signaling the end of the day for their kids: a specific whistle, a bugle, and in my case, a cow bell.
All that is gone now. There is one child on the street, a six year old boy who plays mostly by himself. There are three empty houses for sale. The small houses here which held all the large families we had in those days, even though they have four bedrooms and two bathrooms, are no longer popular. The
kind of people who used to buy these places now want bigger places, not so close to the town. The
fact that the kinds of houses they want also entail driving their 1.2 children everywhere doesn't seem to bother them.
I miss the children, mine and all the others. I loved watching them walk by on their way to school, I
miss their voices on summer evenings. I miss the thudding of their feet as they ran across the yards.
It is just too quiet. The street is too empty.
I am glad that my kids had this place and all those other kids to be with throughout their childhood. I think most boomers had the last really free childhood-at least those in middle class families of the time. I don't envy the over-scheduled, over- tested children of this generation, growing up in suburbs with no sidewalks and hovering parents.

Literary Ego Tripping

I have noticed for the past several years that on book covers  the authors' names now dwarf the book titles. These huge, embellished names also appear over the title. This is probably because people often select a book based on who wrote it. That's not unusual, since most of us have our favorite writers. However, I started thinking of all the great authors of the past who were content to have their names under the title, and in much in smaller, more modest print.
This current need for top billing strikes me as a kind of  egotistical posturing, especially as some of the large font scribblers write the same book over and over again, knowing that their loyal followers will grab anything with their names on the cover, writ large, shouting " HERE'S MY LATEST !!!" Who cares what the title is?
I cannot picture Jane Austen, for instance, doing this, even though her books probably sell better today than they did when they were first published. And, yes, there is a similarity in her plots, but her wit and style are unsurpassed.
Anyway, I find today's bloated authors' names just a bit unseemly. I can see Hemingway loving it; it fits his image. But there are scores of hacks out there trying to lure the reader in by appearing to be stars of their own literary garbage. It ain't fittin'. Just sayin.'

 

Under the Lilacs

The lilacs are in bloom on what's left of the hedge down the street. When the Myers lived in the house, the lilac hedge was huge and bursting with branches full of the sweet-smelling blossoms. lIt is now a bit scraggly, and the lilac bunches are not so prolific. This was where all the neighborhood children picked bouquets of flowers for Mother's Day, with no objections from the owners. In the mornings, on the way to school, they would gather some for the teachers, too. There are now very few children in the neighborhood, so the crowds of kids coming home from school on these May afternoons are no more.  It's as if the sparse hedge shrank as the kid population diminished.
We have a couple of lilac bushes in the back yard, sending that scent into the kitchen in the afternoon.  This lovely plant has only a limited time of beauty, turning quickly into a green shrub, but it doesn't matter, especially after such a terrible winter. It's brief span of pleasure to the senses is one of the benefits of surviving an Ohio winter.
There's a lovely place near where Emily lives in Bavaria, Schleissheim Palace, one of those fairy tale places, full of sweeping marble staircases, Palladian widows, walls hung with brocade - the real deal. There are formal gardens, fountains, mazes and all the things a palace should have. In the front is one of the most beautiful lilac gardens, with every color that lilacs can possibly be: purple, lavender, pink, mauve, white and maroon. This a a popular Mother's Day destination. (There's a beer garden, of course, since it's Germany.) You can wander around the lilacs, which is feast for the eyes and the nose. It is quite heavenly.
Our little scraggly lilac hedge pales in comparison, naturally, but in its day it was a magical place for many children, as wonderful as the palace lilac garden in far off Bavaria.
And you could pick some lilacs for your mother.

Reflections on the Unimaginable

I have been recently been immersed in documentary-watching, films about the survivors of the Nazi death camps. No particular reason. The first one featured a woman, at the age of 109' the oldest living survivor. (She died this February at 110.)  she was a pianist, and had been one of many musicians incarcerated at Theresinstadt. It was featured in a TV movie a number of years ago, called "Playing For Time," about these people who formed an orchestra in the camp, and had memorized scores that had played in before being fired  because they were Jewish. The camp became known for the gifted musicians, singers, dancers and actors there, and the Nazis utilized them for their own entertainment, showing them off for visiting higher ups. It was still a concentration camp, with the usual privations
and brutality.  It was also a "feeder" camp for Auschwitz and Bergen-Belsen, the killing factories.

The old lady in the documentary said that it hadn't been too bad, because of the music. I think that had been her survival mechanism, but others there had experienced the usual horror, never knowing when their turn for transport would come. The worst part, to me, was that the children were taken from their parents right away, and murdered at Auschwitz   or experimented on by Dr. Mengele.
I've known about these death campus for almost seventy years, but hearing these survivors' stories is hard to comprehend. Not that they are hard to comprehend, but the facts of what the Nazis did and why they did It and how they could do it. How could they so delude themselves to become inhuman in the land of Goerhe, Schiller,  Beethoven, Brahms and Bach.
 Most of these survivors are my age or older; some had been children then ; almost all had lost their parents or siblings. One group of Ukrainian Jews had lived in a cave for a year, constantly in danger of being turned in by their own countrymen.
One documentary includes an SS officer from Auschwitz, unrepentant. I don't know why he is still  
alive. He does say that he participated in the film to let the "deniers" know that it did happen.
I think it is important that so many who experienced this ghastly genocide can tell their stories. Not only is this living history, but the people themselves are incredibly strong, spiritually impressive ( some even believe there's a God, but not all) and have managed to get on with their lives after losing everything that mattered to them. Some talked of feeling shame in the aftermath of their rescue. I guess when you've been beaten, starved and lived under constant threats  of a horrible death, that feeling is "normal," but in telling their stories that feeling is replaced by one of strength and power in realizing what they have overcome.
It was in the spring of 1945 that the photos appeared in the magazines and the newsreels at the movie theaters, pictures I have never forgotten, but which can't even begin to let you into what it had  ti have been like.
We had a neighbor, Mr. Sanders, who had escaped  and gotten to America with his wife and young son before he would have been sent to one of those places. After the war, he went back to Poland to
find his parents and other relatives. He told my mother that there  was no trace of any of them. All were gone, exterminated in the death camps'
There are those who don't want to think about these dreadful events. Genocide happened. It is still happening. It is an ineradicable stain on the human race.

Unintended Consequences

I have been wondering,this Easter season, who had the idea to create these cheesy, grotesque giant rabbit costumes, presumably to delight the tots. The only decent giant rabbit, Harvey, was invisible, and only seen by Elwood P. Dowd, and was reportedly a charming companion. These behemoth bunnies with loopy eyes and maniacal grins loom over tiny people like an incipient avalanche of white fake fur.
Bunnies are small, soft, benign little creatures, nothing like these hideous monsters.
Who possibly could have thought that a two year  old would welcome such an ogreish apparition on a spring holiday? I've never been close enough to one to hear  what must be a muffled voice dispensing cheery words to a terrified toddler, but it can't be pleasant.
No doubt the inspiration came from those Disney park characters, those giant-headed cartoon reps which hug excited Midwestern kiddos as they arrive at the Mecca of All-You-Can-Eat entertainment centers. The Disney characters are well known, of course, and not too grotesque, or connected with dyed or plastic eggs, so perhaps they are less frightening.
I also have a problem with parents who drag infants to Easter egg hunts and Hallowe'en Beggars' Nights,and I don't think the little ones should have to suffer for their parents' utter cluelessness, especially when it involves a creepy glandular bunny with the face of a serial killer.

Sorry, the Cat Is On My Lap

Sixto is a total lap cat. Dupree was not until he got old, but this one is the kind of cat that old ladies like me really dote on. He has a system, suddenly appearing from out of thin air. He jumps onto my thighs and starts kneading his pointy paws into my flesh. This does not feel good. Then, suddenly he flops down along the length of them, rolls over on his back and peers through his front paws at me, knowing that I shall tell him how adorable he looks. Than he turns onto his side and purrs himself soundly to sleep.
I am now a prisoner of this cat on my lap. If anyone else is around, I can avoid any task that requires locomotion on my part.
"The cat is in my lap. Could you turn off the kettle and fix my tea?"
"The cat is on my lap. Could you turn the radio down?"
"The cat is in my lap. Could you answer the door?"
"The cat is on my lap. I was planning to get dinner started about now but, well...."
"The cat is on my lap. Could you see why the smoke alarm is screeching?"
"The cat is on my lap. Could you find out why there's a police car in front of our house ? "
'"The cat is on my lap. Could you see if that noise in the basement  is the escaped serial killer I heard about on the news?"
When the cat is on one's lap, life must go on any way it can without unsettling the sleeping feline or the lap he's on. It works for me.

Another Icon Gone

One of my friends when I was in college was a faculty wife not much older than I. She was from France. Her English was excellent, especially the swear words she'd picked up from American soldiers. She was a convent school alum, the niece of the mother superior, and rebellious. She was very plain spoken in English, and had the usual French disdain for American culture. One day she was heard to say, "Kent is such a dull town. You dun't even 'ave an 'onchback." Now Francine was not from the Paris environs of Notre Dame, but from Menton in the South of France, so one could assume that this sort of individual was a normal part of the community landscape.
That was over 60 years ago, but since I've lived here, we have had our share of town characters, people who provide the color in this small university town. Last year we lost F.U. Bob, the cursing artist, about whom I wrote. Once he stopped cursing, he pretty much joined the mainstream, although he had his quirks. He became Robert without the F. U. prefix. He was extremely intelligent, with an encyclopedic knowledge of contemporary classical music. His death was mourned by the entire community.
There was Radio Bob, who carried a transistor radio up to his ear. If you made eye contact, he would respond with a loud, maniacal laugh, rather off- putting on a quiet street. I believe he was eventually hit by a car and the laughter disappeared.
This past week, we lost George, a native son, the Man in  the Wheelchair. He was an amazing person. He looked as if he had spina bifida, with small, undeveloped legs, but the story is that he had cerebral palsy.  Whatever the disability, he worked constantly, mowing lawns, shoveling snow, delivering newspapers and working in bars for drinks and change, and around town gathering debris from the doorways of businesses, all in his wheelchair. A friend of mine told me that you knew when you'd had enough to drink when you'd see George fall out of his chair and scrabble around on the floor cleaning up rubbish.
His speech was not clear, but he was always involved with others, had a good sense of humor and was cared about by the entire community. He would always say "hi" whether he knew you or not. He could be seen careening about in his chair, which needed replacing occasionally, hit by cars once in a while, but always on the go.
He was from a large family without much money,but with much love for him.
There's no replacing people like George, and the town is poorer for his loss.