Walking In the Woods With Megan

A rare day. 10-10-10, duly noted. Add to this the idyllic weather. The last week here in Chicago has been poured from a rare vintage of early October. Crayola blue skies, a sun far less steeped in its summer humidity and a sudden storm of dry, crunchy leaves flaming out in burnt oranges, pear-like yellows and occasional rockets of red. Stunning.

There's a lot of green still up in the canopy, though the last week has seen a riot of new colors making appearances-- and there's no real mistaking Earth's particular tilt right about now and the bummer of a meteorological predicament this inevitably puts the Midwest in. The trees are losing their hair, those bushy green heads are being shed in preparation for winter's hard bargain. It's a tough yoke to hitch up to each autumn, knowing what's coming.

But sometimes when we're lucky, like we have been this year, we get a visit from Indian Summer. A fond farewell to the temperate, to open windows and bare feet. It's bittersweet, sure, but lovely, too, with summer coming back to visit us in early October. It's almost too much!

Cathy and I took the girls over to the 19th Annual Harvest Festival at the North Park Village Nature Center where we met up with friends and enjoyed lunch in a shady spot packed with a convenient cluster of picnic benches. It was here I ate too many Lays potato chips with very little regret.

After lunch, I took a walk with Meg. While Cathy, Abby and our friends were busy making scarecrows ("some assembly required"), I trailed my fierce little girl as she burned a path along one of the Nature Center's many kick-ass trails.

(Right): This is Megan launching our adventure. As you can see, she began in this inflated little walk she's been doing of late. She lifts her legs up high and stomps them out wide, taking big lumbering steps. It's a determined little walk and very sure of itself.

(Left): The path's at the Nature Center are well groomed with woodchips and gravel though they've done an amazing job of creating within its 46 acres something that feels completely of itself. Some think of nature preserves like this as havens, respites from the stresses of modern urbanity though I'm less interested in perpetuating the "historic opposition between things urban and things natural" then I am in recognizing that "cities are fundamentally embedded in natural environments." Part of what makes a preserve like this so special, I think, is the urbanity of its context, that such an expanse of protected/managed preserve exists in such close proximity to the urban areas built up around it. In any case, Megan's face here is all business.

(Below): Meg climbed a hill. It was warm (mid 80's), dry and quiet and she was thrilled to be leading the charge. Was this the swell of fatherly pride stirring in my breast? Well, when isn't that being stirred up? My fierce little Meg charging up the hill while I followed, a stupid grin on my face as I cheered her on and compulsively snapped pictures.

(Right): I like the horizon tree tops and blue sky in this picture, how it captures the impressive expanses the North Park preserve contains in its confines. It's definitely a showcase, a well groomed outdoor museum highlighting the ecological diversity that once dominated the landscape of Illinois as recently as a couple hundred years ago, just as it had for thousands of years prior. Then, of course, lots of folks arrived and got the bug to settle throughout the state and either farm the hell out of it or industrialize! The landscape changed. As Joel Greenberg wrote in his fantastic A Natural History of the Chicago Region, the formally "seamless mosaic of waters, wetlands, prairies, shrublands, and woods" were overcome by a new force, "one with the power to impose upon the landscape a uniformity that is now virtually complete." And so we lost our natural heritage.



(Left): The trail Megan took eventually led us to marshlands with lily pads clustering lazily on the pond's surface. According to Greenberg, Illinois has lost roughly 95 percent of its original wetlands to the forces of modernity. Flooding, of which the Chicago region enjoys its unfortunate share, is one unfortunate manifestations of this loss. Greenberg tellingly writes, "it matters not not to water whether the lowest point on the landsccape is a marsh or a basement."

I held Meg's hand and had a Rainbow Connection moment. I imagined a scenario where I contacted the Park District with a proposal for an outdoor soundscape exhibit examining bucolic landscapes like this by offering sonic examples of their place in popular culture. Well, cinema in particular. I liked the challenge of remixing various elements from the sound designs of dozens of films set in similar settings and letting them mingle with the areas actual acoustics for a couple hours over the course of a few nights. A sonic happening with all-weather speakers tactfully hidden throughout the area. Maybe somewhere in mix you'd hear the opening plucks of Kermit's mellow banjo among other cultural signifiers. I'd get a grant to do it, right?

(Right): This was about where Meg ran out of gas. It was hot, she'd been fighting a big wallop of a cold like a champ all week and I think she suddenly concluded being trail leader was no longer all that cool.









(Right): So I took my little Meg up in my left arm. I said the right words to put an end to errant tears and lead her back to Mom because that's what my girl needed. On the way back to Mom we talked about what we were seeing and I found myself pleasantly surprised by the easy serendipity of it all--of Cathy giving her full attention to Abby and the making of a scarecrow while Meg and I drifted off for an amazing half-hour walk through the preserve before joining up with them again. It felt like a well-oiled little family. It felt lucky and on days like this I'm filled with simple familial joys again and again until I'm brimming. Domesticity never felt so right or so close to perfect, both charmed and fragile.

A Modest Attraction

The lawn on our new house in Edgebrook is a little mangy.


I've been mowing it about once a week for the past month and it's thick with dandelion, rogue clover and struggling Kentucky Bluegrass. It looks tidy for a day or two after I mow it.

Most of the lawns in the neighborhood are lush and tidy. They're shampooed and conditioned then tended to by weekly lawn and yard maintenance crews. I see them when I'm home with the girls on weekday afternoons. A couple trucks pull up, mulch is spread, twigs are plucked from shrubs and large industrial mowers give the lawn a nice manicure.

These kinds of lawns are a convention that few stray from and a relatively new one at that. They date back to at least the 1870s, if not earlier. In his amazing book, Crabgrass Frontier, Kenneth T. Jackson writes of the origins of the modern day yard:

By 1870 separateness had become essential to the identity of the suburban house. The yard was expected to be large and private and designed for both active and passive recreation, in direct antithesis to the dense lifestyle from which many families had recently moved. The new ideal was no longer to be part of a close community, but to have a self-contained unit, a private wonderland walled off from the rest of the world. Although visually open to the street, the lawn was a barrier--a kind of verdant moat separating the household from the threats and temptations of the city. It served as a means of transition from the public street to the very private house, as a kind of space that, by the very fact of its having no clearly defined function, mediated between the activities of the outside and the activities of the inside.

By the time of the post-WWII housing boom, this lawn care vision reigned supreme and millions of new home buyers invested in all the tools and accessories that came with its upkeep. Our own garage is testimony to this.

These lawns look great, don't get me wrong. Folks have managed to do all sorts of amazing things with their lawns, and those I find I like the most always seem to convey a peaceful stillness. They stir memories of my own suburban upbringing, my parents lawn and my grandparents lawn in North Olmsted. I respect and empathize with the kind of love they can inspire in their owners.

That being said, I'm looking forward to removing our front lawn next spring. The usual concern that comes with suggesting such a thing is the neighbors might somehow take offense, see it as blemish on the otherwise unspoken agreement to keep and maintain well-groomed lawns. But that's not it at all. In the year or so since I worked on the documentary about the Morton Grove Prairie Nature Preserve I've wanted to turn whatever ended up being my lawn into a showcase for the plants that used to cover roughly 2/3 of Illinois just a couple hundred years ago.

I'll admit, I've become a little obsessed. I'm thrilled by the prospects of landscaping with native plants instead of keeping up with our current mowing regimen. What we're envisioning will be nicely groomed and well tended. It won't be freaky, unruly, pagan or fountain-endowed. It won't frighten children or make dogs growl. I have no doubt that we'll make good and attentive stewards! My genuine hope is that it'll make a nice contribution to our neighborhood, mabye even become a modest attraction. We'll sell t-shirts.

Skilling Heralds Warmth

Dear Tom Skilling and Tribune Weather Center Team,

This forecast is outrageous, my brothers! There's so much short sleeve and open window potential here. Folks will grill and it's going to smell awesome. And I especially like that you're currently predicting a late-day thunder storm on Saturday. Too much! I imagine listening to the thunder rumble overhead from the comfort of my living room. The lights might even flash off and on in our house after one of those thundery hullabaloos and we'll reach for some flash lights and candles, just in case.

Who can I blame if this forecast turns out to be wildly inaccurate?

.

Mixing As A Hobby

Looking to fire up Pro Tools again soon to deep fry some new mixes. More volumes of Summer Reading Music I suppose, taking advantage of multi-tracking and adding dashes of subtle ambiance. Mixing for the hobby of it. Like knitting. Like bird watching. This is how we relax these days.

Got a few compilation ideas brewing--one highlighting South African Jazz, another taking an off-the beaten-trails focus on 80's alternative--you know, releases from the 80's that haven't ossified into the U.S. pop-culture cannon--not the Pretty In Pink soundtrack (not that there's ever been much wrong with that compilation other then it's a wee- bit played out).

Anyway. What else? Other mix ideas:

Another volume of Summer Reading Music accompanied by the subtle undertow of crickets and leaning toward a focus on late 60's, early 70's English folk, so much of which has always reminded me, sonically at least, of the English countryside at its July ripest...moments after a thunderstorm. More Joe Boyd then Bronte, though. It's definitely of its time, this strain of English folk, and all the better for it. More light then darkness, though some of its best songs are practically bursting with autumnal melancholy. Nick Drake lives large here.

I'm pretty sure that music mixes are made for fiendishly selfish reasons. Well, that's not entirely true, because of course we want people to listen to them. But they're also a chance to immerse yourself in the music, right? To really give something a good, honest listen. Lately, I've found that the best close listening I get is driving to and from work. The Prius has a decent stereo and when driving alone I've gotten pretty good with quickly balancing the front and back, left and right speakers so they practically caress my ears. The only thing messing with my equilibrium are Chicago's potholes, an ungodly amount of which harass my route home. They're a double-whammy, these huge ass potholes, causing who knows what kind of unfortunate damage to the undercarriage of our car while adding an unwanted percussive element to my carefully calibrated mix. Our city is coming up short on resurfacing dollars. Tent cities are appearing in the larger potholes.

I call this route home "developing country roadways." DCR for short.

The Dregs Of Winter

Looks like a good time to start work on that summer documentary I've been kicking around. Though our little Winter baby probably has other plans in store for me. A little late night walking of hallways maybe? Definitely. Most definitely.

Election Day

I'm hoping to roll out a lot more of these more personal mini-documentaries over the course of the next year. This one, this awesome slice of history, was too good to pass up. And while its dedicated to Abby and Sean, its impetus was the passing of Studs Terkel, whose spirit was right there in the streets of Chicago with us.

Riverwalk Radio

Cathy was on Smart City this morning, a nationally syndicated public radio program exploring various aspects of urban life. You can hear her talking about the very exciting Chicago Riverwalk project she's been helping to coordinate here. (If you want to get right to it, her segment begins a little past the halfway mark.)

Damn, my girl has got it going on!

Light Pillar

A light pillar captured out the window of our car on Lake Shore Drive this morning. A nice, freaky little meteorological phenomena to buoy our bout of chilliness.

Filagree and Snow

The snow that fell on New Years Eve and into the new year was wonderfully filigreed. All those wan, leafless trees were made stately, upholstered in a delicate cloth of snow. Even the cars took on an absurd opulence, their imperfections flattered by a few inches of fallen snow.

Later on, past 2 a.m, I read in our living room, pausing every now and again to listen as people walked past, their voices rounded off at the edges and muffled, swallowed up by the snow.

Library As Place Video

Here's the video Nicole and I made for our group project. We explored, somewhat haphazardly, this notion of the library as place.



Here, too, is our wiki page and flickr page for any interested. The wiki is not entirely coherent, but there's a lot of "brainstormery"going on. The flickr page is a nice example of how willing the library community is to share what they're doing with their spaces, how they're creating new and exciting places.

I should note, too, that buildings like Harold Washington, where form triumphs over function, aren't necessarily trapped by their infrastructure. There are some relatively simple, cost-efficient ways to improve the functional aspects and I wish we had more time to discuss that.

To be continued...

Waiting For The 22

"How ya doin?"

Instinct, habit, without thinking though the warning bell had already been sounding from the moment I first noticed him approaching, the barely conscious registering of his queasy body language.

"Fine," I said.

He sat down next to me, on the hot black bench where I was waiting for the bus. He held a package of cigarettes in his hand, trying repeatedly to fish one out. Tapping repeatedly on his wrist. Needless repetition. He was thin, feverish and untethered. Completely off. Schizophrenic. A tyrannizer of the normal.

"Are you a good sport or a spoiled sport?"

Is there an answer? Best to look away. I'm not really here. I have a hard enough time engaging with the self-possessed. But empathy kicks in. I want, and I'm probably thinking this later, as the bus is pulling away and I'm looking at him still sitting on the bench, still talking to the me that is no longer there, to bring him back, as though he surely left it at some point, to sanity. A wave of my hand, a lift of the curse, a bestower of miracles. "Return to yourself," I'd say with a sorcerer's flourish and there he'd be, intact, bewildered by his new clarity...apologetic and a little embarrassed. "No worries," I'd say. Instead there's this.

"It's like....it's like your watch. Like the glass on your watch and when you walk you can smash right into it. Like the glass inside you."

At which point the bus arrives, curing me of my agitation, of my delusions, of the rubbing up against madness. It's only a few seconds, this absurd interaction. But it's part of the lingering accumulation of mental health disasters, of humanity still breathing but gone to husk, that nag and haunt me and our entire approach to mental health in the U.S. So I'm left with clumsy empathy wanting to offer a line, to pull him back, to bring him within proximity of right where I am now, where reason is, for now, firmly tethered, and where my agency meshes with those I love and is met, a million times, by their reassurance--their reinforcement.

Riverwalk

Check it out! The missus might tell you she flew a little by the seat of her pants to get this one off the ground, but I doubt she was ever without the reigns held firmly in hand, offering an occasional kick in the ass when necessary.

Show the Riverwalk some love the next time you're downtown this summer.

Sunday Lunch By the Lake

Cathy, Abby and I enjoyed our lunch by the lake yesterday afternoon, grateful to be out and taking advantage of the first 80 degree temperature readings since early October. We (or rather, Cathy) packed a little picnic, put it and Abby in her wagon and walked/rolled our way on over. After eating her share of cheese, grapes and bread Abby felt compelled to give me a hug. My back was soon covered in affectionate crumbs.

Fried Dougy Goodness

The picture is from William Swislow's wonderful Interesting Ideas blog, an amazing clearinghouse of links galleries and additional resources committed to spreading the good word about "outsider, vernacular, self-taught and folk art, roadside art and architecture, weird cultural insights and warped politics."

Swislow writes:

Chicago's most vibrant art scene is not to be found in the galleries of River North or Wicker Park, but stretching along the city's longest street, Western Avenue. The work in this spontaneous gallery is unpretentious and, for the most part, unheralded. Its functional purpose does nothing to diminish its creativity or its range, from isolated drawings to full-blown art environments. And though these pages include images from all over Chicago, most of them are from Western Avenue itself -- the world's most artistic street.

Of course, what I like best about this picture is what it says (the warm, soft joy it expresses) about dough rather then its aesthetic merit, fond though I am of its lithe rendering of "Fried" followed by the bold, meaty "Dough." Sadly, Swislow informs us, the "emphasis on fried dough did not sustain this edition of the restaurant at 31st Street and the Dan Ryan Expressway."

(Thanks to Joe and his mighty Liminal for leading me to this doughy goodness.)