This morning, I was enjoying my habitual repast of cinnamon toast and strawberries and reading about an obscure 17th-century poetess, when the phone rang. It was my lovely neighbor Ruth.
"I thought you should know that there's a full-size stuffed lion in the alley behind the Walters' house. They're throwing out a bunch of stuff."
"I'm on it."
Mere minutes later, and I am in possession of said lion -- a glorious, free-standing example of toy-making at its finest. As I stroll through my backyard with this lion -- I think I'll call him Frazier -- hoisted up on my shoulder, I hear Kevin and Sam call to me from their backyard, some four or so houses down. They wave a small toy monkey that they have rescued from the selfsame pile. I suggest our next block party should be jungle-themed.
Now, with Frazier safely stowed in my basement for whatever future adventures may await him on Norwood, I realize that I could easily go to bed now at 10:30 in the morning, as my day has already been as fulfilling as it could possibly be.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Crazy Crap Item #232: The part where I add an addendum
This is a follow-up to the story about the Caseys' very bad day. So if you haven't read that, read it first.
One thing I forgot to record in my account of the day of drama and trauma on Norwood is the actual cause of James' trip to the ER.
I first learned of it when Sam joined Jack and me to await the outcome. Jack was concerned it was his fault. I asked what happened, and he said it was his fault because he was the one who had told James to jump from one bed to the other -- the incident which resulted in the noggin-cracking.
"Accidents happen," I told Jack, who I felt didn't need a "Didn't-your-mother-always-tell-you-not-to-jump-on-the-beds?" lecture at that precise moment. Plus, it seemed like a pretty self-evident lesson.
Today, to help bolster recovery of both James and the entire Casey clan, I whipped up one of my now-world-renowned batches of brownies. When I delivered said treat, James' uncle was visiting, and asked James, "Whose fault was it that you hurt your head?"
Without missing a beat: "The bed's."
I've said it before, I'll say it again: I like the way that kid thinks.
One thing I forgot to record in my account of the day of drama and trauma on Norwood is the actual cause of James' trip to the ER.
I first learned of it when Sam joined Jack and me to await the outcome. Jack was concerned it was his fault. I asked what happened, and he said it was his fault because he was the one who had told James to jump from one bed to the other -- the incident which resulted in the noggin-cracking.
"Accidents happen," I told Jack, who I felt didn't need a "Didn't-your-mother-always-tell-you-not-to-jump-on-the-beds?" lecture at that precise moment. Plus, it seemed like a pretty self-evident lesson.
Today, to help bolster recovery of both James and the entire Casey clan, I whipped up one of my now-world-renowned batches of brownies. When I delivered said treat, James' uncle was visiting, and asked James, "Whose fault was it that you hurt your head?"
Without missing a beat: "The bed's."
I've said it before, I'll say it again: I like the way that kid thinks.
Crazy Crap Item #231: The part where the Caseys have a very bad day
[NOTE: No children were harmed in the posting of this story. Though the story itself was the source of some harm.]
Yesterday was full of drama and trauma on Norwood. Around 5pm, I was putzing around the entryway, after investing some considerable time in a new entryway-beautification project. What to my wondering ears should appear but my neighbor Ann calling to me.
I opened the door to find her out on the lawn holding James. She's a very laidback lady, so it took me a few seconds to realize that she was in full-on panic mode. It's not initially very far off from regular Ann mode, except that in panic mode, she doesn't finish sentences.
It also took me a few seconds to notice a lot of blood on her shirt, at which point, it very slowly dawned on me that something was terribly wrong. I cut her off in mid-sputter. "What happened?" She started to say something about how she had called Ruth because James had a cut on his head, and could Jack come over, and Sam too, since Ruth was going with her to the ER. I said of course, and called to Jack to come in.
The poor kid was extremely freaked out. He was just crying and asking, "Is my brother going to be OK?" I told him I knew it was scary, and did he want to talk about it? He said no, that would make it worse, so I suggested chocolate milk and cartoons. He thought that seemed ok.
As we sat on the couch looking for a good kid-type show, he broached a few comments about how worried he was about his brother. He seemed very concerned that it was just going to take too long for the ER folk to help James. As Jack is a logical, detail-oriented kid, I told him about triage, and how they screen patients to determine who needs immediate care. I recounted my last trip to the ER. In response to his worries about James feeling pain, I described the medicines they have to make pain go away.
Finally, we got to the big question.
"Is he going to die?"
I answered, "No. No, he's not. He is not going to die from this. He's going to be fine."
I've never seen such a visible sign of relief.
Then Sam came over, and they snacked on cheese, and played with some army men I just bought from the dollar bin at Target. Then we went outside and made swords out of styrofoam. Later, Sam's dad Kevin arrived home from work his son, who was miffed that Jack got to stay at the Dalys (the tenor of his complaint seemed to be something about how Jack gets all the fun).
By about 7:30, Jack, who had been waving off snacks for the past 2 1/2 hours, suddenly announced he was "starving." I hustled up some grub, and Jack, Eamon and I had a nice supper of chicken, corn and Scooby Doo cartoons.
Ann and Jim finally got James home by about 8:30. He ended up having 11 stitches, including 3 stitches deep in the wound, as the cut went all the way to the skull. But Ann said James didn't cry at all; everyone in the ER was amazed. And when they came to get Jack, James insisted on coming in, then leapt all over my livingroom, banged on my electric piano keyboard, climbed on the back of my couch, and, like his brother, was very reluctant to go home.
Ahh, the resilience of youth.
Yesterday was full of drama and trauma on Norwood. Around 5pm, I was putzing around the entryway, after investing some considerable time in a new entryway-beautification project. What to my wondering ears should appear but my neighbor Ann calling to me.
I opened the door to find her out on the lawn holding James. She's a very laidback lady, so it took me a few seconds to realize that she was in full-on panic mode. It's not initially very far off from regular Ann mode, except that in panic mode, she doesn't finish sentences.
It also took me a few seconds to notice a lot of blood on her shirt, at which point, it very slowly dawned on me that something was terribly wrong. I cut her off in mid-sputter. "What happened?" She started to say something about how she had called Ruth because James had a cut on his head, and could Jack come over, and Sam too, since Ruth was going with her to the ER. I said of course, and called to Jack to come in.
The poor kid was extremely freaked out. He was just crying and asking, "Is my brother going to be OK?" I told him I knew it was scary, and did he want to talk about it? He said no, that would make it worse, so I suggested chocolate milk and cartoons. He thought that seemed ok.
As we sat on the couch looking for a good kid-type show, he broached a few comments about how worried he was about his brother. He seemed very concerned that it was just going to take too long for the ER folk to help James. As Jack is a logical, detail-oriented kid, I told him about triage, and how they screen patients to determine who needs immediate care. I recounted my last trip to the ER. In response to his worries about James feeling pain, I described the medicines they have to make pain go away.
Finally, we got to the big question.
"Is he going to die?"
I answered, "No. No, he's not. He is not going to die from this. He's going to be fine."
I've never seen such a visible sign of relief.
Then Sam came over, and they snacked on cheese, and played with some army men I just bought from the dollar bin at Target. Then we went outside and made swords out of styrofoam. Later, Sam's dad Kevin arrived home from work his son, who was miffed that Jack got to stay at the Dalys (the tenor of his complaint seemed to be something about how Jack gets all the fun).
By about 7:30, Jack, who had been waving off snacks for the past 2 1/2 hours, suddenly announced he was "starving." I hustled up some grub, and Jack, Eamon and I had a nice supper of chicken, corn and Scooby Doo cartoons.
Ann and Jim finally got James home by about 8:30. He ended up having 11 stitches, including 3 stitches deep in the wound, as the cut went all the way to the skull. But Ann said James didn't cry at all; everyone in the ER was amazed. And when they came to get Jack, James insisted on coming in, then leapt all over my livingroom, banged on my electric piano keyboard, climbed on the back of my couch, and, like his brother, was very reluctant to go home.
Ahh, the resilience of youth.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Crazy Crap Item #230: The part where Jack and James wax pious
Yesterday, Ann announced that Jack (age 7) and James (age 4) took it upon themselves to write a letter to God.
Apparently, Jack did all the actual writing (a skill he's been honing in first grade), while James added helpful suggestions. To wit:
- "Add some crosses there."
- "And stars. Jesus loves stars."
We inquired of Ann what the boys could possibly be writing to God. "A general proclamation of their love," it seems.
They were also concerned that if they stored it in a drawer overnight before mailing, God might show up and take their unfinished draft. This was, apparently, a great concern.
I suggested that Ann spirit the letter away in the night. Mimi added that she could leave a cross behind.
I suspect she did no such thing. So much for the true fun of parenting: messing with your kids.
Apparently, Jack did all the actual writing (a skill he's been honing in first grade), while James added helpful suggestions. To wit:
- "Add some crosses there."
- "And stars. Jesus loves stars."
We inquired of Ann what the boys could possibly be writing to God. "A general proclamation of their love," it seems.
They were also concerned that if they stored it in a drawer overnight before mailing, God might show up and take their unfinished draft. This was, apparently, a great concern.
I suggested that Ann spirit the letter away in the night. Mimi added that she could leave a cross behind.
I suspect she did no such thing. So much for the true fun of parenting: messing with your kids.
Saturday, May 09, 2009
Crazy Crap Item #229: The part where I play catch-up (Part 1, Cookie Party)
So it seems I have not been diligent enough in recording the doings on Norwood, as is attested to by the nagging of some of my readers (I'm looking at you, Ann). So here is my first attempt to hit rewind and record some of the events I neglected to document before.
Part 1: Cookie Party
For two years now, Cookie Party has been a hallowed annual tradition here on Norwood. Cookie Party consists of me making many sugar cookies in holiday shapes and obtaining an embarassing amount of holiday-themed embellishments. The final piece slides into place when I invite the small children of my neighborhood over to decorate these cookies by smearing frosting and applying sprinkles to both the sweet treats and themselves. Drop cloths assist in easy clean-up.
Last year's first annual cookie party was a grand success, and cries for a 2008 edition soon followed.
Applying the lessons of last year, I made a few changes in this year's plan. These included:
* Taking advantage of modern freezer technology to make and store cookies a few weeks in advance of said party to avoid pre-party preparation crunch.
* Slip-covering the diningroom chairs in cut-up plastic tablecloths to avoid the spilling of colored frosting and (yes) red wine on their cream-colored cloth seats.
* Purchasing even more supermarket gel icing squirters, since these seemed to be such a hit the year before.
* Making it clear in advance to all parents that I was very much OK with the idea that the post-cookie-sugar-crash would provide an excellent transition into parent-oriented happy hour, with the aid of some kid-style movies that could be lent by aforementioned parents.
* Removing all death- and injury-inducing items from our livingroom (pocket knives, laser pointers, nail clippers, cigarette lighters, cat o' nine tails, etc.), and placing all crystals, porcelains, and other valuables out of reach of small hands.
* Obtaining multitudinous toys from the dollar bin at Target, to be placed under the Christmas tree for general merriment and take-home gifts.
These preparations in place, the day of cookie party arrived attended by great excitement and a monumental snow fall. The latter led to yet another, hopefully soon-to-be repeated tradition, the transformation of the Caseys' front steps into a sledding hill. (See alternate sources for a full-photo record and video 1 and video 2 of this event).
After sledding, I returned to my cozy home to finalize preparations. Guests began arriving after 3pm, and festivities were soon well and truly underway. Highlights included:
* The new cookie-decorating efforts of young Anika, who displayed a determination and focus seldom seen in a such a tiny girl. She sat, fascinated for hours, emptying tube after tube of gel frosting onto a single cookie. When, at intervals, her tube would run out, she would hold it up to me with brow furrowed, as if to say, "What the hell?"
* The repeated, worried question "Can we eat them when we're done?", which repeatedly garnered the reply of "Um, yeah, I'm not planning to make a cookie art gallery with them." This followed by greedy gobbling, greedy gobbling, and more greedy gobbling.
* The constant tug-of-war between two schools of cookie decoration: the commitment to "cookie as art" versus "how much crap can I load onto one cookie?"
* The decision by some artisans to don protective eyewear to avoid the dreaded "jimmies in the eyes" risk.
* The retirement of parents to the livingroom for uninterrupted adult snacks during the first wave of decoration.
* After cookie decoration, the grand migration of kids into the livingroom for movie-watching, dancing, skipping, and general merriment, to be replaced by parents, snacks and many bottles of wine on the diningroom table.
* A visit by block favorite Jon Hey, who entertained the crowd with carols on the keyboard.
* The slow and steady drunkening of parents as children undergo a similar stupor of sugar-crash.
All in all, a grand success. To many more cookie parties!
Part 1: Cookie Party
For two years now, Cookie Party has been a hallowed annual tradition here on Norwood. Cookie Party consists of me making many sugar cookies in holiday shapes and obtaining an embarassing amount of holiday-themed embellishments. The final piece slides into place when I invite the small children of my neighborhood over to decorate these cookies by smearing frosting and applying sprinkles to both the sweet treats and themselves. Drop cloths assist in easy clean-up.
Last year's first annual cookie party was a grand success, and cries for a 2008 edition soon followed.
Applying the lessons of last year, I made a few changes in this year's plan. These included:
* Taking advantage of modern freezer technology to make and store cookies a few weeks in advance of said party to avoid pre-party preparation crunch.
* Slip-covering the diningroom chairs in cut-up plastic tablecloths to avoid the spilling of colored frosting and (yes) red wine on their cream-colored cloth seats.
* Purchasing even more supermarket gel icing squirters, since these seemed to be such a hit the year before.
* Making it clear in advance to all parents that I was very much OK with the idea that the post-cookie-sugar-crash would provide an excellent transition into parent-oriented happy hour, with the aid of some kid-style movies that could be lent by aforementioned parents.
* Removing all death- and injury-inducing items from our livingroom (pocket knives, laser pointers, nail clippers, cigarette lighters, cat o' nine tails, etc.), and placing all crystals, porcelains, and other valuables out of reach of small hands.
* Obtaining multitudinous toys from the dollar bin at Target, to be placed under the Christmas tree for general merriment and take-home gifts.
These preparations in place, the day of cookie party arrived attended by great excitement and a monumental snow fall. The latter led to yet another, hopefully soon-to-be repeated tradition, the transformation of the Caseys' front steps into a sledding hill. (See alternate sources for a full-photo record and video 1 and video 2 of this event).
After sledding, I returned to my cozy home to finalize preparations. Guests began arriving after 3pm, and festivities were soon well and truly underway. Highlights included:
* The new cookie-decorating efforts of young Anika, who displayed a determination and focus seldom seen in a such a tiny girl. She sat, fascinated for hours, emptying tube after tube of gel frosting onto a single cookie. When, at intervals, her tube would run out, she would hold it up to me with brow furrowed, as if to say, "What the hell?"
* The repeated, worried question "Can we eat them when we're done?", which repeatedly garnered the reply of "Um, yeah, I'm not planning to make a cookie art gallery with them." This followed by greedy gobbling, greedy gobbling, and more greedy gobbling.
* The constant tug-of-war between two schools of cookie decoration: the commitment to "cookie as art" versus "how much crap can I load onto one cookie?"
* The decision by some artisans to don protective eyewear to avoid the dreaded "jimmies in the eyes" risk.
* The retirement of parents to the livingroom for uninterrupted adult snacks during the first wave of decoration.
* After cookie decoration, the grand migration of kids into the livingroom for movie-watching, dancing, skipping, and general merriment, to be replaced by parents, snacks and many bottles of wine on the diningroom table.
* A visit by block favorite Jon Hey, who entertained the crowd with carols on the keyboard.
* The slow and steady drunkening of parents as children undergo a similar stupor of sugar-crash.
All in all, a grand success. To many more cookie parties!
Monday, May 04, 2009
Crazy Crap Item #228: The part where Miles waxes authoritative
If there's one thing I truly enjoy, it's the capacity of small children to completely make crap up on the fly, then explain it to you with an air of certainty, authority, and -- yes -- condescension that I can't seem to muster even when I know what I'm talking about.
To whit, young Miles on the topic of dinosaurs. Miles, four-years-old, is son to Mimi and Amanda and brother to the floppy-curled two-year-old Nolan. They reside on the dreaded 1400 block, but we try not to hold it against them, as they are so delightful.
Miles is a very serious young man. A greeting usually gains reciprocation by way of a very sober, non-gaze-meeting and highly formal "hello." It generally takes a good hour or so for Miles to respond to teasing with anything but puzzlement.
Thus, from Miles, I've come to expect "just the facts." It was in keeping with this general tenor that Miles sought to educate me on the topic of dinosaurs.
"This is diplodocus," Miles intoned with an air of matter-of-fact sobriety as he waved a plastic dinosaur figure at me. "He's a plant-eater. His teeth are short and dull."
I nodded and repeated the fact several times.
Later, he returned to the topic.
"This is T.rex. He's a meat-eater."
"Oh, does he eat ham sandwiches?" I inquired.
"No," Miles replied with furrowed brow. "Hes a meat eater."
"But ham is a meat," I reasoned. "Doesn't he eat ham sandwiches."
"NO," Miles asserted, with a touch of impatience. "He doesn't eat ham."
"But why wouldn't he eat ham? Ham is a meat."
With nary a pause and a tone of certainty, Miles replied, "He only eats skin meat."
I am schooled.
To whit, young Miles on the topic of dinosaurs. Miles, four-years-old, is son to Mimi and Amanda and brother to the floppy-curled two-year-old Nolan. They reside on the dreaded 1400 block, but we try not to hold it against them, as they are so delightful.
Miles is a very serious young man. A greeting usually gains reciprocation by way of a very sober, non-gaze-meeting and highly formal "hello." It generally takes a good hour or so for Miles to respond to teasing with anything but puzzlement.
Thus, from Miles, I've come to expect "just the facts." It was in keeping with this general tenor that Miles sought to educate me on the topic of dinosaurs.
"This is diplodocus," Miles intoned with an air of matter-of-fact sobriety as he waved a plastic dinosaur figure at me. "He's a plant-eater. His teeth are short and dull."
I nodded and repeated the fact several times.
Later, he returned to the topic.
"This is T.rex. He's a meat-eater."
"Oh, does he eat ham sandwiches?" I inquired.
"No," Miles replied with furrowed brow. "Hes a meat eater."
"But ham is a meat," I reasoned. "Doesn't he eat ham sandwiches."
"NO," Miles asserted, with a touch of impatience. "He doesn't eat ham."
"But why wouldn't he eat ham? Ham is a meat."
With nary a pause and a tone of certainty, Miles replied, "He only eats skin meat."
I am schooled.
Saturday, May 02, 2009
Crazy Crap Item #227: The part where I record yet another utterly perfect Norwood day
Those of you have dipped into my record of life in my little corner of the world have probably already heard too much about the utter perfection of a little block I like to call 1500 Norwood. To you I say, too bad; you're going to hear more.
Today, as it happens, was one of those hearts-and-rainbows, ponies-and-unicorn days in which all the glory of Mayberry comes out in full flower just outside my front door. On 1400 Norwood, life is sorrow. On 1300 Norwood, they eat naught but ashes and drink naught but tears. But on 1500 Norwood, all is bliss.
Here's how it went down:
10:30am: I depart my abode to head up to Highland Park for one of a million follow-ups on my poor beleagured jaw. What with unforeseen forestallments and emergency surguries galore, my appointment is pushed off, delaying my return considerably. During my my transit, I discover it is a rare, beautiful spring day in Chicago, and I contemplate a delicious fried egg sandwich, necessary fuel for one who has skipped breakfast.
1:00pm: Upon returning home, I prepare aforesaid sandwich and ponder where to consume said meal. "Outside would be bliss," I thought, "but what fun would it be without my delightful Caseys?" -- The Caseys being, of course, my next door neighbors; more specifically, Jack (age 7) and James (age 4).
I peek outside, and what to my wondering eyes should appear, but two small boys cavorting.
I head outdoors, sandwich in hand, only to be peppered with requests for shovels. I explain that I must eat my sandwich first, but the great sadness I witness convinces me that sandwiches can wait. I make with the shovels, and retire to my back steps for the duel delight of egg sandwich and an extravaganza of earth removal.
2:00pm: Basking in the spring sun, I realize that I have yet to consume some coffee, and excuse myself to go make a pot. Jack is scandalized -- where on earth could I be going??? I explain I will be right back.
As the coffee brews, I take it into my mind that I desire a nice hunk of blueberry cinnamon coffee cake. Thankfully, I have a recipe for said cake, and all ingredients on hand. I whip up the batter, slap pan in oven, and return to the back steps with coffee, no one the wiser about my improvised baking.
3:00pm: The coffee cake is done! But, oh, too hot to handle. So I grab a magazine, and sidle out to the benches so thoughtfully provided on the parkway down the block. Our neighbors, the Watts-Harrises (Kevin, Ruth and son Sam) have selflessly sacrificed the grass on their parkway so that all may bask in communal lounging. I plunk down with coffee and magazine.
3:30pm: I sense, from half a block away, that my coffee cake is now cool enough to cut. I sidle back up the block, and consider what to do with this bounty of cake. After all, I'm only one small girl, and this is a gi-normous 13" x 9" cake.
The first hunk goes to neighbor Lisa, who is laid up from recent childbirth and surgery. As I deliver it, her 2-year-old Caroline (one of four -- count 'em, four! -- children) eyes me with a mix of suspicion and flirtation.
En route to Lisa's, I pass by the venerable benches, where Megan has settled in. "What are you doing?" she asks. "Delivering coffee cake," I say. "I'll bring some out. Want some?" She does.
But first, I must make my second delivery. It goes to Nancy. Ah, Nancy. Shameless, irrepressible Nancy. A fixture on the block, Nancy has lived here since the '70s. Before that, she was in the convent. I like to think of her as a sort of Scotch-soaked Maria von Trapp. After leaving the nunnery, she taught at a school for autistic children, and eventually met the love of her life, Bill, an ex-priest. Now in her 80s, Nancy shacks up with Bill, goes for daily strolls, distributes chocolates by the fistful, and brings joy to the block with her Christmas lights, which are lit year-round.
Nancy and I forged a bond over physical therapy. She was recovering from knee replacement surgery; I was rehabbing a crotchety hip. We had two weekly dates for nearly 6 months, and have been fast friends since. When the mood strikes me, I toss tasty comestibles in a ziplock and tottle down to Nancy's for a visit.
So on this fine spring day, I set out with coffee cake in hand, only to find Nancy in conversation with a passerby. We are introduced. This person -- who, I suspect, is transsexual -- is walking a small, vivacious poodle. Apparently, she has been accosted by Nancy before, and decided to swing by for a chat. After fussing over her poodle, Sunshine, we make our way to Nancy's, where we enjoy a short visit. We are soon joined by Manny, a former neighbor, now residing in a local nursing home. He has returned with his daughter for a visit. We watch the preamble to the derby.
3:30pm: I excuse myself, explaining I have promised Megan some coffee cake. On the way home, I pass back by the benches, and re-assert to Megan, who is now joined by Ruth (proprietor of the benches) and Kim (a refugee from the much-despised 1400 block), that I will be bringing coffee cake.
But first, I realize, I must deliver a hunk to the Caseys. I carve off a hunk, foil it up, and traipse next door. I ring the bell, and realize I have interrupted violin practice. Jim and Jack seem to welcome a break and usher me in. I'm treated to several tunes by the deft-fingered Jack, including a duet with Jim. James totters in and whispers in Jim's ear. He, too, it seems, wants a go. Jim produces what I consider the smallest violin in creation (though Jim assures me there are much smaller ones, even in that very house), and James launches into a song entitled "Perpetual Motion," his 4-year-old fingers flying. I'm treated to several encores.
4:00pm: I depart the Caseys, and am accosted by shouts from the bench of "where is that coffee cake?" I explain that I had been ensnared by the Casey's siren song, and that I will be out in a second. I slice up the last quadrant of cake and take it out to the ladies.
4:15pm: We partake. Sam, Jack and James inflict serious damage on each other with light sabers. Ann comes out and models the stylish outfit she has donned for a fundraiser that evening at the local Catholic school. Megan departs to make her preparations for the same event.
In front of the McDermott house, a flock of children skip rope, draw with chalk, and do other things that children do at a first communion party.
Across the street, the Brenner twins roller skate.
Kevin joins Ruth and me at the benches, and we speak of this and that.
The Caltos leave for the fundraiser.
The Cancillas leave for the fundraiser.
I comment pitiously that I feel like I'm being left behind on prom night.
"Come to dinner with us," Kevin says.
"I was going to stay in," I reply, "But I like you people."
6:00pm: I pop inside to change clothes and slap on some eyeliner. When I return to rejoin Ruth and Kevin, I find that Jim has ventured outdoors with his guitar and serenading the block. We listen to a few tunes, and after the Caseys leave for the fundraiser, Kevin brings around the car, and off I go for a delightful repast of tacos and tequila.
And thus ends a perfect day on 1500 Norwood.
Today, as it happens, was one of those hearts-and-rainbows, ponies-and-unicorn days in which all the glory of Mayberry comes out in full flower just outside my front door. On 1400 Norwood, life is sorrow. On 1300 Norwood, they eat naught but ashes and drink naught but tears. But on 1500 Norwood, all is bliss.
Here's how it went down:
10:30am: I depart my abode to head up to Highland Park for one of a million follow-ups on my poor beleagured jaw. What with unforeseen forestallments and emergency surguries galore, my appointment is pushed off, delaying my return considerably. During my my transit, I discover it is a rare, beautiful spring day in Chicago, and I contemplate a delicious fried egg sandwich, necessary fuel for one who has skipped breakfast.
1:00pm: Upon returning home, I prepare aforesaid sandwich and ponder where to consume said meal. "Outside would be bliss," I thought, "but what fun would it be without my delightful Caseys?" -- The Caseys being, of course, my next door neighbors; more specifically, Jack (age 7) and James (age 4).
I peek outside, and what to my wondering eyes should appear, but two small boys cavorting.
I head outdoors, sandwich in hand, only to be peppered with requests for shovels. I explain that I must eat my sandwich first, but the great sadness I witness convinces me that sandwiches can wait. I make with the shovels, and retire to my back steps for the duel delight of egg sandwich and an extravaganza of earth removal.
2:00pm: Basking in the spring sun, I realize that I have yet to consume some coffee, and excuse myself to go make a pot. Jack is scandalized -- where on earth could I be going??? I explain I will be right back.
As the coffee brews, I take it into my mind that I desire a nice hunk of blueberry cinnamon coffee cake. Thankfully, I have a recipe for said cake, and all ingredients on hand. I whip up the batter, slap pan in oven, and return to the back steps with coffee, no one the wiser about my improvised baking.
3:00pm: The coffee cake is done! But, oh, too hot to handle. So I grab a magazine, and sidle out to the benches so thoughtfully provided on the parkway down the block. Our neighbors, the Watts-Harrises (Kevin, Ruth and son Sam) have selflessly sacrificed the grass on their parkway so that all may bask in communal lounging. I plunk down with coffee and magazine.
3:30pm: I sense, from half a block away, that my coffee cake is now cool enough to cut. I sidle back up the block, and consider what to do with this bounty of cake. After all, I'm only one small girl, and this is a gi-normous 13" x 9" cake.
The first hunk goes to neighbor Lisa, who is laid up from recent childbirth and surgery. As I deliver it, her 2-year-old Caroline (one of four -- count 'em, four! -- children) eyes me with a mix of suspicion and flirtation.
En route to Lisa's, I pass by the venerable benches, where Megan has settled in. "What are you doing?" she asks. "Delivering coffee cake," I say. "I'll bring some out. Want some?" She does.
But first, I must make my second delivery. It goes to Nancy. Ah, Nancy. Shameless, irrepressible Nancy. A fixture on the block, Nancy has lived here since the '70s. Before that, she was in the convent. I like to think of her as a sort of Scotch-soaked Maria von Trapp. After leaving the nunnery, she taught at a school for autistic children, and eventually met the love of her life, Bill, an ex-priest. Now in her 80s, Nancy shacks up with Bill, goes for daily strolls, distributes chocolates by the fistful, and brings joy to the block with her Christmas lights, which are lit year-round.
Nancy and I forged a bond over physical therapy. She was recovering from knee replacement surgery; I was rehabbing a crotchety hip. We had two weekly dates for nearly 6 months, and have been fast friends since. When the mood strikes me, I toss tasty comestibles in a ziplock and tottle down to Nancy's for a visit.
So on this fine spring day, I set out with coffee cake in hand, only to find Nancy in conversation with a passerby. We are introduced. This person -- who, I suspect, is transsexual -- is walking a small, vivacious poodle. Apparently, she has been accosted by Nancy before, and decided to swing by for a chat. After fussing over her poodle, Sunshine, we make our way to Nancy's, where we enjoy a short visit. We are soon joined by Manny, a former neighbor, now residing in a local nursing home. He has returned with his daughter for a visit. We watch the preamble to the derby.
3:30pm: I excuse myself, explaining I have promised Megan some coffee cake. On the way home, I pass back by the benches, and re-assert to Megan, who is now joined by Ruth (proprietor of the benches) and Kim (a refugee from the much-despised 1400 block), that I will be bringing coffee cake.
But first, I realize, I must deliver a hunk to the Caseys. I carve off a hunk, foil it up, and traipse next door. I ring the bell, and realize I have interrupted violin practice. Jim and Jack seem to welcome a break and usher me in. I'm treated to several tunes by the deft-fingered Jack, including a duet with Jim. James totters in and whispers in Jim's ear. He, too, it seems, wants a go. Jim produces what I consider the smallest violin in creation (though Jim assures me there are much smaller ones, even in that very house), and James launches into a song entitled "Perpetual Motion," his 4-year-old fingers flying. I'm treated to several encores.
4:00pm: I depart the Caseys, and am accosted by shouts from the bench of "where is that coffee cake?" I explain that I had been ensnared by the Casey's siren song, and that I will be out in a second. I slice up the last quadrant of cake and take it out to the ladies.
4:15pm: We partake. Sam, Jack and James inflict serious damage on each other with light sabers. Ann comes out and models the stylish outfit she has donned for a fundraiser that evening at the local Catholic school. Megan departs to make her preparations for the same event.
In front of the McDermott house, a flock of children skip rope, draw with chalk, and do other things that children do at a first communion party.
Across the street, the Brenner twins roller skate.
Kevin joins Ruth and me at the benches, and we speak of this and that.
The Caltos leave for the fundraiser.
The Cancillas leave for the fundraiser.
I comment pitiously that I feel like I'm being left behind on prom night.
"Come to dinner with us," Kevin says.
"I was going to stay in," I reply, "But I like you people."
6:00pm: I pop inside to change clothes and slap on some eyeliner. When I return to rejoin Ruth and Kevin, I find that Jim has ventured outdoors with his guitar and serenading the block. We listen to a few tunes, and after the Caseys leave for the fundraiser, Kevin brings around the car, and off I go for a delightful repast of tacos and tequila.
And thus ends a perfect day on 1500 Norwood.
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