Take a Walk

Michele and I spent the afternoon back on the 606 Trail.  Compared to July, it was almost deserted.  The novelty’s worn off, some schools are back in session, and it was a good, humid, 90 degrees out.  It was like we had our very own linear sweat lodge.

Free of attack from kamikaze cyclists, I was better able to take in the surrounding neighborhoods.  They’re 20-30 years older than where I grew up, 1900 vs. 1920s’ architecture.  That means more two-flats and worker’s cottages on fairly tight lots; my parents’ bungalow (on a 30’ by 125’ lot) is a suburban estate by comparison.  But we couldn’t sell the bungalow for a third of what the houses are going for along the 606.

A mix of sun, wind and sweat makes for good time travel.  The neighborhoods we were walking through—and above—reminded me of Bridgeport, when we’d go visit my Grandma Bukowski.  Yet even Bridgeport is gentrifying.  The ghosts are made to yield to progress in the form of skyrocketing real-estate prices.  At least in Bridgeport I can see buildings that cue childhood memories.  Ex-residents who walk the 606 have that advantage, too, I’m sure.

But when you go to 35^th and Shields only to find a parking lot instead of a ballpark, the memories fade.  I can never show Clare where I walked into Comiskey Park with my father, or where the old fighter stood after games selling early editions of the Chicago American.  I walk along the 606 in my reverie only to look up and see Cub flags and joggers in Cubs’ tee-shirts.  I’m a long way from home.