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| Our house 1947-1960 |
when I ran across these photos this morning.
The houses were landmarks in my "Nebraska
Territory," my "Sherwood Forest"... wherever my
adventures led. It was, and is, an ideal
neighborhood in which to be a child, or,
for that matter, an adult raising children....
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| Hendersons, Boyles, Kraschels, Liens... |
SWADDLED ON SATURDAY
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| The Zimmermans', between the Marshalls' and the school (the "park" I refer to in the poem) |
Friday afternoon in early spring was
everything it ought to be but Saturday, and
better in its way—a long, warm wallowing in
fresh anticipation with activity suspended,
save the effortless, habitual mobility of
youth. I lived in energetic fantasies
adapted from tradition, witches, faeries,
elves, and television—much like those
of every little girl who has the slightest
inclination toward adventure in her DNA.
How pliable the world and I were then,
how agile my imagination, deftly crafting
Saturday scenarios and shaping
panoramic situations on the slenderest,
the most improbable of Friday whims.
In my fringed suede jacket — my long,
brown hair in braids that swished across
my back — I could be Jo March or
Annie Oakley, even Nancy Drew,
by simply wishing to and being fashion-
flexible respecting history. A lengthening
of stride on pleasant residential
sidewalks, in an instant turned to hard-
packed trails across Nebraska Territory,
had me guiding covered wagons westward,
though unhappily my little pony, Daisy, had
been left behind in Council Bluffs,
recuperating from an infestation of the...
um... of the hiccups! Such a mystifying case,
so strange.
The wind changed. Balmy just a tick ago,
the day turned oddly dark, and
cold, quick puffs of what remained of
winter merged into a gale. I loosed my
braided hair and let the wind do what it
would. I knew (the wind did not), no
matter how it tugged and twisted,
swept and churned, no common,
ordinary gust could whip my hair clean
off my head — a small but gratifying
evidence of strength, to tease the elements
that way and win. And with such cosmic
victories did Fridays end and Saturdays
begin.
There was a wind-dried, wooded place, if
only ten feet wide or so, that circumscribed
the park. Good climbing trees were there,
and shrubs to hide in while you waited for
Doc Holliday and Wyatt Earp to ride in
from their day of keeping lawlessness
at bay.
Oh, hush, girl, here they come. I shall appear
oblivious—a pert and canny wench, as I adjust
my brim so it just barely skims my eyes. My
stomach churns; my cheeks are burning. Am I
pink and pretty or a ripe tomato near to
rupturing?
Dang, but it ain't even them. Behold,
it’s Robin and his Men, and I, Maid
Marian the Vain, again defy the everlasting
wind and tuck my tousled hair into
a prim, aristocratic bun with winsome
tendrils tumbling ‘round my face. Alas,
my primping is for naught. The men ride
off, the wind abates... the sun
peeks out.
I leaned against the Gallaghers’ red maple
tree and watched the play of shade and
shimmer in the variegated canopy and felt
the muffled thrum that was the rhythm of
a Saturday in spring, the quieting of
afternoon in placid neighborhoods. I
heard my mother mixing commerce with
a bit of gossip as the Alamito Dairy man
delivered butter, half-and-half, and cottage
cheese. He muttered something he had
gleaned from Mrs. Hahn about the Beasleys’
sheltie’s puppies being weaned, as I recall.
I listened to the uninflected tune of bees
around a clump of lilacs, heard a small child’s
bleating and her mama's crooning consolation...
cursed a screen door with a wicked spring
obedient to physics snapping like a shot
across the soporific vista. Just as quickly did
serenity return.
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| The Marshalls lived directly across Chicago Street |
imaginary men are drawn to when I'm
unavailable (not often; I must practice
discipline) for admiration, I gave in to quite
an unbecoming yawn, and in its wide,
substantial wake a new temptation came
along: Why ought I not lie back upon a sturdy
patch of grass (I knew the perfect one, not
only ample to support me but a haven
of warm light and dappled shade) where I'd
be swaddled by the sun, contentedly afloat
in all the homely sounds and earthy smells
that filled my private vale — the muffled glee
of little Sherry on her tricycle; her mom's
bright laughter, kind, encouraging—the earthy
scent of sod just laid and the perfume of lilies
of the valley, too audacious for their dainty
faces and discreet, half-hidden habitat?
Well contented was I then to call an end
to my adventures for a time and savor
quiet joys: fresh lemonade and oyster crackers,
barely stale; a kiss and hug for Mama; and
a book, or two or even three, for reading
in the back yard and my secret nook
between the privet and the walnut, whose
broad trunk, from rain and time and children's
choreography, had worn away until it formed
a shallow cave, one made expressly for my
shoulder blades… all of which demonstrates
the wonderful abundance of the ways to make
a century of memories in half a Saturday or
less with time aplenty for a little rest....
--------------------------
Omaha's Dundee neighborhood, represented here, was
developed around the turn of the 20th century as an
outlying suburb several miles west of town. It thrives,
never having declined in spite of narrow streets, one-car
garages, single bathrooms, and surrounding development.
White flight didn't affect Dundee as much as feared when
school attendance areas changed to discourage de facto
segregation. Young families of any race who welcomed
rather than feared diversity were happy to snap up coveted
Dundee homes, taking advantage of the temporarily
depressed housing market in the 1980s, when more skittish
families (or those unconcerned about integration but
desirous of newer, sleeker houses rather than Dundee's
quaint old architecture) moved out west. The population
shift created a housing boom in the old farming community
of Millard, which responded by building fine schools in spite
of the suddenness of the expansion.
