11/365 Half Block from the Park

Our old dog loved living here. Constant contact with other dogs going for a stroll in the park. Our street is not a cut through or a thoroughfare--it is 4 blocks long, one-way part of the time, and dead-ends so that you must go north on Grand. So people drive down, but they are neighbors or folks who think to themselves, "I won't go down this street again." I remember thinking that when I used to visit friends who lived a few blocks away.

But it is pedestrian-heavy. We're close to a bus stop, but more than that, there is the park. People from many blocks east of us walk past us to get to the park. And it's a lovely place, a Victorian walking park, wonderful for kids and dogs and bikes and so forth. And its presence means we meet folks we wouldn't know otherwise.

10/365 On the edge of nine

Sooooooo hot.....

9/365 Sprinkler

Daisy and Bonnie Dee in the sprinkler on the hottest day of the summer (thus far). Note the lack of swimwear. It was just that hot.

"Can we go outside?" Daisy asked.

"Sure, for a minute until Miss Joy comes for Bonnie Dee." Stepping out on the porch, though, was a shock. It was awfully hot. The plants in the yard were suffering. I dragged the sprinkler out and got it set up.

The water when it hit the red bricks instantly evaporated.

They played. Leo sat on the steps until Joy came down. Then he picked up my glass, a Kerr jar (our cabinets get filled with jelly and salsa jars all winter and spring, and then empty out as I start canning again. By late September we have, like, 3 drinking glasses left). He drops it with a shattering crash that makes Joy jump back. The big pieces are easy, but there are tiny shards. I grind them into the concrete step with my foot, thinking of the rabid dog passage from To Kill A Mockingbird, but also of the They Might Be Giants song about the elements: silicon and oxygen make concrete bricks and glass...

8/365 Parade

The parade goes past every year. It turns into the park right before our street. The music and balloons and hoo-ha are everywhere.

Daisy is dressed in her Snow White costume. She wants to play with friends. So we venture out while Billy sleeps to see if we can find the friends. We find them down at Tara's house on the corner, sitting on the steps with a gazillion strangers. Frank and Christy walk up just as we do, just as 2 dozen people dressed in hospital scrubs and carrying rainbow flags wave at us and turn into the park. Daisy sees Bonnie Dee and Naomi and runs over to join them. I chat a minute and then Joy and I strike a deal--she'll keep Daisy at the parade and then feed her lunch, if I keep Bonnie Dee so she can go to Target.

The Hi-Bear-Nation float isn't turning the corner yet when I make my way back to my house. A drag queen in red stilettos walks past me. Later, Daisy and her friends go past my house on the way to Wymans, carrying carnations. "The man in the underwear gave them to us."

Awesome.

7/365 Summer Haze

The evenings aren't cool. Everything is still and a bit hazy. People move slowly--kids play on the sidewalk a bit, adults sit on stoops and chat. But everyone is tired. Summer wears you out.

We stood across the street and talked about unimportant things--poker, concerts, the torn up street. Len says the street paving happens next week. Disappointing but realistic. Justin cracks jokes and the kids kill ants on the sidewalk.

And then, just for a moment if you hold your breath and your face in the right direction, a breeze. Gone.

6/365 Torn Up Street

They've torn up our street with (I assume) the plan of repaving it. Cars creep down, afraid of hurting their tires on the rough pavement.

I love it.

I want them to keep it this way. I want this rough pavement to remain here.

5/365 Sycamore

The sycamore to the east:

4/365 Summer Craft Ideas

"Mom, me and Iris want to do a craft," Fiona says to me while I sit at the computer ignoring the fact that I'm a mother, just for a moment while Billy sleeps.

"What kind of craft?" I sigh.

They look at each other. They shrug.

"A fabric craft?" I ask, getting it over with. All the girls want to do fabric crafts at my house. I have the fabric. And the tools to work with it--needles, thread, sewing machine, craft glue, sequins, lace, you name it.

"Sure!" they agree. So we go into the guest room/sewing room and I pull out the tub of leftover non-cotton fabric. I have enough fabric I have a tub just for that.

"Here, you can use anything in here." I open it and rummage through just to be sure that's true. They look through at the scraps of minky dot and lining fabric and wool scraps and an old cotton sweater and so forth.

"This is like swimming suit," Iris picks up a piece of royal blue.

"Yeah, I made a baby carrier for the pool out of that."

"We could make swimming suits for the barbie dolls," Fiona suggests.

"We could make our own swimming suits," Iris tops her.

I call Tara later: "Is it ok if Iris jumps in the pool with a homemade swimming suit on?" I say with a laugh. I explain the craft. She agrees to the plan.

In the pool, they swim and play around. And then, since of course they're matching, they produce a synchronized swimming routine. Of course.

3/365 This Old Porch

My porch is falling off the front of my house. I don't have a lot of sympathy for it because it doesn't belong there. It's a deck, like, for the back of the house. Not the front. When we moved in, it was gray, but needed a paint job almost immediately. It was probably painted by the former owners with whatever was lying around. I went to Home Depot and picked out a colonial blue. But in the sunshine, it is highway emergency sign blue. Ah well.

That was, of course, several years ago. Perhaps 8? And paint doesn't last forever. The porch is now weather-beaten and shabby looking. The top step is shaky. And I'm having a hard time caring. I pour a lot of the anger and frustration I have with the former owner into the porch. Other things I can fix easily--wallpaper, paint, even poorly chosen internal structures like a closet in the dining room enclosing the fireplace. But the porch is like a scar, like a cigarette burn: this house has been abused, it tells everyone who drives by.

But like a foster family who really does their job, we've done our best for this place. But the porch we want to do right or not at all. The other porches on our block have roofs, for one thing. Most are masonry foundation. Ours was at one point, before the former owners ripped it off in favor of expediency. I don't want to just repair what we have. I want to restore what is missing. Even if it's just a wood porch, that's fine, but I want a roof back where it once was. You can see it in the brick above the front door, the shape of the roof that is gone forever.
But the Paxtons are having their house painted this month (it seems to be taking that long, at least) and it points out to me that I can really no longer pretend we're going to sink tens of thousands of dollars into a masonry foundation porch anytime soon. I need to sink some decent nails into the shaky steps, rebuild the railing on the west side, and reattach the finials. Most importantly, tt's time to paint.

I'm thinking a sage where it's now white, and where it's blue? Ozark Airlines green.

2/365 Ghost of Camping Past

2005: Hawn State Park

2006: Meramec State Park

2007: Hawn State Park

2008: Onondaga Cave State Park

2009: Wakonda State Park

2010: Onondaga Cave State Park

1/365 Welcome

A lot happens between the sycamores on my block. We live right between them, with a group of neighbors who will be appearing here. What is this? My attempt to capture a year of living in the worst house on the best block on the south side, of course. A little conversation, some photos, like South City Musings except on overdrive. No talk about the parish or the extended family or my ten favorite boozy girl drinks. Just kids and neighbors and mah jongg and barbecues and crime fighting block captaining. Although I hope there isn't much of that last part.