is plunk this 3-flat down in B’ham’s Highland Park area, say right across the street from cute Rushton Park. Would the air be chillier around the building? Would everyone else who took up living there start wearing scarves and hats even when it’s not that cold? Would I look out my window and see a skyline mirage? Would someone open a "Puerto Rico" market down the block?
It’s fun to think about lifting up a whole Chgo greystone, Wizard of Oz-style. You know, tornadically. Upon touching down it would squash not a striped-stockinged witch, but, oh I don't know, grab me a redneck neocon of your choice. I don't want to think about politics right now.
I am sentimental. About this apartment, about so much. I don't think I've appreciated our Walton Street idyll enough. I’ve let the dust bunnies roll. I’ve complained about the apartment's lack of storage space, but now I'm moving somewhere with decidedly less of that. Our Walton home is huge, sunny as all get-out (light, I say, and Dills corrects me: “Not ‘light,’ bright!”), and brimming with vintage charm.
Last month I stared across the street at another greystone, with birds perched on the edge of its roof, and a buckeye tree out front. I watched the squirrels bum-rush the buckeye for its goods. They jumped from a buckeye branch to one on the next tree over, which bounced under their weight. Stashed their loot, and did it again.
September, and the sentiment was pooling. I bet there are no buckeyes left on the ground now for me to pick up and take along for good luck. Fair enough; our squirrel friends are setting up for winter, which they’re hardwired to do. I moon over the past, over what can’t be done over.
Yeah, I could learn a thing or two from our squirrel friends.
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