My Own Plagiarist

This morning I saw my very first blog post, which was actually a guest spot on Dave's blog. I've decided that since it's so meaningful for me, I would "borrow" it back for my own blog. Thanks Dave - royalties are in the mail...

I don't think it's presumptuous to say that for we kids who grew up on the blocks of Oak Park, Michigan, it was the center of everything. For a city of about 36,000, Oak Park was a bustling place. There was a small downtown which consisted of a couple of strip malls, a large bowling alley, and several casual restaurants. Most of the homes were neat ranch-style houses which sat behind clipped lawns, lush shrubs, and mature trees. There were eight schools - five elementary, two middle, and one high - and a sizable municipal area which provided wholesome entertainment and learning opportunities for those of us who took advantage of the activities offered at the community center, the ice rink, and the library. There was a miniature golf course and a dozen tennis courts - hardly ever a wait. In the winter, we, mitten- and scarf-clad, hiked our sleds to the top of the steep Oak Park Hill - located at the perimeter of the Oak Park park - only to hop on, speed down and fly off with glee at the bottom of the hill where the repeating action of the sleds would form an ice-ramp. We'd lay in the snow wet and laughing, then get up and do it again.

As soon as Memorial Day rolled around, the main attraction became the Oak Park Pool. It was big and had something for everyone. Three- and five-foot depths covered the bulk of the pool, but there was also a 12-foot-deep diving tank which boasted three diving boards: low, medium, and scary high. If we got in trouble for splashing we might get five minutes under the big clock in front of the lifeguard office and have to sit there for that kid-eternity watching our friends who got to stay in the pool. Every 45 minutes of splashing, diving and cannonballs were followed by a 15-minute adult swim during which we crowded the concession stand, clamoring for Sno-Cones and hot, fresh popcorn. For us, those days at the pool and the joy of hot-weather abandon were the embodiment of summertime.

Every Independance Day, a long parade which began at Oak Park Lanes traveled up Coolidge Highway, then turned north on Oak Park Blvd., ending at the park. We followed, and found carnival games, carnival food, and the friends we missed that we usually only saw at school. Any kid could decorate his bike and join the parade. That night, after bar-b-ques, we'd gather at Oak Park High for a fireworks show which lingered late into the night amid oohs and aahs from enchanted children and adults alike.

There were so many kids in Oak Park. Some of us went to temple, some to church, but it didn’t make a difference – in fact, we never really even thought to ask. If you wanted to play, all you had to do was drift outside and there was someone to play with. If no one was outside, you rang a doorbell and the next thing you knew, you had company. We trekked to the school playgrounds where we climbed the monkey bars and smacked balls across the fine, tawny dirt of the baseball fields.

In those days, we seemed to move en masse; we were parts of a whole. We weren't all best friends, we didn’t always get along, but nothing was more natural than hopping on our bikes and riding around together, gathering for a game of "Mother May I," tossing a ball back and forth, shooting some baskets. Amid the hum of lawnmowers, the scrapes of shovels, the blooms of lilacs, our days began and ended on the blocks. Our world was our families; our world was each other.

Now we're grown. We inhabit our own blocks. And I'd be willing to bet that not one of them is nearly the same as the blocks of Oak Park, Michigan.