I remember the old neighborhood.
I remember just how idyllic the situation was. We were too young to grasp how lucky we were.
It seemed to be a reserved, middle class estate of three roughly equally-sized properties with no one else very near our carved-out plots of 17th Avenue in Grafton, Wisconsin, population about 1500 in 1950, just a few years before we all moved into the area. It was as if the three families--Schumacher, Cebulski, Zirtzlaff--had grabbed the prime acreage before anybody else could get there. Open lots bordered us on both sides. It took decades for anyone to take advantage of it.
Quickly, they were fixed up: Trees, lawn, houses; add--ons as the patriarchs solidified their work situations and saved carefully. All had big backyards running into Joe Zingsheim's lands to the east, which seemed to roll into eternity. On a clear day, you could make out Lake Michigan in the distance. The land across the street was wide open all the way to one branch of the Milwaukee River. It was the American Dream personified.
Kids? Lots of them. The three families produced 19 in all. We trailed with just four, but that was only because Mom got sick and couldn't continue. All boys, too. Mom and Dad wanted a girl and would have kept trying.
That land gave us room to run, and run we did. It was Friday evenings I remember best, especially in the late spring and summer when either school was out or Saturday beckoned without homework so we weren't expected to be slaving over dining room tables. We would play tag or hide-and-seek. There were plenty of places to disappear, too--window wells of basements, darkness of open garages, corners of back patios tucked securely, low-slung pines where you might also meet birds trying to find peace in their nests.
It went on until darkness intervened. On a road on which no streetlights had yet been erected, it was impossible to keep track of everyone at nightfall. As the last vestiges of daylight waned, mothers opened their doors and windows or stepped onto the front stoops and called their children in. Reluctantly, we obeyed.
Hiding with other kids didn't work; enforcement was a neighborhood norm. Everybody knew everyone. You couldn't hide if you wanted to.
People looked out for each other. That mattered. Safety didn't seem to be a big deal; it was practically guaranteed.
In the meantime, nobody got incredibly rich, but nobody had to. Nobody starved or wore threadbares. We were "okay," established and presentable well enough, with parents who somehow found the time to become involved in church and social groups in a small, growing town that we all knew would never become a metropolis.
But that was 1959, or 1962, somewhere in there. The world would grow more complex. The town spread out and properties were cleared across the street. As time moved into the 1980s and '90s, the land beyond the backyards was repurchased and new streets plotted. Suburbia had arrived.
With it, mobility. It felt like being surrounded, with the thievery of privacy closing in. Assumptions made about people living nearby could no longer be sustained. Familiarity gave way to being careful--respectful, yes, but closeness waned. Barriers led to suspicion. It didn't become dangerous. But one had to be wary.
I recalled those days when I read about a 14-year-old girl playing hide-and-seek in a neighbor's yard in Starks, Louisiana, 2020 population 179 and probably not growing too fast, near the Texas border. The neighbor didn't accept that playtime; he didn't think she was having harmless fun.
He thought, or must have thought, she was planning to attack him or break into his home or something. He said he saw shadows. Shadows. So he grabbed his shotgun, opened the door and fired, aiming at nothing, really, maybe a warning shot or something. Except he hit that girl in the head.
She did not receive life-threatening injuries, said the AP story. Oh, that's a relief, we say, exhaling. She'll pull through. On to the feel-good story about the local Girl Scouts.
But in a town of 179, where everyone really does know everybody, or you would think so but maybe they now don't care to, where do kids play now? Wouldn't this be one of those places where you can have good, clean fun? They're not supposed to play in the street. That's supposed to be too dangerous.
I've never been to Starks, Louisiana. But I've seen small places like it in Arkansas and Texas. They're hard-scrabble, hard-baked, tough places to grow up. They aren't clean and forward-looking like Grafton, Wisconsin. They're places where fear takes over because nobody can ever assume friendliness again. Either. The American Dream has crashed all around them. Fear now dominates.
In any event, where hide-and-seek becomes too hazardous, innocence isn't lost. It has never been gained. Neither has childhood. What's ahead for the kids of Starks, Louisiana? What's ahead for us all?
Be well. Be careful. With some luck, I'll see you down the road.
Mister Mark
