We are days away from moving house into a renovated pre-World War Two, long ass, two bedroom, two full bath, and with a Doug Den made decadent, Windy City flat.
The new hovel is geographically near by. Maybe two miles, as that hawk flies. And the new neighborhood, while near, has yet to be, well-but minimally, infected by what I’ve taken to calling; “The Suburbs come to Chicago.”
Make no mistake. We love our current neighbors. They are wonderful people from diverse backgrounds. And the majority have a sense of commitment and appreciation for community. And it’s been a pleasure to be part of that for damn near two decades.
We’ve watched a generation grow up here. And following a new crop would be just as fun and fulfilling, yet if I’m to suffer through a few more years of Siberian Gulag like Chicago weather, I’d rather be warmed by embracing an attitude of half assed semi-homesteading then the cold calculation of maximizing square footage for the kitties.
Ya See. SNZ and I have, at each of step of our relationship, speculated and grew with inner city neighborhoods on the make. Park Avenue near Diversy. Wicker Park with the poets, painters, and music pickers. Then Wrigleyville, when the strip was local and the bars and music venues, for the most part, Ma and Pa run.
Well, Ma and Pa have gone the way of brick and mortar and stainless steel appliances now denote hearth and home which took a knife to the corner store and maybe that suggest progress, or maybe regress, but if I had to guess, I’d suggest a return to suburban cookie cutter sensibilities.
Anyway, that aforementioned flat will lead, within two years or three, to the gentle Blue Ridge up and down of Asheville.