Naturally, in the Park

When I relocated here, I left behind a home in the heart of the city. While my home was on a cul de sac, it was off a main street, near a soccer park, and was situated directly behind both a police station and firehouse. At all hours of the day, lights were on throughout the neighborhood, there was a YMCA within walking distance, and just across the way from us started the Italian immigrant neighborhood. The smells of garlic and tomatoes and basil permeated throughout the neighborhood's many restaurants and markets; the fresh baking bread from the bakers; and come closing time, the clink of glasses and cheers as the waitstaff emptied out into the streets to enjoy a few cocktails and partake in a game of bocce ball at several neighborhood taverns.

The center of the little community is the Italian Catholic church, its bells tolling and welcoming worshipers several times each day. The neighbors all know one another, and care for one another, and sometimes are far too much in each other's business. Our children all went to school together, played on the same sports teams together, right in the neighborhood. The moms all chatted and were friendly, and we were all loud. LOUD and Italian. Stepping out onto the stoop to bellow the kids in from playing, or telling the dog to knock it off, or saying 'Hi' to friends—from half a block away.

The homes are small but adequate, with few trees (and none more than a dozen years old), most don't have garages, and the houses are close enough on some streets that if you and your neighbor both leaned far enough out the windows, you could shake hands from your own houses. But, for all its closeness and familiarity, it was still very much an urban island. And it was anything but quiet. 

Then, plunk, we landed here. On my quiet street, no one leaves their outside lights on at night. The homes are dark by the time the sun goes down. Often, the only sound to be heard for blocks is my loud Italian voice, mothering to my sons as I always have.

At night here, quiet falls like a blanket. Thick and dark and heavy. Sometimes if I concentrate on the quiet, I can hear a very distant ambulance siren racing toward . Late at night, I can hear the rumble of the freight trains in the distance. But mostly, what I hear are the sounds of nature—most of which I'm unfamiliar with. 

Blocks from my house lies Meadowbrook Lake. There are plants and animals calling this area home that I have never seen nor heard before. The red-winged blackbird sings a lovely call, and enjoys the treetops around Meadowbrook Lake. Based on the rich sound, there are something like a zillion croaking toads in the lake area, singing in harmony so loud and dense. Cardinals trill, woodpeckers peck, my neighbor's chickens cluck. Early in the mornings, I hear my neighbor's running shoes pound the pavement as she heads out for a run with her dog. And the birds, not just the blackbirds and cardinals, but so many different birds chirping and calling. Squirrels—even an albino one!—flirt and race—and chatter!—and climb in spirals up and around the trees in my yard. Trees that are the very definition of mature—the ones in my yard are well more than 100 years old. Chipmunks and rabbits scurry low on the ground. In the evening, if its very quiet and I'm lucky, I can even hear a loon's call from Lake Calhoun. 

Clearly, too, mine is the only house lacking a fireplace. The smells of the various woods burning, like the fragrance of grills cooking in the summer, warm and delight. While the sights and sounds and smells are very different from those we are used to, I never suspected how calming and peaceful I would find it—how at home we would feel in this very different place.

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