two houses

As I wander through the streets of Hyde Park in my memory, one location I keep returning to is the area of 53rd and Kimbark, and the Kimbark Plaza.  Just behind the plaza is a cluster of 8 townhouses, arranged in a cozy L shape around a sunken courtyard.  One of my first homes was the house closest to Kimbark Avenue.

But this house doesn’t linger in my recollection for that reason.  I lived there from infancy until about four years old, but I have no particular memories of residing at that address, except those implanted there by old photographs.  But another family bought the house after us (and we briefly lived in another townhouse in the complex, or so my mother tells me… I have no memory of this either) and I became fast friends with their eldest son.  For the sake of this blog post, I will call him Peter, for a reason that I cannot divulge without revealing his surname.

Peter swears — or he used to swear — that he remembers our meeting, with he and I each clutching our blankets.  I have always had my doubts that he actually remembers this and it wasn’t just a figment of his active imagination.  But perhaps he really does… he is a year older than me and would have had a more developed sense of memory.  At any rate, except for a brief time when I lived out of state, it seems that Peter was ever-present throughout my childhood.

We were in grade school together.  We were in Boy Scouts together (I actually joined because he had joined, but I didn’t last long… camping was not, and probably never will be, my bag).  We played with Star Wars figures together, and went to the lake together, and later excitedly rented Faces of Death together from a video store that didn’t bother to check our ages (what a disappointment that turned out to be).  We did things together that he’d probably prefer I not discuss, alias or no alias.

And much of these things we did in that townhouse on Kimbark.  I remember it as well as my own place.  The entryway, the living room, the downstairs bathroom and kitchen.  The kitchen where Peter, having at one time developed an addiction to the stuff, would fry up entire packages of bacon.  The door to the backyard.  The carpeted steps to the second floor and the laundry chute… both fun to throw things down.  Four bedrooms, including the one Peter shared with one of his brothers.  I remember sitting there playing Stratego, Connect Four, The Mad Magazine Game (poorly designed as a game, uneffective as comedy).

And the basement, where the siblings fought for dominance of the TV.  And the computer, which would now be considered a laughable relic but back then it was perfectly fine for a game of “The Ancient Art of War”.  The laundry machines were down here, too.  These came in quite handy the day I managed to bump into a ladder and drench my clothing in white paint.  I almost walked home in that state but Peter’s mother thankfully put a stop to that.  I sat in that basement in my underwear, wrapped in a blanket that did little to shield me from embarrassment in front of Peter’s sister, who was my age and in my class.

In the parking lot serving the complex were mulberry trees.  Sometimes so bountiful that you had to be careful walking through there or the bottoms of your shoes would get tainted purple.  But they were tasty little treats, and you could always grab a quick snack on your way to or from Peter’s house.

Peter and I eventually drifted apart… he went to a different high school and we saw each other less and less.  But he was a good and loyal friend and we still stay in touch, in that vague Facebooky way where old friends are kept, liking photos and posting pithy status updates.  It’s a Reader’s Digest version of friendship, but that’s the way it goes.

Running adjacent to the townhouse complex is an alley, threading behind the gas station and McDonald’s, between Kimbark and Kenwood.  At the end of this alleyway is another house.  I never set foot in this house, or even in the yard, but I passed it often.  I made a point of passing it.

Because in that house lived a girl who was the object of my first big crush.  Looking back now it was nothing more than a fleeting puppy love, a young boy’s hormones just starting to awaken.  I was riveted by her gentle features and rosy cheeks, and especially her long, silken, golden hair.  She was the portrait of femininity to me at a time when I was just beginning to recognize what that was.  She was also one of the best and brightest students in my class, making her even more unattainable to an underachiever like myself… never mind that we were 12 years old and too young to comprehend dating or romance.

Of course that didn’t stop me from sending a “secret admirer” letter.  Heaven only knows what mortifying things I wrote in that letter.  What is the point of a secret admirer letter anyway?  You will never know if they have the same feelings.  At best you’re probably just creeping them out.  Is it just the need to get those desires on paper, to express yourself, like the need that drives me to record these personal memories now?  I’m not even writing about Hyde Park at this point, this is all just about me.

I walked by that house every time it was feasible, hoping to catch a glimpse of her.  I never did.  I didn’t have any plan if I had happened to bump into her there either.  What plan could I possibly have?  “Oh hi!  I’m just lurking around your house, want to go grab a McDLT with me?” doesn’t seem like a gateway to young romance.

It wasn’t until a few years ago that I finally revealed — through Facebook, that keeper of otherwise dormant associations — my identity as the author of this letter.  Perhaps out of some perverse need to confess, but more just wondering if she ever knew it was me.  She didn’t.  Now she does, thanks to my big mouth, and that makes me feel a bit vulnerable even though our lives couldn’t be more separate.  What is this compulsion to spill my secrets, share my memories, expose myself this way?  This urge to shed the protective blanket, to let myself be judged on the harshest possible terms?  Come peck at this bare flesh, crows!  Give me your worst!