Turn About

I really love where I live.

That feeling only heightens in the summer time.

Now you’ve heard me piss and moan about trash, my neighbors---both in and out of the association and crime.

And make no mistake all are important factors in the livability of a neighborhood.

But despite all of that, I thank my lucky stars that I actually live within a stone’s throw from the site of the 1893 Columbian Exposition.

The impact of the fair cannot only be read on the pages of The Devil In White City, but also in Jackson Park and it’s lagoons parked off of Lake Michigan.

And as one can expect, that park is teeming with wildlife.

At any given moment I can witness a hustler in the middle of Stony Island selling laundry bags and socks while traffic completely stops to let a family of geese cross.

The urban/suburban juxtaposition boggles the mind.

The fact that you can have an occasional drive by shooting and see a raccoon larger than a dog going through your trash can make for an interesting neighborhood balancing act.

Frankly I think the animals that live by our side are so used to us that they consider us the attraction.

They very well may think that they are living in an open air human habitat in a very large zoo.

Now that I’m the farmer in the ‘hood I get to see just how our wild four legged friends interact with urban gardens and golf balls.

Jackson Park Urban Garden, 2

Clean and green volunteers making signs.





Garden view of the golf course.

Jackson Park Urban Garden

Yes, we're just that close to the Jackson Park golf course.


The start of a new fence.


A young helper digging post holes.


My little "half acre."


The compost pile.

The Farmer In The 'Hood

Guess who applied for a vegetable garden plot in the Jackson Park Urban Farm?

It's like a modern day Green Acres---I don't have to say goodbye to city life in order to scratch my country mouse itch.

If I get it, be prepared for rants against all forms of small animals---squirrels, possums, raccoons, rats---you name an animal and I'm sure I will have sworn a blood vengeance against it by the end of the summer.

Now to find a floppy straw hat.

Spot On

I’ll be damned if I didn’t see several cricket games going in Washington Park a few Sundays ago.

Talk about jaw on the floor.

Snappily dressed people of color---at first glance I thought everybody was black---in crisp white uniforms will grab your attention. I later discovered that the urban cricket players were mostly expatriates from Her Majesty’s Commonwealth; mainly Indians, Pakistanis, West Indians and Africans.

I couldn’t even begin to make this one up.

Cricket on the south side of Chicago? Next thing you know the Jenkins’ Boys will be mixing up Gin and Tonics between games.

As if that weren’t enough, I found that the croquet and lawn bowling peeps have their own little set---complete with a clubhouse mind you---in the shadow of the Museum of Science and Industry.

Between the bird watchers in the Osaka gardens and the Anglo sports enthusiasts, the hood is looking less and less ghetto fabulous the longer I live here.

Perhaps that's it---Woodlawn is uping the ante for ghetto fabulousness.

Jesus, I feel like I’m in the blacksploitation version of a Merchant-Ivory film.