Watership Down

Bunnies.

Their long eared, twitchy nosed, brown gray furred cuteness gently hoping along bothering no one.

That is until you plant a vegetable garden.

Then you look at them the way an anxious father looks at the boy his daughter starts dating---with a mixture of dread, fear and loathing.

I knew that the local flora and fauna thrive in our little urban-suburban paradise.

I also knew that rabbits had become a scourge of Grant Park gardens in recent years.

They cutely nibble away at the very expensive plants that both the Chicago Park District and the City put down to make our urban experience just a little bit brighter.

While this city has many issues, it’s apparently rabbit nirvana.

So much so, that the rabbit population has exploded in my neighborhood in the past few years.

I can see why they like the ‘hood; fresh water lagoons, tons of green space in two parks bridged by Midway Plaisance, few coyotes to hunt them and three urban gardens to nibble---that’s not a bad gig.

The average person takes this with a grain of salt. The average gardener would like to see Mopsy, Flopsy and Cottontail banished to an island never to return.

So it was with little surprise that I saw a young rabbit looking my way when I was walking home from the train one day.

While I hate those little buggers he was really cute with the previously mentioned twitchy nose and round furry body.

He was so young that he didn’t know that he should fear me and let me inch closer and closer.

And so this little dance continued between us over the next few weeks.

In fact I was able to get close enough to snap pictures.





But then it occurred to me that’s how they suck you in---they get you to like them, then you have a hard time putting them in a pie when they eat your collard greens.

Diabolical motherfuckers.

Elmer Fudd is my new hero. I wish I had a spear and magic helmet.

Snippets

The grass is growing back in the vacant lots around my house.

Japanese beetles are decimating my collard greens. Nonetheless, there was enough to harvest for a meal.



The new rentals down the street are accepting Section 8/CHAC vouchers and the grass is starting to look like a bag of ass (again).

It official: The neighbors from hell have moved next door. More on that later.

And if you didn't know it already, I'm very quotable. Read the latest story on yours truly. Note: If you're prompted to sign up for a newsletter, blow past the screen by clicking on the enter link to progress to the article.

Heavy Sigh

Frank (or one of his relatives)has decimated the flowers on the back porch.

My refrigerator just died yesterday.

This is on top of the huge vet bill AND the unemployment countdown.

Do not be surprised when the Paypal tip jar appears in the sidebar---it's coming.

Turn About, Part 2 or Who’s Really In Charge?

As I observed earlier, the proximity of urban living and natural living often provide for some interesting sights.

This is perfectly underscored when I go to tend to my little piece of paradise in the urban garden.

As a side note, I find it somewhat hilarious that my maternal grandparents came up from Mississippi in the great migration so I wouldn’t have to do this for a living.

That makes it deliciously ironic that I do this of my own accord.

Because of this, the urban garden is lovingly referred to as the plantation.

The glaring difference is that I don’t have to worry about an overseer with a bullwhip. I have to worry about ducking golf balls.

I wonder if slave holders seriously pondered the effective use of lobbing golf balls at the free labor pool as a means of physical intimidation.

I think they could have seriously saved money on security costs by simply installing a golf course next to the cotton fields.

Then it would have made the balls difficult to find.

But I digress…

As I tended to my fledging vegetables I noticed that a murder of crows quietly amassed on the new pergola.

They just sat there and seemingly stared at me.

I had already put two and two together and realized that they were just waiting for me to leave as my plot is close to someone who’s growing corn. Those bad boys just wanted to ravage the stalks for anything they could get.

At that time, I also noticed some shady, questionable gents loitering along the path.

You know the type---shiftless looking, poorly dressed in ill fitting attire who only come to a public park for reasons that isn’t entirely recreational.

At least in the “legal” sense.

The thought that popped in my head was “Great, I have two groups of murderers within twenty feet of me. They should get together and start singing ‘If I See An Elephant Fly’ from Dumbo.”

I started giggling. Sometimes I just slay myself with my own rapier like wit.

Luckily for me both groups eventually moved on.

As I was locking up, I heard a rustle by the tree line.

Much to my amazement (but not surprise) a HUGE raccoon came out and crossed in front of me.

I think he was just as befuddled to see me as I was to see him.

Like most of my other neighbors, I know he exists but I hardly expect to see him.

As he lumbered across my path with one eye on his destination and the other on me, I could have sworn he chucked the deuces my way.

Seeing that some of my animal neighbors could at times have rabies, I cut a wide berth around my masked friend.

When he reached a thicket of wild field greens and started to dig, I just looked. I didn’t want him to think I was trying to get anywhere near his territory.

Plus I was pondering how strong the fence was around the urban garden.

As he was searching for food, he looked up as if to say---“Is there something else I can help you with?”

I caught the hint and started walking home.

But the last critter in this hit parade of urban fauna is a cute little bunny I usually pass as I walk home from the train on Dorchester.

Or at least what I thought was one cute little bunny.

That, my friends, is literally a story unto itself.

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.

Salting The Earth---The Pictures

Vacant lots that until recently had grass and weeds in abundance. Then a few weeks ago---nothing.




Now do you see what I'm talking about?

Salting The Earth

I noticed something the other day.

Nothing was growing on the numerous vacant lots in my neighborhood.

Not a weed, not a blade of grass---absolutely nothing was green.

And when I say nothing was green, the grass had been cut a few weeks ago and the remaining stubble was brown.

On its face and in the short term, that might be seen as a good thing. But natural things just don’t stop growing for no reason.

They definitely don’t all stop growing only on the vacant lots in Woodlawn at the same time.

Is it possible to save money on labor, gas and the wear and tear of equipment that the city may have literally salted the earth?

While I hate weeds and overgrown lots, the possibility that some type of chemical was applied to the ground makes me incredibly uneasy.

If this is what’s going on is this a new city policy? Is it safe for the ground and the water table? Hell, are we even by the water table?

What happens if a (reputable) developer someday builds on those vacant lots? If a chemical was applied will it retard any other vegetation growing?

Could you dig and put in a vegetable garden?

Note: Due to the high concentrations of lead paint in older buildings, it’s normally recommended to not use the grounds around the site of an older building or former building for vegetable planting.

I just find it extremely odd and the timing too close to be a coincidence.

Has anyone else noticed new “brown fields” popping up on city owned or vacant lots in their ‘hood?

Batty Batty Batty

After having a rare Saturday night off, I woke yesterday morning intent on doing chores.

Number one on the list was to start with the front porch.

I had filled up paper bags with stuff from the day before and was transferring them to the back porch to finally go to the alley.

The first bag---no problem.

But when I picked up the second bag, a loud and aggressive hiss came from whatever was under it.

Startled, I did what any self respecting feminist would do.

I screamed like a little girl, turned tail and ran into the house.

Sad, but true.

Perplexed, I went about my chores until I screwed up the courage to see what exactly was hissing at me.

Courage being my middle name (*ha!*) I opened up the window that leads to the front porch, opened it and took the broom handle and once again lifted the overflowing trash bag.

What revealed was an uglier version of a mouse with rougher looking fur.

Ladies and Gentlemen I believe I had found a bat.

This time he didn’t hiss at me so I assumed that he was dying.

My burning question was why a bat had suddenly appeared incapacitated on my front porch?

Despite their blindness, bats have built in sonar so it’s not like their going to slam into wall, objects or people.

Furthermore, they tend to avoid people and sunlight.

I could only deduce that Mr. (or Ms.) Bat might be infected with rabies.

Now I was tempted to let Mr. Puss out to make short work of the beast but the ensuing vet bill if the bat was infected gave me pause.

All I need is for my crazy cat to become rabid. He already has a questionable disposition.

The only reason why he hasn’t cut me is because I have opposable thumbs and can open his food.

So a few more hours pass and my intent was to scoop up the dead bat and throw him over the side where I imagine some neighborhood scavengers would take care of him.

But when I went to check on his whereabouts, he had moved.

@%^&*#$?!

I hoped he had taken flight and left me alone.

When I went to reach for the trash bag and disturbed some of the other stuff on the porch, that hiss told me otherwise.

*Cue Woody screaming and running like a little girl (again)*

It was time to call 311 (The City of Chicago’s non-emergency help line) for animal control.

While I missed them the first time, they did come within the hour and were quite courteous and helpful.

The ladies (yes, ladies---I felt so ashamed) popped in and scooped up Mr. Bat within 5 minutes.

They agreed with me that the beast was acting strange and they wouldn’t be surprised if it had rabies.

Their next concern was Mr. Puss’ exposure to the bat; as they were prepared to take him in as well.

I told them he rarely went out on the porch and had not been out on the porch yesterday.

After taking some additional information, they gave me a slip and said if the beast tested positive someone would call me within 72 hours and follow up with me.

So while I ran like a girl and immediately thought of how a man should help me; to my credit I did contact the proper authorities who in turn handled the situation with promptness and professionalism.

And they didn’t laugh at me.

Even though I had some laughable behavior.

With all the waste you hear about concerning the City of Chicago, at least you know that your dollars are being wisely spent at Animal Control.

I can stare a wannabe gang banger down like nobody’s business but a bat can make me his (or her) bitch.

Woody, redefining irony everyday.

A Sign of the Apocalypse

“They” say the south side is a ghetto and dangerous? There may be a sliver of truth to that but at least our flowers are real.

Jesus take the wheel.

Frank---The Back Story

Yes, that is a picture of a squirrel with a chicken wing in his mouth.

And no it wasn’t photo shopped.

But I’m getting ahead of myself----let me introduce you all to Frank.

Frank is mainly seen in the Washington Park neighborhood but no one knows exactly where he (or she?) resides.

My friend who lives across the street from Washington Park encountered Frank about four years ago when he started digging up the container garden that I worked so hard to plant.

At the time I didn’t know that those cute furry woodland creatures commonly known as squirrels were garden destroying rats with a fluffy tail and good PR.

Both my friend and I were extremely pissed.

Frank tore out my hard work to bury one of his many prizes----a corn cob, half a snickers bar or perhaps some other delicacy he found amidst the urban landscape.

Motherfucker.

So over the years during the warmer months, a battle would ensue between us and him.

At first my friend would leave his three dogs on the back porch where the flower boxes were located.

Frank merely kept out of their reach while he proceeded to rip apart another flower box.

Then at the start of last planting season we heard that blood meal would keep squirrels away from your flower boxes. So naturally we grabbed a few bags.

It seemed to work, yet Frank still came around to tease the dogs.

It seemed that Frank had upped the ante. It wasn’t about the flowerboxes anymore.

If my friend didn’t keep up with his blood meal application Frank would merely come back and we’d find plants on the floor of the back porch the next day.

That flipping squirrel was (and is) a sadist.

So it was no surprise when I got an excited phone call one day about his outrageous behavior.

“Woody, you won’t believe what I just saw!”

“Good God, what happened now?”

“The dogs were going crazy on the back porch barking at Frank.”

“Alert the media.”

“He was carrying a hot chicken wing in his mouth.”

“Shut up you liar. I should hang up this phone right now. Since when do squirrels start eating chicken wings?”

“I don’t know but he has a chicken wing in his mouth right now----I have a picture to prove it.”

“Bullshit.”

“No really, I have a picture.”

“So let’s see it, homeboy. Send it to me.”

And so he did.

At this point, all I can do is shake my head.

This Is So South Side

Photo courtesy of M. Cannon

An Inconvenient Truth

Like him or loathe him, Al Gore may have had a point about this global warming thing.

Three days ago, it was 70 degrees.

70 degrees. In January. In Chicago.

Let that sink in for a minute.

I don’t think we have to wait until this current generation of children grown up before we start noticing severe climate changes.

If this foolishness keeps up Joliet and Cicero will become prime lake front property.

Aside from this obvious problem, the big snow that the Chicagoland area received a few weeks ago has melted.

Usually I’m used to seeing the soggy trash strewn ground in late March or early April. This year my winter malaise came a few months early.

I took it upon myself to pick up the gross, wet trash that had blown in front of our buildings.

Frankly I don’t know where all of the trash comes from as we religiously pick up in front of our property. I guess the wind must carry it down the street.

It may just be me, but it seems that a bulk of the trash on our side of the street comes to rest in-between the spokes of our gates.

As I donned the gloves and filled up the bag, I noticed a significant demographic shift concerning the neighborhood refuse.

Our little neck of the woods must be on the come up as the discarded liquor and beer bottles have changed from malt liquor, Hennessey & rotgut label brands.

Now I’m picking up Fat Tire bottles, Guinness empties and all sorts of premium high priced vodka bottles. Someone was thoughtful enough to leave an empty case of Patron tequila near the curb.

Say what you will about Woodlawn but at least someone around here is drinking well

Corny

I was raised by a very superstitious woman.

We never slept with shoes above our head, threw our hair from combs and brushes into the trash or split poles.

Lord Jesus help you if you ever sat my mother’s purse on the floor.

And she wasn’t hardcore about her superstitions. Growing up I saw women actually sweep up their hair in the beauty shop, pull out a plastic bag and take it with them.

Now that my friends is hardcore.

In fact, I remember many of my newly acquired college friends being puzzled about why I would always flush the hair from my combs and brushes down the toilet. It took a nasty plumber bill I received a few years back for me to (kinda) stop the practice.

So it’s a wonder that when things are askew, I look at the occurrence as some type of foreshadowing. A sign from the spirits that something is about to happen.

The appearance of a lone corn cob raised all of my oft seen but close to the surface red flags.

You see it was the second corn cob that had appeared on my section of the back porch this summer. Naturally I thought someone was trying to tell me something.

But I digress.

In my quest for Chicagoland gardening supremacy, I normally put down two separate container gardens; one on my front deck and one on my back porch.

They both usually flourish and by now have the place looking like the Garden of Eden except that this year the back containers look like a bag of ass.

I was mystified why they didn’t take off like normal.

I gave them all of the love and the fertilizer that I normally give my babies. I watered religiously. I talked and coddled them like they were genteel hothouse flowers.

No go---nothing was growing on the back porch this year.

It was definitely a head scratcher.

What made it even worse is that one day when I was watering, I found a full corn cob buried in one of the containers.

Mind you my containers are suspended from flower box supports that extend from our back porch railing.

I know I didn’t include a corn cob in my soil when I was planting this year so obviously someone put it there.

My mind whirled with possibilities: Is someone trying to put roots on me? What significance does a corn cob have? Who in god’s name would put a corn cob in a flower box?

Eventually the other issues of my everyday life took over and the corn cob incident was soon forgotten.

Then last week another corn cob popped up on my back porch.

This time I knew something wasn’t right.

All the same questions popped up---Who’s doing this? What does this mean? Why are they doing it to me?

Add to the fact that a package of mine was stolen out of the mail last Friday, I was beginning to see boogey men around the corner at every turn.

Scant moments later, I happened to mention the corn cob incident to my neighbors across the hall.

Thank god not everyone was raised in a superstitious household.

They explained to me how our friendly neighborhood squirrels would take their prized booty and hide it from other woodland creatures----even if that means digging up a flower box or two.

Little bastards.

Hopefully the rats with good PR will leave me alone when I go outdoors as my neighbors now think I’m certifiably nutty.

Jesus take the wheel.

…And To Prove My Point

Just in case you thought I was making this plastic flower stuff up, read this little ditty I found on a blog of the Lincoln (NE) Journal Star:


“…works for us! We tried real live flowers and found out it was easier to go to Goodwill or find the plastic ones on sale. My wife changes the flowers in the flower boxes according to the season. There's too much in life to get bogged down in trying to accommodate Mother Nature. And if you put a scented air wick out there they even smell like flowers!”

Butch


*More Heavy Sighing*

Hitchcockian

So perhaps the pretty birds are not as harmless as I first thought.

Bird Brained

I’m now all about the Monk Parakeet.

While looking online for information, I happened to find a great resource right in my midst---my boss.

My Boy Scout leading, nature loving, math tutoring boss has an intimate knowledge of a wide range of subjects. When I brought up my discovery of the parakeets he told me that those are the same kind of birds that were sold at Woolworths and Kmart during the late 60’s and early 70’s.

Upon recollection, they did resemble the same birds but I mentioned that the ones sold through retailers were much smaller.

He stated that the retail bird’s size was restricted due to their environment---i.e. their cage. The ones in the wild can grow to their maximum size.

I was flooded with Monk Parakeet knowledge and it felt good

I imagine a kid was at Kmart getting slushies and submarine sandwiches and that their puppy dog eyes finally worked on the parents. Netting him or her the cute little birds they wanted so badly.

A week later amid juvenile carelessness those gifts had flown the coop.

Let’s recap---A non native species that hasn’t caused any discernable harm to it’s new ecosystem, shares it’s nest with other native species (squirrels) and has managed to thrive in an environment much harsher than it’s own.

Did I happen to mention how brightly colored and attractive they are?

With my apologies to Destiny’s Child, now that’s what I call a survivor.

Sundays In The Park

Sundays are the only day of the week that I don’t work at some job.

It’s rare “me time.”

I do pretty much anything that strikes my fancy, which can range from actual chores to meandering over the Sunday Trib.

All and all I get to rejuvenate my weary work ridden soul.

Last week I told you of the sights seen as I took the CTA to pick up a few groceries.

This week’s Sunday adventure took me through Woodlawn, north to Hyde Park then west to Washington Park.

I have the luck to live in-between two of Chicago largest parks---Jackson Park on the east and Washington Park on the west.

I can see Jackson Park and golf course from my balcony. Washington Park is a jewel that I don’t get to visit too often.

Since I had plans on visiting friends that lived on the northeastern edge of Washington Park, I decided to take a rare walk instead of taking the bus.

Ever so often you need to take a two and half mile stroll to get the juices pumping.

So off I went and in about a half an hour I was crossing 60th and Cottage Grove about to enter into Washington Park.

It’s easy to forget what a wonderful city I live in but also what jaw dropping, interesting cultural and civic jewels that are within walking distance.

This is what I saw yesterday:

The amazing “Fountains of Time” sculpture whose reflecting pool is finally being renovated

A statute of Gotthold Ephraim Lessing by the Dusable Museum

A community of the chatty and brightly colored Monk Parakeets at the corner of 54th and Cottage Grove

I stood there and watched our feathered South American imports talk amongst themselves and fly between their huge duplexed nests.

I hate to sound like a dork but it was so cool.

Think about it---birds that lived in South America got out in Chicago almost 40 years ago are somehow able to survive and breed in a completely hostile climate.

From what I could tell they have communities within the Monk Parakeet community.

There were groups of nests at 54th & Cottage, then another group at 52nd and Payne.

They are relatively easy to spot with the leaves not on the trees. Look for huge nests---you can’t miss them.

Another interesting fact in that the parakeets can mostly be found in Chicago at Washington and Jackson Parks. They don’t seem to want to branch out en mass too far from the south side.

Perhaps the realtors selling condos should adopt a new slogan: The south side, it’s for the birds.

You can’t fool Mother Nature.