o Me – September 2007 MY KIND OF…PARK © 2007 by MichaVision Magazine

Greek to Me – September 2007

MY KIND OF…PARK
©2007 by Michael Raysses

I grew up in a small town in northwest Indiana that was pinched between a rock called Hammond and a hard place called Gary. Though both technically qualified as cities, they never felt “urban” to me. They were like young boys doing their utmost to act like men, affecting poses and adopting stances that made them look like a city should. Cities were places that shimmered in the night and glowed with a life force that places like Hammond and Gary couldn’t even imagine. Cities were just like Chicago.

My first recollection of the Windy City as a child was seeing it on the western horizon of Lake Michigan while at the beach back in Indiana. Standing where the sand and the water had reached a truce, the city seemed to cast a 30-mile shadow. The moon itself couldn’t have felt more distant to me.

All that changed when one of my relatives was traveling out of town, and we all drove into Chicago to take her to the airport. That’s when “the Greek caravan” was born. These were three-car chains of extended family crammed into rattletraps of dubious safety. Inevitably, my father drove the lead car. My two uncles drove the others, and as I looked out the back window to make sure they were keeping up with us, I got to witness the mad ballet of our convoy. When my dad switched lanes, my uncles followed suit, regardless of what was in the adjoining lane. Cars swerved to avoid being hit; semis jammed on their brakes, air horns blaring in protest of this procession of mobile rust that negotiated the freeway with the urgency of a presidential motorcade. The airport itself was the perfect introduction to Chicago. Like the city that it stood in, the airport seemed like a portal to the world of possibility.

Years later, I achieved a childhood dream and moved there. I lived in a small apartment that bordered the northern edge of a huge park that extended to the water. Looking back, I am amazed at my reaction to living in Chicago. For all the cultural advantages it afforded me, and despite its “urban-ness,” my most pointed response was to find nature and connect with it deeply.

In Chicago, Mother Nature is never more resplendent than the body of water that defines it: Lake Michigan. Being broke at the time, the lake provided the perfect companion. It was always there when I called, never required much of me when I dropped in, and was the ultimate cheap date–– attracting Italian ice vendors for those blisteringly hot summer afternoons. But our relationship was subject to the practical realities of the weather. Come winter, our time together dwindled.

All that changed when I moved to Los Angeles. Not surprisingly, relocating didn’t alter my modus operandi. I still felt the need to bond with nature. The obvious choice for that would have been the Pacific Ocean. But life is sometimes not as obvious as it can be. Living here, I reconnected with the environment in the oddest location: neighborhood parks, those patches of green that dot the sprawl that is LA. What initially drew me to them was the chance to exercise, whether it was a game of tennis or a few minutes of pull-ups.

As much enjoyment as I have received from my time spent in these neighborhood parks, what I find most noteworthy is best exemplified by an experience I recently had. I have huge litter issues. Beyond annoying me, the act of littering bewilders me––how can people even do it? Not making one’s bed every day, I understand. Not being devoted to recycling, I tolerate. But the act of throwing trash on the ground is simply one of those things that makes me shake my head in wonder.

Whenever I go to a park, I have a habit of picking up stray refuse. I do it between sets of exercises. It passes the time while I catch my breath, and it makes the place more in line with what I think it should be. Recently, I was exercising and picking up a few random pieces of paper that were blowing around when an elderly man approached me. He told me he had seen me in the park before, and he wanted to know why I was picking up debris. Specifically, he wanted to know why I was picking up other people’s waste and in turn addressing something that I hadn’t caused. Without even thinking about it, I told him because it was my park. I didn’t want it there. He looked stunned by my answer. That’s when I told him it was his park, too, if he so chose. He shrugged his shoulders and walked away.

I’ve not seen that man since. For a while, I worried that I had offended him with my claim to ownership. On reflection, though, I realized that none of that matters. What does matter is that it is my park––just as it is his park and your park––as long as you claim it and take responsibility for it … the failure of which would be Greek to me.