Mea Culpa.

You know how it is. I meant to post regularly, but I missed a day. No big deal. I mean, it was a self-imposed deadline, no money lost, and to tell you the truth, I really didn’t think anyone cared. A day turned into a week and Front Porch writing sat there on my back burner among the other things I have simmering – that book I’m working on, those two other blogs, volunteering, a couple of paying gigs, then after a month, two, three, I meant to write, but something better came up, like checking out my dysfunctional relative’s Facebook page, then, well,I have to write a comment here and there and that sucks my writing juices out of me. Pretty, pretty lame excuse, huh? And now? I just got an email, from a reader wanting to know where the heck the new postings are. You mean someone actually reads this? Enough about me and my insecurities. Let’s talk neighborhood. Speaking of complaining . . . my friend calls me, and we get to talking about stuff, when she segues into a whine about the streetscaping project going on in front of her house, “Those guys are out there early in the morning. It’s really loud,” she said. Boo-frickin’-hoo is what I want to say, but decide on, “It’s the sound of progress, my friend.” Nice looking neighborhoods just don’t happen, there’s work involved. Dusty, loud, inconvenient work. Planters and landscaped medians aren’t brought in the middle of the night by elves, unless those elves are wearing flourescent green vests and hard hats. Just wait. For the artistic railings. The bump outs. The Abbey Road Crosswalks. After sitting through endless meetings, planning sessions, walk abouts, I, for one can’t wait.

Nature is keeping me awake at night with worry and you know who I blame for my sleepless nights? Walt Disney.

Yeah. Because I was raised on those lovely movies where bunnies had eyelashes and skunks that were endearing. Somehow, though, I didn’t make the connection between Bambi’s mother and the dead deer that my father shot and strapped onto the top of the station wagon.


There’s a nest in the cavity of my 100 year old maple tree. Apparently the squirrels that occupied it over the winter have sub-let it to a Wood Duck. I wouldn’t have known this, had I not spotted it running around in a panic underneath my sheets that I hung out on the wash line. Honest to God. A duck, with a cuter than cute duckling, also in a panic, peeping at her webbed heel.

Since when do ducks build nests in trees? My question exactly. Well, according to the go-to-source-for-all-things, i.e. Wikipedia – the Wood Duck builds her nest in tree cavities to keep her ducklings safe from skunks and other predators, sometimes 50 feet off the ground and then when the 16 or so eggs hatch, momma duck pushes them out of the nest and leads them off to water.

And here in lies my worry, uh, make that worries. Let me zoom in on the phrase other predators.

It was just a week ago that I saw three little kittens prowling around my lilacs, and while I am not a cat person, the kittens immediately became something out of a Beatrix Potter tale. I was certain that the only reason they weren’t wearing their little jackets and caps was because they left them on a hook inside their rustic, yet fully appointed home before they went out to play.

I would have picked one up had it not scurried through my fence and into the gap from a missing piece of lattice under my neighbor’s front porch. And, that’s when I started thinking. I thought about what kind of future they would have? Living paw to mouth. Foraging for food in the alley, cold and wet. Beatrix Potter turned into Charles Dickens with a touch of Blade Runner.

I thought about corralling them because that was the only way The Humane Society would be able to put them up for adoption, but then . . . what about their mother? She’d come back after a night out and wonder what happened to the kids and return to her seedy life on the streets? I couldn’t do it.

Uh. Oh. Worry number two: I have a dog. A very fast dog. A retriever. What if he went after the kitties, and he, uh, got a hold of one and treated it like he did when he got hold of my late OvGlove? He ingested most of it, but not before he ripped it to shreds. All I found was the cuff. The rest? Heat-resistant poo.

And, then I shifted my allegiance and went over to the duck side.

The once cute and furry kittens were now The Enemy. The rival gang invading Wood Duck turf, like something out of West Side Story, only instead of Jets and Sharks, I have Kitties and Ducklings all getting ready to rumble and I’m stuck playing the part of Officer Krupke out on the patio, armed with pebbles and a flashlight.

Worry number three: Let’s say the ducklings all survive and it’s time for mom to lead them to water. Water? The nearest body of water is the Milwaukee River – at least a mile away – and to get to that body of water, she’s going to have to cross National Avenue. What was she thinking? Why my tree? In my yard? With my dog? Obviously her real estate agent didn’t sell her on the mantra: Location. Location. Location.

The Wild Animal Rescue lady who I phoned and left an anxiety riddled message called back and gave me some peace of mind. “Not to worry, not to worry. Momma duck knows what she’s doing. She picked your tree because it suited her. Wood Ducks pick the same nesting site where they were born, so, she survived from last year. Sometimes you’ve just got to have faith in nature.”

Easy for her to say. I’ve got no problem with nature. It’s the buses, semis and drivers on cell phones that I don’t have faith in. This is why I have been known to risk my life and limb, dodging logging trucks, to help a turtle get to the other side of a two-lane highway.

Well, guess what? I let the dog out this morning, took up my post on the patio and turns out the squirrels were back in the hole. The ducks have moved on. So, I can breath easy. Until next year.

Auction Hero

The 3rd annual Mining for Silver Dinner and Auction was last night at The Rice Palace and if you weren’t there, then you missed out on what was a really, really fun time, and I’m not just saying that because I was on the committee. I’m saying that because of how I feel this morning – bone-tired and a tad hung over – but, basking in the glow of what I think was a job well done.

Not only did the donors come through – we had 76 silent auction items and 7 live auction items – so did our auctioneer, Mr. Dylan Out-Of-The-Box Bolin. Check out his website. I put a link up for it to make your lives that much easier.

His job description for the evening was to “. . . separate you from your money . . .” which was difficult since on that particular day, Wall Street took a nose dive, but Dylan managed to pry the cash from the audience’s cold dead hands. How? He did it with his surgically sharp wit.

He started off with a little story about how he and his wife had recently become home owners, and how that brought to the fore the importance of the neighborhood . . . and how, since he and his wife signed so many papers – enough to make the recently passed Health Care Bill look like a leaflet, he has morphed into That Guy, the one who is a little anal retentive about lawn care issues, especially that no-man’s land of your lawn, that little strip of sod between the sidewalk and the curb, which, by the way, is property of the Forestry Division, which I would have thought involved more shrubbery and a better habitat for furry woodland creatures instead of weeds and a few casually tossed, empty 40 ouncers.

He added that extra something that was lacking in auctions past . . . I did the duty last year, and I thought surely it would launch my stand-up career, instead it was my David Letterman-Academy-Awards moment. Ouch.

They are still tallying up the numbers, but, how ever they come in, this year’s auction was a hit, not a miss.

It's Not About The Spoon

I’m a big Everybody Loves Raymond fan. There was an episode, last week, Deborah snuck over to Marie’s kitchen in the middle of the night, under the pretense of returning a spoon. She bumps into Robert, the NYC cop, and tries to sell him on her version of why she’s there at 2 a.m.
“In my career, I’ve been to a lot of break-ins, and, one thing is for sure . . . it’s never about the spoon,” he said.

Kind of like all the hoo-ha that’s going on over the Silver City Townhomes project – and by project I don’t mean it in the Cabrini-Green sense of the word, I mean it more like in the sense of an endeavor, like an art project, or a Science Fair project. Project with a small p.

When I first heard about this – I remember my disbelief, because, well, something this cool in my neighborhood? Finally. After all the meetings. All the blockwatches. The spring clean-ups, were all beginning to have a positive effect. And we were going to have these very nice, very green (I’m talking rooftop gardens) town houses built on a stretch of cracked, neglected asphalt.

And, that’s where the problem started. On and about that asphalt. See, to some people (me) that asphalt is an eyesore. Nothing more that a dried scab. To others? It’s a meeting place, an open and inviting place where children can run free . . . just like we did back in the good old days before bicycle helmets.

There are 2 full basket ball courts and something that passes for tennis courts. Those courts will become new and improved, which has some people’s undies in a bundle because, I guess new and improved is a bad thing. There’s something about old and used and the patina of broken bottles and litter.

And then, there’s a problem with the Who. Not the band, but the people behind the project (again, small “p”). Layton Boulevard West Neighbors – an organization started by the School Sisters of Saint Francis and we all know what a bunch of selfish, power hungry people they are! Yeah. They’ll stop at nothing to do woo you with their Franciscan values . . . here’s just some of the bad things they’re into:
* Implementing peace education programs for children and adults;
* Supporting immigration legislation and just treatment of immigrants;
* Rehabilitating victims of violence and neglect;
* Promoting conscious stewardship of the environment through education;
* Growing organic and herbal gardens;
* Helping children who are victims of violence and abuse;
* Promoting projects for marginalized people, especially women and children;
* Raising consciousness through "socially responsible" investments;
* Fostering equal treatment of employees in the workplace.

See? What did I tell you.

The neighbors whose lives will be affected by this are upset over the way they’ve been treated – no one bothered to ask them how they felt about it. Well, there were meetings, but only 2 and no one was allowed to ask any questions. Typical. Oh, I suppose the neighbors could have asked questions, but, undoubtedly they were too afraid to get whacked by a School Sister wielding a concealed ruler.

You want to start something? I have two words for you, my friend: Affordable. Housing. Them’s fightin’ words. I think I can simplify this with logic – what I gather is at the heart of the anti-townhomes sentiment.

Prostitutes + drug dealers = low wage earners.
Low wage earners = low income.
Low income = affordable housing.
Affordable Housing = prostitutes + drug dealers.
I guess low wage earners can’t be landscapers, or teachers, or anyone else.
What’s really at the root of all the discontent? Is it that feelings were hurt? Basketball courts will be moved? The town homes will make the rest of the neighborhood look shabby? They’ll bring in “those people?”

I don’t get it. You know what I think? I think Robert Barone was right. It’s never about the spoon.

To get more information on the Silver City Town homes, see the link list on the right.

I'm Baack!

I know that I haven't been posting to this here blog on a regular basis, but ... you know how it is? The weather gets nicer (meaning something above a temperature that freezes my eyeballs and causes my nose to leak) and I don't like to sit in front of my computer typing, unless there is a stipend involved, yes, I'm that shallow, but, anyway, I promise and you 14 followers are my witnesses ... that I will faithfully post something regarding the goings on in the LBWN surrounds every Friday. There. I said it. You can quote me.
So, what's been going on? Well, a lot: Streetscaping is coming, TownHomes are going to be built, Urban Ecology Center will be renovating an old building and bringing its ecological goodness to the area, Pedestrian access to the Hank Aaron Trail is set for construction this summer! Speaking of the Trail ... I took this picture a couple of days ago. Killdeer eggs. Right there on the gravel near the middle path, under the Viaduct. I wouldn't have even noticed them had my dog not gone in for a closer inpection. Oh, yeah, and speaking of my dog, to the two canoeists that he bounded into the river, after? I'm sorry. He's a Lab. Loves water. And I think he thought your canoe was a training dummy. Oops.

Summer of Strange

This has been the Summer of Strange.
1. Our Mayor responds to a citizen’s cries for help and gets hit repeatedly over the head by an assailant with a tire iron and his heroics bump alderman, Bob Donovan (ours) out of first place in the new, Channel 12’s A-list “ Best Fighting Elected Officials,” category. And makes the front page of the Huffington Post three days running.
2. My black lab that normally, on our regular walks on the Hank Aaron Trail, brings me old tennis balls, baseballs (errant home runs?), dead fish, brought me someone’s neatly folded, single stapled, bankruptcy papers that were filed in 1986.
3. I got kicked out of a trendy, Shorewood store by the spray-tanned owner because I was “just looking,” at his vast array of high end, over-the-top, eye glasses. He asked me if I had ever purchased anything from him, I responded, that I hadn’t. “Then why are you here?” He asked. I tried to appeal to his lofty ego and say because his store is the “benchmark of style.” He responds, “Well, if it’s the benchmark, then why don’t you buy from us?” Because, some things were too pricey, I say, but in my defense I left the door open with the rising tone in my voice, as if to say that I might purchase something from him, someday, maybe. Not good enough. He tells me he’s busy with an order, “From a PAYING CUSTOMER,” and gestures towards the front door. I guess, it’s nice to know that in this economy, some people can afford to piss off potential customers.
4. Speaking of pissing people off, I managed to piss off the service center guy where I take my car for it’s maintenance. He asked me what was wrong. I told him that my battery was dead, “ . . . just like Brett Favre is to me.” He asked if the 16 years with the Packers meant nothing to me. I told him that I felt like a jilted lover and had every right to be hurt. I then asked him when my car would be ready. “Tomorrow, maybe, if we get to it.”
5. Someone tags the Marquette Interchange and costs the taxpayers thousands of dollars to clean it off. That’s a lot of Goof-off.
6. The weather. What happened to summer? I know! This cooler weather is because last year I made my husband go out and replace our 15 year old air conditioners with more efficient models, that we’ve had to turn on maybe three times – talk about efficiency! – since he herniated himself putting them into the windows.
7. Total empty nest. This was the first summer that we’ve had no kids at home. My son decided to stay for the summer in Madison and my daughter has moved to San Francisco. We have promoted the dog to child and allow him to sit with us on the sofa. The real children are shocked and upset. Sibling rivalry?
8. I finally have gotten grass to grow on my lawn! I don’t know how it happened. A miracle? I must get a yard statue of Saint Phocas, Patron Saint of lawn care.
9. Speaking of miracles . . . my writing has caught the eye of a New York based magazine editor, and
10. Um . . . been working on another book all about that whole mother-son relationship and my son doesn’t care what I write, as long as I don’t mention any names. Really?

Extremely Slow Makeover: Neighborhood Edition

I love Extreme Makeover Home Edition. Love. It. I watch it every Sunday with my box of Kleenex at the ready for the reveal, when the family falls to the asphalt and praises Jesus.

Ty Pennington? Don’t get me started. He and his army of volunteers can and do a total tear down of a house, rebuild it, landscape it and change the lives of one lucky family forever in 40 minutes (real time, a week).

I’ve been involved in something similar, except on a larger scale – Extremely Slow Makeover Neighborhood Edition – with a smaller army of just as dedicated volunteers. But, I wonder, how does Ty and his ilk deal with permits? Codes? The neighbors who live in the house next door that looked okay, but after the new and improved abode rises up from the ashes, it makes the adjacent home look like a hell hole.

Does anyone complain? Balk? Does the city council have to meet in order for the process to get started? Are motions tabled? Hearings rescheduled and rescheduled? Are funds a problem? Does Ty ever have an issue with a surely Alderperson? A not-on-board banker? Maybe that’s why it’s taking 13 million minutes, give or take.

I am throwing down the gauntlet. Ty, if you are reading this: here’s the challenge. You. Your team. Come into my neck of the woods and give it the once over. Re-do the main drag (we’ve even got a plan . . . it was supposed to be done in 2007, then ’08, then the City promised in ’09 and with the Stimulus money we thought it was a done deal, but, no. For some reason, it wasn’t “shovel ready.” Hell, I’ve got a shovel. I’m ready.)
Or . . . you pick the street and landscape the heck out of it. Every yard. Every house. Both sides of the street.

Come on, Ty one on! I dare you.