It was the Sheffield Garden Walk this weekend. The kids put out their lemonade stand, cranked up the tunes and did their best to steal customers from the 5 other stands on our block. While Clifton may not have stately trees arching over it like most of the other streets in this area, we do have the best gardens -- primarily because of the big (by city standards) front yards and the lack of shade (there are good things about not having a lot of trees). Watching the swarms of people strolling our normally serene streets and snapping photographs of the gardens and houses reminded me how fortunate we are to live in this old neighborhood.
I was reminded of other stuff, too. Walking down Webster and hearing the strains of Poi Dog tonight reminded me of Sheffield Garden Walks gone by. 15 years ago I would not have missed Saturday afternoon at the Sheffield Garden Walk for anything in the world. It was one of the biggest weekends of the summer. My favorite year was following a softball game for The Brown Dogs -- a team made up of my then-boyfriend, Dave, a bunch of his friends, their girlfriends and, of course, our chocolate lab (a.k.a., the Brown Dog). I remember playing a game of softball at Wrightwood Park (at that time it seemed to be on the edge of the earth) then skedaddling over to McGee's -- at the heart of the Garden Walk then, and still today. This morning when I walked the dog (not the Brown Dog, who went with Dave -- but instead with our Boston Terrier, Domino), I was surprised and nostalgic to see McGee's already in full swing at 11:00 AM. I smiled as I noticed all conversations automatically pause momentarily as the el train screamed overhead, only to be continued seconds later as if our brains hadn't just been completely rattled senseless by the noise.
I stopped at a boutique selling half-price yoga clothes (although I hate yoga) and chatted with the young DePaul students working there who were characteristically enamored with Domino. "Ya know, the Sheffield Garden Walk used to be on Webster, not Sheffield," I commented sagely, as if I were 850 years old. The girls sized me up a little, nodded politely and replied, "Really? That's funny." Okaaaayyyy, not really anywhere for that conversation to go...
Yesterday I took the girls to the Kids' Corner where they had pony rides, a petting zoo, and a terrible singer screeching away about an octopus. While we stood there listening and cringing I noticed with amusement a sign that read, "Help support are teachers" (hmmm...is it really the teachers who need help?) I honestly don't recall if there was a Kids' Corner back when the Sheffield Garden Walk "was on Webster." And I never realized that there was actually a Garden Walk until several years post-singledom when Roc and I ventured back into the neighborhood some lazy Saturday afternoon (by mistake). Now that we live here, I take an unexplained pride in the DePaul area -- same as I did in Old Town and, apparently, same as I will in the next neighborhood (there's always one a-coming). I am prone to that, I guess. I relish the ideals of a community and in taking care of our streets and homes -- wherever and whatever it may be.
The reality is that the Sheffield Garden Walk, like so many of Chicago's street fairs, brings out the Americana in everyone. The kids running around with their scooters and wagons, the seniors admiring the gardens, the hipsters partying in the sun. There really is something for all of us -- and it's the meshing of these different walks of life that makes the whole thing feel right.
It wasn't the Sheffield Garden Walk of my twenties -- I'm not gonna wake up with a headache and I don't have any exciting stories to tell (oh, I have some good ones); but it was the Garden Walk of my forties -- when my kids rode a pony and sold some lemonade.
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