Made the coffee, grabbed the paper. Marveled at the fact that our jack-o-lanterns have survived both squirrels and the kids who threw trash all over our front yard.
And then I worked at my desk, listening to a giant backhoe scraping up debris from yesterday’s demolition of the little brick house across the street. Tried not to reenact yesterday’s tears. It was about as old as our place and didn’t seem to be in bad shape. One hundred and twenty-five years of solidity and history, obliterated in less than eight hours.
We need to finish up the putting-away of summer: no more dinners on the patio, but no more weeding, either. What leaves are left after this summer’s hailstorm have started to turn yellow and fall. Most appear to have clumped at the foot of our stoop. Stood and watched the brick-pickers working across the street. Wondered if we own a rake yet.
It being afternoon, I started to think about dinner.
Cursed my decision to run errands on a Friday afternoon. Also lamented the lack of an independent bookstore nearby. But it was sunny and warm and I left my coat in the car. Decided on posole for dinner. Parked on the top deck of the Whole Foods parking lot because I love the view. Bought a packet of gluten-free beer batter mix from a nice 60-something couple from St. Charles who were offering samples of their wares.
Resisted the urge to tell them there’s no money in small-batch gourmet what-have-you.
Went out front to check the mail and catch up on neighborhood gossip. Turns out our neighbors are sad about the little house, too.
About the author: Christine Busby has wanted to live in Chicago since she was a little Hoosier. She works as a freelance copywriter and copy editor. She and her husband are the curiosity on their block in Humboldt Park, because that’s what happens when you buy the boarded-up, burned-out house and rehab it.