435 S. Adams St.

If I pushed my sister’s vanity stool over to her dresser, I could boost myself up on top of it between her Love’s Baby Soft and porcelain ballet figurine to scan the scene out of our bedroom window. The view of my backyard was quite familiar, probably because we spent a fair amount of time together. In the center, was a birch tree covered with curly papyrus provoking me to peel it. Around the tree sat a puddle of ivy, where you could pull stout earthworms from the shaded soil underneath.

There were lush cherry bushes that looked like green hoopskirts with red polka dots. I’d wait until the fruit was dark red and sweet before reaping the harvest “Laura Ingalls style”, carrying the impressive yield in my t-shirt “apron” to the kitchen counter. There, I’d mash them up, add half a bag of sugar to balance the flavors, and after surveying quite a mess, I’d head back outside while my mother was preoccupied in the laundry room.

Beyond my backyard, however, was an entirely new world. And, one that beckoned my inner explorer and the Scotland Yard tenderfoot to unlatch the back gate and head into the alley. Alleys in and of themselves present mystery and intrigue, as an alternate, less known route, where on either side one can view the private “back side” windows of peoples’ homes. To a ten year-old girl, however, alleys were the only avenue of adventure worth taking.

The problem was, I had no fresh suspects. The same neighbors, for what seemed decades during the decade I had spent alive, had lived in these homes. Mrs. Chevalier’s house perched on the hill directly behind ours. She was an artist from France, with a cat named Tiger. I’d pay her visits, using the cat as an excuse, but all the while taking in the smell of oil paints and the colorful canvases stacked on the living room floor. She’d serve me little chocolates on china dishes with wrappers I’d never seen on any Halloween, and send me on my way with my pockets full.

To the north of her, lived Mr. Luedemann. He had a mini harmonica that fit entirely into his mouth and would begin playing a tune, suddenly and delightfully, so it seemed he had only intended to take a breath. I spent many hours awake hoping against all odds that Mr. Luedemann had remembered to take the harmonica out of his mouth before he went to sleep. The sound from the other end of Mr. Luedemann may not have been as enchanting.

How is it that years later I can still remember the smell of the lilac bushes on the corner, the sound of Mrs. Mudloff’s charm bracelet tinkling while she worked in her yard, the feel of my Big Wheel hitting those certain bumps on the sidewalk that most often sent you careening off? What is it about the places we live and call “home” that locks into our memories, but I somehow can’t remember my recent online password update for Amazon?

Fast forward nearly 30 years, with a houseful of kids of my own, and I become satiated with the idea that I’ve taken my role in the list of characters that my children and others will remember always. That in some small way, something I do or say, or something I plant or paint, will be part of the canvas of someone else’s life. Be it a small glimmer in the background or a loud harmonica solo at the forefront. This thing we call “doing life together” matters, in the smallest of ways we may never see.