The other day, while engaged in my usual rushing around from one place to another, I had to walk down a street that was in disrepair. The sidewalk was badly cracked and weeds were sprouting up in all the cracks. I don’t see much of that in the white-collar world in which I live and work. My first thought was “Yuck, someone should fix this sidewalk.” Before that thought was even completed, I found myself back in the world in which I grew up.
In Philadelphia, in the extremely not trendy blue-collar world that was my life, we called our houses old, not historic. I lived in a row house, not a townhouse or a brownstone. We covered the old floors with inexpensive wall-to-wall carpeting, and we covered the old furniture with inexpensive slip covers. Nobody oogled the lavish woodwork or the 100-year-old kitchen tile. Had they had any money, my parents would have preferred a newer house that shrieked modern, not a house that always seemed to be in disrepair.
Outside, beyond the concrete slab that served as a front porch and the concrete driveway/alley that ran the length of the street in the back, there were few trees and fewer patches of green. Like the other neighbors, we had a tiny sloped front yard that my mother, after giving up on growing conventional flowers, turned into a “rock garden.” There was an abandoned playground at the corner, with the skeleton of an old swing set rising from the rubble. Instead of grass, there was dirt, punctuated by broken bottles. My mother told me it was a dangerous place and never to go there. Until I was about eight, I obeyed her.
The elementary school sat in a sea of concrete. On the way to school, we passed a house in which the owner had removed what tiny front yard existed, concreted it over and then painted the concrete bright green. Not a green that vaguely approximated grass. A green that mocked any color found in nature.
In that world, any trees or flowers we saw growing were an anomaly. We called irises “flags” and saluted as we walked past. We put little green seed pods on our noses and strutted around like soldiers at attention.
We walked pavements that had more seams and cracks than smooth places. My first sight of a weed growing from a sidewalk seam filled me with awe. I always slowed down to think about those tough little weeds, seeking the sun under sidewalks. They were stronger than concrete and even managed to push the concrete up in places that made my mother’s walk home from the supermarket with her grocery cart more difficult.
They were relentless, and, in their own way, quite beautiful. Nobody would have stopped to pull these weeds, because nobody cared about the sidewalks. In the absence of a car, sidewalks were simply places to set one’s feet, one after the other, to ultimately take one to where one wanted to go. But those weeds were my constant reminder that the world was more than concrete.
In the decades since, I have graduated to neighborhoods where lawns and backyards are carefully tended. Friends, upon retirement, have become “master gardeners.” I sell homes in neighborhoods where the only people outside during the heat of the summer are the paid gardeners. My own yard is cared for my lawn person, Jorge/George. When people compliment me on my beautiful front yard, I tell them I write checks well.
But none of the lavish and beloved landscapes, whether created by professionals or by amateur gardeners, will fill me with quite the same sense of wonder as the sight of ragged little weeds poking up from the city sidewalks that I walked. Those little weeds had no hands to guide them. They depended on no one but themselves. They carved out an existence in the most hostile of environments, for no reason other than to announce, “I am here. I will survive.” They gave me strength back then, and I am grateful for their message now.
Jean Peelen
August 27, 2013
Nicely done Renee.
Life in the Boomer Lane
August 28, 2013
Thanks, JP.
Betty Londergan
August 27, 2013
I love this post! I am a gardener (not a master, but a constantly practicing gardener) and though I’m on the other side of the fight against weeds, I always am pretty much amazed by anything that grows. Particularly under duress and without any tending or coddling. I grew up not far from Philadelphia (Wilmington, DE) and it was suburban — we were the first house in our development, so we got to watch each house go up, play in the forbidden house skeletons and run away to the woods, which were gradually cut down to make room for more houses — and it was always the wildness and the woods and the weeds that seemed magical to me.
This post brought that all back — so THANK YOU!
Life in the Boomer Lane
August 28, 2013
And thank you, Betty, for these comments. It’s always amazing how something small can trigger these memories from the past.
Lynne Spreen
August 27, 2013
Wow, a serious – and seriously moving – post. You’re such a good writer. Took me back to a time when things seemed simpler. Thanks.
Life in the Boomer Lane
August 28, 2013
Thanks, Lynne.
Patricia
August 27, 2013
This reminded me of when during an especially difficult time I came across a violet blooming in the crack of a sidewalk. It brightened my day and strengthened my spirit. Thank you for sharing your thoughts so beautifully.
Life in the Boomer Lane
August 28, 2013
Ah, and thank you for sharing that.
dorannrule
August 27, 2013
This is a deeply moving post. Kudos to you for painting a picture of your growing up place and your admiration for the humble weeds. I remember them too although we lived in a suburb – an inexpensive suburb. We had grass in the back yard but the sidewalks belonged to the city and the weeds did too.
Life in the Boomer Lane
August 28, 2013
I love your last sentence.
Charlie
August 27, 2013
I love this piece of writing. I had my own ‘rock garden’ when I was younger. The soil in our back hard wasn’t too fertile and only the hardiest of plants (and weeds) would grow. For many years, our front drive was broken an uneven from all the weeds that stubbornly pushed their way through. I admired them. I didn’t understand most people’s dislike of them until I tried my hand at gardening years later. But as a young kid, I welcomed the way they broke up the dull grey of the concrete.
Life in the Boomer Lane
August 28, 2013
Thanks for these comments, Charlie. I never hear that phrase anymore, “rock garden.” But on my street, that’s what a lot of people did with their tiny “green” space. My mom was so proud of hers.
Susan in TX
August 27, 2013
I’ve always had the same reaction to weeds v concrete. Awe. Amazing and humbling. Somewhere I once saw a “forecast” of what NYC would look like in just 10 years if the people left. “Life” goes on. Thanks for the post.
Life in the Boomer Lane
August 28, 2013
I remember that series. Yes, it’s humbling to think of the tiny specks we are, compared to the overwhelming forces of nature. Nature scoffs at our iPads, I’m sure.
gregschina
August 28, 2013
This piece is lovely. It reminds me of a poem written by Tupac Shakur of all people. Google The Rose That Grew From Concrete, it’s one of my favourites.
🙂
Life in the Boomer Lane
August 28, 2013
I’ll check it out. My younger son was a huge fan of Tupac’s writing.
Snoring Dog Studio
August 28, 2013
You’ve given me a brand new perspective about weeds. Normally, the sight of them enrages me. At least today I’ll see them in a new light!
Life in the Boomer Lane
August 28, 2013
Wow, I’m honored! I’ve always thought that the only difference between the weeds and wildflowers and what we cultivate is what we have decided.
Gayane
August 28, 2013
thanks Renee, lovely imagery! being an urban baby myself, I used to love the little white fuzzy blowy flower things, dandelion? (see, I need to have more respect for weeds, got to have the name right….) thought I was the coolest kid every time I picked one and watched it fly away under my power….wow….tiny joys of urban dwellers….
Life in the Boomer Lane
August 28, 2013
Yes! I should have written about those! They were fabulous playthings for us. I never knew what they were called.
Amelia @ Senior Match
August 28, 2013
i grew up in a place where some of the roads were paved with brick – that seems so odd now, as asphalt has taken over the world. When I’d walk along the streets, the little weeds would poke up, taunting the world with its defiant greenery. Now, I’m not a master gardener by any stretch of the imagination, but I’m so very thankful that you’ve reminded me of the times that were. — Amelia @ Senior Match
Life in the Boomer Lane
August 28, 2013
Thanks for sharing, Amelia. I do love that the post has reminded people of years gone by.
Elyse
August 28, 2013
What a beautiful piece. It makes me think of one of my all-time favorite books, A Tree Grows In Brooklyn.
Life in the Boomer Lane
August 28, 2013
Wow, thanks Elyse. What a great book.
Valentine Logar
August 29, 2013
This left me breathless. I am thankful this morning it took me so long to get here to read it. I am not a garderner, in fact I have black thumbs except for the Star Hibiscus I planted in my front yard in honor of my beloved late step-mother. I baby that beautiful plant each year, to watch it grow to towering height, watch it flower and then cut it back for winter. The garden center told me it was essentially a weed, I didn’t care. It’s leaves look like marijuana leaves (there is a story about my step-mother in this one), which is why I planted it in the front yard not the back. It is miraculous how it grows and blooms under the harshest Texas conditions.
Your story of history, sidewalks and weeds, you and this have left me breathless and grateful.
Life in the Boomer Lane
August 29, 2013
Thank you, Valentine. I especially love that people can relate to this. Your homage to your late stepmother is beautiful
Sandra Parsons
August 29, 2013
When I studied biology, during one of my first botany classes it dawned on me just how many wild growing native plants are termed “weeds” just because they don’t have big, pretty flowers or because they are more resilient than the cultivated immigrants. Ever since I have appreciated the beauty of what’s wild rather than tamed so much more. Thank you for this lovely post, Renee.
Life in the Boomer Lane
August 30, 2013
You are so welcome, and I’m gratified that you confirmed what I have always believed, even though I never took a botany class.
claudiajustsaying
August 29, 2013
Enjoyed your experience, my attitude towards weeds is if you’re pretty you stay…just saying
Life in the Boomer Lane
August 30, 2013
Thanks, Claudia. I like your attitude. My only experience with an outright ugly/scary weed was one I had to look up in a book to identify. It is called “dog vomit.”
claudiajustsaying
August 30, 2013
Dog Vomit? I sense a blog coming…just saying
yael
August 30, 2013
This was beautiful
Sent from my smartphone. You’ll never guess which brand.
Life in the Boomer Lane
August 30, 2013
Thanks, Baby.
Jessica J. Hill
September 1, 2013
Beautifully written! It’s funny how something like a weed in the sidewalk can inspire such a wonderful, thoughtful essay.
Life in the Boomer Lane
September 1, 2013
Thanks, Jessica. Yes, and that’s one of the wonderful things about being a writer, that we get to express thoughts like these.
benzeknees
September 5, 2013
What a poignant little story!
Life in the Boomer Lane
September 5, 2013
Thanks, Lynda!