It was a picture perfect morning. Early spring 1967. Mom was changing her bed. A set of washed sheets blew in the breeze to dry. I could hear them playfully snapping as they hung on a line in the backyard of our suburban house. I was 4 years old, standing against the bedroom wall, taking in the moment. The windows were open, and fresh air caressed my face. I remember white walls, white sheets, and the feeling that this moment was most wonderful. I realized I was alive. And Penny Lane was playing on the radio.
All senses were engaged so this pleasant childhood memory would remain in my mind for life, returning every once in awhile this time of year … and anytime and anywhere that Beatles’ song was heard. Life was pleasant, simple, clean.
Around this same time, however, other outdoor sights and sounds would be disconcerting. We lived right next to a suburban forest of sorts: short trees, thick brush with stickers and faded plants, nothing beautiful but natural nonetheless. Soon the rumbling noise of tractors, bulldozers and construction men interrupted all I knew about life, about peace. Before the work crew appeared, we had lived on a rural road in a Dallas suburb. My parents had chosen that sleepy nook because they were from the country themselves. But they had no idea our earthen street with maybe five houses spaced far apart would be smothered in concrete cement … forever.
As I ventured outdoors, driving my big red trike on the wood sidewalk, I noticed a huge street sign abutting the untapped brush: Dead End. Probably the first words I learned to read. Then one day that sign was mowed over, trees uprooted, the land flattened and platted for dozens of modern late ’60s brick homes. Before the houses were built, first the concrete was poured over our dirt road. Then the wood sidewalk was turned into cement, curb and gutters replaced the ditch, and lots of digging was done to install concrete pipes for sewer and water lines. My Dad never got our house hooked up to the city sewer line; we would remain septic tank folks.
Urban sprawl
After the white dust settled, the rubber was poured, its thick pungent tar smell still rudely embedded in my mind. The street was laid in maybe 15-foot blocks with rubber strips in between I suppose for ‘breathing’ through all types of Texas weather, to keep the concrete from buckling. As I grew into an older child, I liked placing my toes in the occasional newly squirted pliable rubber across our residential street. I had learned to accept annual work crews, pounding concrete excavations, heavy metal repairs, finished up with new rubber. Playing in the new street rubber was lots of fun for a city kid.
Our community grew and grew especially during the 1970s as families from other states were relocating to Dallas but desired to live outside the city. We were called a bedroom community. The main restaurant we had in my early years was just Dairy Queen. But soon McDonald’s came to town followed by every fast-food establishment and pizza joint known to kids across the U.S. Teen years were filled with meeting at those hang outs to socialize with fries and a Coke or Dr. Pepper.
Having grown up pretty well adjusted and content within a suburban bubble, I never realized my hometown lacked, mmm, charm. Not until I went off to college and traveled around Texas did I see the huge disparity in quality of life. Other towns were much older than the mid-century suburbs, but they had generations of families who maintained their communities’ grace. Old large houses were renovated into restaurants, law firms, or just nice homes for doctors and those who could afford the upkeep.
Streets were lined with trees providing shade. I’d never seen such a thing except in very small towns like where my parents grew up. Walking around my neighborhood during the summers left me squinting from the sun and getting a pink burn. Shoes were a must given all the hot concrete. I grew up where houses from the early 20th century would have been considered old and necessarily torn down. Trees were not a priority. I learned that urban fact when all the trees were yanked to build more homes, larger and larger through the decade. What was more important to my community leaders was moving in more families. Our community expanded until there would be no more undeveloped land, no more nature. And when the entire town was built out, they started building up with more apartments.
Progress was our middle name
What were suburban city officials thinking in the mid 20th century? They were the Greatest Generation but in charge of ‘modern’ city development. More population meant more taxes for more amenities, right? When I left my concrete city, I realized the error of their ways. Communities nowadays are better planned. I suppose if it weren’t for all those cement towns with no beauty, style or nature, the new and improved housing developments would not have been created. Modern residential neighborhoods emulate 19th century city neighborhoods.
And what got me to thinking about all this? Well, the city in which I live has been bull dozing and pounding apart my residential street, right at my driveway. We—the city crew and I—have had to get along and make things work as the heavy-duty work trucks park in the way of me trying to move my car to leave and then later return home.
The unannounced street work jarred my early childhood memory as I sat indoors feeling and hearing the vibrations against windows and across the wood floor. Construction tractors were breaking up the entire street to fix a busted water line from the big cold a month ago. The first job had been a patch; this time it was a permanent repair. The sound of smashing concrete and men yelling orders is one I grew up with and have had to learn to accommodate as a city dweller.
Ah, but since I left that cement sea that was once my hometown, I’ve learned the art of meditation. Now any time I want, I can clearly relive that moment some 50 years ago when life as I first realized was splendid … “beneath the blue suburban skies.”