Even in the Spielbergian suburb, an idyllic vista of tidy yards and shiny cars, odd things can strike, eliciting a gasp or a giggle.
I was strolling the neighborhood on the cracked, buckled sidewalks and practically stepped on the words, fat and all-caps, “STOP FASCISM” scrawled in pink hopscotch chalk. I snickered. Then, about a block further, I stumbled on banana yellow chalk that declared “FUCK TRUMP,” hot and mean. I actually muttered “Ha!” before ambling on. It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood.
I wondered who, even in this admittedly progressive area, would chance such bulletins. It’s unlikely some precocious kids wrote the prickly imperatives. Or is it? Either way, the seditious slogans won’t last. The hood maintains a certain decorum. Just look at those coiffed lawns and perfect shade trees, boys shooting hoops and pups wrassling in the dog park. No, the chalk will go. (Within days, it was gone.)
The skies are ashen, the humidity stifling. The air is jagged with the farts and crackles of a revving chopper, straddled by a guy with a beard in a sleeveless red t-shirt whose faint smile says he savors the vroom-vroom grumble. He glances at two tween boys walking by. They look past him, unimpressed. Me too.
When I suddenly hear tinkling chimes, I think either someone is taking advantage of the breeze or Rush is playing nearby. I peer over a fence and catch a summer solstice sound bath in progress, a half-dozen women lying on yoga mats for an immersive meditation session marking the longest day of the year. Says the web: “Practitioners use soothing vibrations from crystal or metal singing bowls, gongs and chimes to align the mind and body, promote deep relaxation and set intentions for the new season.”
Dismissing it as well-intentioned harmless hooey, I move on and immediately run into the friendliest dog in the hood, big ole Bo, a sturdy white labradoodle with a smile wider than Julia Roberts’ and the tail-wagging neediness of Jimmy Fallon. Bo seems to be everywhere and he walks without a leash so he’s always bounding right at you as eager as a campaigning senator. I call him the mayor of the neighborhood. He knows all his constituents and he gets things done. Like making our days.
A sprawling park and playground is right there, right next to Bo’s house, and it teems with tykes and their tired mothers, who push the kids on the swings and chat with each other about who knows what (school, summer vacations, bedtime, food, doctors, streaming shows — I’m spitballing here).
The children are boisterous, alive and weirdly screechy. They are smart and smart-alecky, creatures to pay attention to. Maybe, possibly, they’re the ones with the colorful chalk and the big ideas. Tiny geniuses.
GNASHING. 