Expatriates

In my neighborhood, cars are parked and people are in the street.

The NYT published a map of the USA with arrows of various sizes displaying NYC’s scattered population. In the same edition, an American living in France writes of the same fate for many Parisians, including him and his family, who have expatriated to the seaside.

It seems the locals in the hinterlands of France are as welcoming as the locals in Wisconsin and Michigan, and that is to say, not. My sense is that not that many Chicagoans fled their city, though that might be magical thinking.

Chicago can appear rational at times like this, despite the homicide rate. No AR-15 toting militiamen have stormed city hall and the Illinois Supreme Court has not overturned the governor’s edicts.

Granted this positivity is coming from an inhabitant of a quiet ward on the city’s north side. And when I say quiet, I mean that literally. O’Hare’s multiple east/west runways, other than for a few paroxysms in the late afternoon, are mainly offline.

Most of March was spent in South Carolina due to family concerns. This means for us, 2020 had two springs. Chicago in May is about where South Carolina was in March.

The forsythia budded, bloomed, and greened twice as did the plum and apple trees. There have been two sets of April showers bringing May flowers. Just substitute an un-poetic February and March for the thousand miles that separates SC from IL.

A Victory garden is planted in the backyard, the weeds graciously allow me to think they are under control, and the two mustardy lettuces that grew under a cold frame over the winter were harvested and eaten.

In the garage, the clutter around the BMW R50 is clear. There is hope that after years of neglect its cylinders will plod along again. Two Christmas trees gathering dust and spiders in the attic are gone to the landfill. And a new Chicago flag flies proudly from the front of the house.

Now it is time to wait. Waiting was intolerable in my younger years but at this stage of life, I have patience. Age brings discipline and the practical holds sway over the spontaneous. Still this wait is a waste of the time left to me.

If the world were free, life would be dictated by the wind and the waves, the tides and the currents, and by protected (or not) anchorages with good holding ground for the anchor and chain. The power for this frugal but privileged lifestyle would be generated by solar panels and the navigation done with the help of legions of satellites.

If the world were free, this Chicagoan would flee to the islands of Maine, but as that is not the case, this Chicagoan will join the others in the street, at least in my neighborhood.

May 2020