Our House in the Middle of the Street.

It’s a beautiful day in sunny Seattle today. Bright blue sky yellow sun hitting the autumn leaves just so that one would think its part summer with a cool breeze. California weather. Perfect for a Tuesday after Thanksgiving. Makes you smile and just be happy that your alive and well enough to go outside and breathe. Reminds me of 41st Street. Growing up on 41st Street meant that you were a part of larger extended family that included folks from across the street to around the corner. They were just as likely to sit next to at the dinner table as you were to watch their television with them. We were all different ethnicities and nationalities, but we were family. Our house sits in the middle of the street, the Means’s were across the street. There are the Gutierrez and Kim across from them, while the Clausen’s were at the beginning of the street. There were the older folks who were constantly on the lookout for our comings and goings. People who would Mom in a heartbeat if they thought you were doing something suspicious or dangerous (what we considered fun). We had Vera, our most beloved play auntie and nosey Mr. Flory who would tell if you farted while skating pass the church, but grew the best vegetables. There was the Maxwell’s who were so kind and unselfish they would purchased dresses for me and take me to some of the black society social events. There was the Craig’s on the corner where Mrs. Craig taught me to sew, knit and crochet and Mr. Craig would give Mom pheasants he hunted. The Moore’s whose grass I watered when they went on vacation and in return she gave me Harlem Renaissance books, which I still adore. There were Cuba’s, Patterson’s, Mrs. Trig, Ms. Potts, Coventons, the Hales, Judy’s family (with those bad assed twins), and the Nun’s (who Mom would eventually cook for), even Miss America who would pose in underwear at her front door for my brothers. There was even a honorary 41st Street member that really live across town in Greenhaven (much love Brother James). This was our block as I knew it. We ran with anyone who was around and we kept up with their activities. When someone did something we all knew what when and why. Usually because one of us was involved also. Amazing as we grew up, moving away and starting our own family the bond was still there. It just grew more intense. As if the separation made desire the childhood safety of know what was happening next. We knew that Saturday was set aside for chores and Soul Train. That Friday was date night and sneaking out (I know I was not the only one!). We knew that on Monday someone on the block was giving me a ride to school (Thanks Paul!). And if we needed a broom or mop or a cup of sugar we could ask the Means’s or always ask Kim if she would walk with us to Compton’s Market. That safety of neighborhood family was sometimes the only thing that made us sane. We shared whoppin’s, ice cream truck treats, Howard's daily barbequing dogs, vacuums, football in the street, music, Baby Thug’s adventures, clothes and General Hospital every afternoon. There was events that only us 41st’ers would understand how crazy life was: Howard’s body cast, Jimmy shooting at cars as James drove by, every marriage and divorce, unwed pregnancies and child raising, Kenny’s illness and eventual death. We did all together. Everyone in everyone’s business; laughing, gossiping, crying, fighting, praying and mostly loving because we shared something greater than us. We shared a block that would forever shape our decisions and attitudes. That was the block. Our block. One I thank God for allowing me to be a part of. Praying much for my block sister Jackie.

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