Arborwood

Written by John DeSantis.

It was almost half a century ago. It was in the month of May, one of those first really warm sunny days that would cause a young boy in the sixth grade to daydream about the onset of summer. No school, now there was a pleasant thought. He was on his way home from public school # 40. He was just walking along with a few friends, in no particular hurry to get anywhere. It was about a half mile walk home. 

Along one stretch of Electric Avenue on the other side of the rail road tracks from where the boy lived there was piece of land that had always been undeveloped, a combination of open fields and woodland. There was a swampy area and a stream. There were wild flowers, grasses, and weeds. It wasn’t a park and it didn’t appear like one. It was a just a little piece of wild. The boy had always loved playing there. His older brother Joe first took him there before the boy was in kindergarten. Joey explained how the first section of open woodland was called the brother woods and the section of woods across the tracks was the sister woods and that the swampy section with much larger trees, lots of vines, and undergrowth beyond the brother woods was the black forest. The boy never questioned how these names came to be, he just accepted it as fact. He lived in the city, and most of the area consisted of single family residential housing, but somehow this piece of land had escaped development. It was a place to be a cowboy or Indian, to build a fort or tree house, to pick wild strawberries, to catch pollywogs, and poison ivy. It was a place to explore the great outdoors or just lie on the ground, look at the sky, and chew on a piece of grass. It was a place of unsupervised fun, a place to be a boy, a place with no adults. For over six years, more than half of his young life the boy would play there. He loved that place.

 It was earlier that spring just after the snow melted when the first pieces of earth moving equipment arrived. It didn’t take them long. In just a few short days it was all gone. The fields, the woods, the swampy area, all of it leveled. The stream was turned into a storm drain. Not one tree was left standing. The place of imagination and dreams that had once been filled with childhood laughter and joy had been destroyed.

By early May the foundations had been poured and the framing was well underway. There was a sign by the street that said “Arborwood Apartments – Coming soon”. It was a huge development. The buildings were crowded together. Parking lots and streets occupied whatever ground was left. The boy hated it.

Well, on this particular warm and sunny day as the boy was walking home from school with six or seven friends, someone had the bright idea of exploring the construction site. The boy agreed wholeheartedly, it could be fun. They crossed the street and entered one of the recently framed buildings. Now, they all knew that they probably shouldn’t be there and if they got caught they would probably be in some kind of trouble. Well, that just made it seem a little more exciting. There were bunks of lumber stacked around in various places throughout the site, kegs of nails, boxes of hardware, and scaffold planks laying all over the place. Having never been on construction site before, the boy was pretty amazed. They climbed a ladder to the second floor. “What do you suppose they do with all these long pieces of wood?” said one of the kids as he kicked a few planks. The boy looked at the sixteen foot plank that his friend had just booted and had a brilliant idea. “They stick them out the window and slide down them” he said and laughed. They all knew this was not true, but it could be fun. 

They worked together, got the plank out the second story window, and sloped to the ground. This was no easy task, the second story floor at this point in the construction consisted of only floor joists. They had to carry the plank while stepping from joist to joist and coordinate their movements as to not push or pull one another off the joists as they moved along. Looking out the window and down the plank it was determined that sliding down the plank might be dangerous. It needed to be tested first. Norman, not the brightest of boys, wasn’t there or he would have been sent down the plank as a test. They needed someone or something else. They remembered the kegs of nails on the ground floor, perfect. It was just as difficult getting a fifty pound keg of nails across the floor joists as it was the plank, but at last the deed was done. They lifted the keg to the plank and stood it up right. They didn’t want to roll it, they wanted it to slide. They let go. It didn’t move. The keg was too heavy and the plank wasn’t slick enough. OK, rolling it would have to be acceptable. They turned it on its side and let it go. The scientists at NASA would have been proud. The keg stayed perfectly centered on the plank as it sped towards its’ ultimate destination. When it reached the ground it rolled a few feet, hit a small block of wood or stone and was launched. The airborne keg of nails crashed into the foundation of the next building. The keg shattered and nails went flying everywhere. No matter, the experiment was deemed a success. 

Now it was time for the boy try it, but once again the problem of the plank not being slick enough to slide on became evident. The plank was too narrow for a boy to roll down like the keg of nails. One of the kids had gone back outside to inspect a large forklift that was parked near the building that they were playing in. And to the thrill of everyone he found a grease gun. After figuring out how it worked the boys greased the entire plank, the bottom of their shoes, and the seat of their pants. They began sliding down the plank. It worked perfectly. One after another they were flying done the plank scampering back up to the second floor, dancing across the joists, and sliding down again. They were having a blast. 

In the midst of all this fun the boys forgot to post a lookout. They never noticed the group of construction workers that were surrounding them. All of a sudden the air cracked with the sound of a booming voice. “What the hell are you doing there? You stupid little turd, God damn it, get them kids.” The thrill of the dangerous play instantly changed to sheer terror and panic. Kids were scattering everywhere. This was no organized retreat. It was clearly every man for himself. Unfortunately the boy was on the second floor, half way between the ladder and the plank. He looked towards the ladder and saw a gruff looking fellow climbing up. He quickly crossed the joists to the window with the plank. There at the bottom of the greasy homemade slide stood another construction worker. His unshaven face was grinning up at the boy. The few teeth he had left in his head were stained brown from chewing tobacco. He spit out a huge glob of the stuff. It splattered all over the plank. The boy had nowhere to run, he had been caught. He had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He was finished.

They took him to the construction trailer, opened the door and shoved him in. Two of the other boys had also been captured and were already there. They looked pitiful. You could tell by looking at Jimmy, the younger of the two that he had been crying. It wasn’t that Jimmy was a baby. His dad could be pretty brutal. Jimmy was in for a beating. The boy knew that he was going to get clobbered to, but not like Jimmy. Jimmy was going to be beaten with a belt or stick until welts were raised. The boy wished they had caught somebody else besides Jimmy, the kid was terrified. 

The construction trailer was typical. There was a large table along one wall opposite the door, covered with blueprints. A desk at the narrow end of the trailer with invoices scattered all over it. The back half of the trailer was used to store tools and supplies. Sitting at the desk was the Foreman. He looked like a very serious man. The kids were standing three abreast Jimmy by the plan table, Billy in the middle, and the boy closest to the door. Behind them was standing the unshaven, toothless, tobacco chewer. He was breathing down their necks. The boy was convinced this guy must be part dog. His breath stunk. It smelled like he licked his own butt. The Foreman was in the process of reciting all the laws that they had broke, trespassing, destruction of property, theft. They hadn’t stolen anything, but this guy was trying to pin every bad thing that had ever happened to his construction site on them. He turned to his phone and began dialing. He was calling the police.

Billy whispered to the boy “go for the door.” The boy couldn’t believe what he just heard. He thought to himself “Billy must be crazy”. He glanced at the door. The knob wasn’t more than six inches from his hand. “Go for it” came the near silent whisper again. The boy’s palms started sweating. He began rubbing his hands together. Could he do it, should he try? He was trying to work up the courage. If he could get the door open quick enough they might just make it. They hadn’t given their names. If they could get outside they could easily out run these guys. They’d be Scott free. He looked over at Jimmy. There was hope in the younger boy’s eyes. Jimmy had heard the whisper to. The boy knew he would have to move fast, especially if they were all going to make it. Desperate times required desperate action. He started rocking back and forth. He was breathing rapidly. He could hear his own heart pounding. The Foreman had hung up the phone. The police were on their way. If he was going to do it, he had to do it NOW! He whirled towards the door grabbed the knob, turned it and pulled with all his might. It didn’t open. He pulled harder and harder. It still wouldn’t open. Neither the foreman nor the tobacco chewer had expected these little kids to make a break for it. They were taken by surprise. They still had not reacted. The boy still had his hand on the door. He pulled again. He put all of his heart into it. Billy helped him pull. The door wouldn’t budge. Finally the toothless tobacco chewer recovered his composure and grabbed the boy and spun him around. He pulled the boys hand off the door knob. He snatched the boy by the collar and pressed his face into the boys and with his dog butt breath said “going somewhere Kid”. The boy felt a mist of tobacco stained spittle land on his face. Then the toothless old goat put his own hand on the door knob, turned it, and effortlessly pushed the door open. He leaned his head back and laughed. The boy had been pulling with all his heart and soul, and all he had to do was push. The great escape had failed. 

The police brought the boy home. He got clobbered by his dad, was sent to his room, and was to be grounded for the rest of his life. As he lay in bed that night he reflected upon the events of the day. Oh, how he wished he had never stepped one foot into Arborwood. It was an evil place. He would never go there again. His thoughts turned to a different time and place. A place and time where he could be a cowboy or Indian, where he could build a fort or a tree house, where he could pick wild strawberries, catch pollywogs and poison ivy. Somewhere he could explore the great outdoors or just lie on the ground, look at the sky, and chew on a piece of grass. His eyes filled with tears. He felt a sense of great loss. He realized the place and time he loved so much was gone forever. He cried himself to sleep.

Post script:

Half a century has passed since the boy suffered the loss of his childhood sanctuary and cried himself to sleep. (My God, where have the years gone?) 

Once again he finds a community that he cares for, a place that he has grown to love, threatened by over development. This time he is not a helpless child unaware of the consequences of the calamity until after the fact. This time he will not cry himself to sleep. Instead, along with family, friends and neighbors, he will fight. Together they will organize and resist the dark cloud of greed and profiteering that is descending upon their town. They will fight to protect their children, the seniors, the wildlife, the river, and the small town character of their community. They will reach out to all the folks in the town and ask them to join in this struggle. 

By no means is victory assured. The folks in town have almost no money; the wealthy developer counts his dollars by the billions. The townsfolk have little experience; the developer spent years acquiring his fortune by gobbling up properties and villages all over the country. The folks in town are little more than a lose rabble, the developer has a well oiled machine, a legal team and an army of highly paid experts with well prepared testimonies that twist truths and facts. He has fought this battle many times.

Somehow, the folks maintain hope. They are franticly educating themselves. They are reaching out and finding allies who have experience in battling the huge developers and their money machines. The allies have access to the some of the funds that are required to conduct this type of conflict. As quickly as they can, the resistance group is acquiring the knowledge necessary to fight and win this war. They call themselves SOD! (Stop Over Development). Join them.