Detroit Nights

For the first 12 years of my life, I lived on a dirt street. Trucks would periodically come by and oil it, to keep the dust down. We had ditches, a rotating assortment of broke down cars being repaired that covered both the driveway and lawn, and a couple of big trees in the front yard – the bigger one was whitewashed at the trunk. It was a working-class neighborhood; kids everywhere. Our parents would yell our names at dinnertime, or at dark, or whenever we had to come home – because we were always outside, somewhere. We lived in an 800-square foot house, which sold for 800 bucks a couple of years ago. A handful of houses down the street, running perpendicular to it, was the industry-lined C & O Railroad. Ziebart Rustproofing, Profile Steel and Wire – whose giant front lawn we used for baseball games; the signpost that read »No Ball Playing« was home plate – and further east, a sprawling 7-Up Bottling Plant. There was a pedestrian walkway between the steel and pop factories, allowing people to walk to and from the railroad. On the other side of the tracks, the streets were paved.