waiting for the freight train to pass by, i glance over my shoulder at the high school football team practicing in the 86 degree heat. i’m a bit warm, and i’m pretty shocked that it only took me 15 minutes to walk from my mom’s house, all the way across town, to whiting park. it’s a walk that perhaps i’ve never done before, living in the great midwest — the land of automobiles.
as the freight train blocking my entrance to the park slowly chugs down towards the steel mills, i glance at the 8 different sets of train tracks in front of me… and recall the fun that matt and i would have putting pennies and god knows what else on those rails. the trains would chug by, and afterwards we go scavenging for the cinged copper remains of whatever we put on the tracks. we must’ve been 11 or 12–we’d spend the rest of our days playing nintendo and trading baseball cards.
entering the park, i realize it’s surprisingly empty [considering the gorgeous weather] except for the occasional car driving through. i walk up the path leading to the top of the hill, and am surprised at how pristine everything is. the signs are all freshly painted, and the grass–just like the suburban lawns i passed on my walk to the park–are perfectly manicured and edged so that everything’s neat and tidy.
i get to the little bridge near the tennis courts, and as i soak in the hazy view over lake michigan and catch my first glimpse of the chicago skyline, i remember the weekly “hills” regimen we’d have during cross country practice–up and down the hills, over and over until your lungs and your stomach wanted to invert and expel themselves from your body. those were good memories, though… much better than the cross country meets we’d have at the other park, forsythe park, where the pollution from the nearby factories would burn your lungs as you ran your 2.6 mile course.
strolling down the funky circular stairs surrounding the flower garden, i remember the elementary-school picnics we’d have once a year here. i remember one year–it must’ve been third grade–when we were all there, eating hot dogs and playing games and drinking kool aid, when my friend nick got appendicitis. it was big drama and i remember thinking he was going to explode. after he got rushed away in the ambulance, we all went back to playing in the high-power park sprinklers.
strolling towards the pavilion, i remember countless events being held here, in the city’s only outdoor sorta amphitheater. i remember school plays, i remember haunted houses. connected to the pavilion, i get a powerful flashback to when i was maybe 4, living with my grandma after my parents divorced. it was a hot summer day (like today) and my grandma had taken me to the park to go on the swings or merry-go-round. the concession stand (long since closed) used to sell all sorts of stuff, and i remember getting a bag of extra buttery popcorn that day, wolfing it down, and then spinning myself sick on the rides. i went home and was sick for days puking my guts out–probably not a good idea to have that much butter in 90-degree heat. my grandma was very good to me, though.
walking along the edge of the baseball diamond, i pause and watch the middle school baseball team practice. they don’t seem to be doing too well, either in their hitting or fielding or anything. i always fancied myself a decent baseball player, you know, from years of little league and mandatory pe every year of school, but it’s been years since i’ve touched a bat.
on the other side of the baseball diamond is the edge of the park–the boundary between the park and the bp amoco oil refinery property. the town was founded because of the refinery, and the refinery property is bigger than the rest of the city. there’s a very nice [looking] half-mile long stretch of beach, starting here at the edge of the park and following a service road down along refinery property to some huge oil tanks and processing plant buildings a mile down the road. we always referred to this hidden non-beach beach as “amoco beach”. mike and nick and i would go there every few days and lie in the sun and splash around in the crystal clear [but probably toxically polluted] waters. that was probably one of the last times in my life that i had simply textbook, easily defined “best friends”. we’d always get kicked off the beach by the refinery security guards who’d patrol every few hours.
probably my favorite part of whiting park is the pier–a pretty ugly metal monstrosity, painted safety orange, and it only is in the water during the summer. the parking lot and the pier were empty for the 30 minutes or so i spent absorbed in thought. strolling down the length of this 30-yard long pier over lake michigan, the temperature drops to a crisp 70 degrees. there’s only a gentle breeze today, so there’s no chance of huge waves splashing up through the metal grating of the pier, as has happened so many times in the past. at the end of the pier, one has a pretty nice view of the chicago skyline, the skimpy walhala county beach, the still foreign visual monstrosity of the new casino riverboats along the coast, and, of course, the dozens of steel mill and oil refinery plants and towers all making use of the water from lake michigan. it’s a beautiful view, even with all of the black smoke churning out of the smokestacks.
coming off the pier, a car lazily pulls into the parking lot, parked at an angle pointed towards the chicago skyline. i laugh out loud as i recall all of the adventures i’ve had in that parking lot… like escaping school and having a quick fast-food lunch with my friends, and dumping french fries on my friend’s car so that 100 seagulls attack it. pimping through the park with my friends at night, after getting my driving license but being too scared to make the commute to chicago–leaving whiting park as one of the few distractions to occupy mobile teenagers on a summer night. i also fondly remember one incident in that parking lot, late at night, with some white castle hamburgers, some half-eaten chicken rings, some sodas, a bit of teenage passion, some steamy windows, and a police officer who was surprised to find a boy in the passenger seat of my car. the cop was definitely more embarrassed than we were.
in a way i’m saying hello–by reacquainting myself with where i spent the first 18 years of my life. in a way, though, i know i’m saying goodbye–to a place that, as time goes on, seems more and more foreign, less and less charming with each homecoming.
