Safety From Sprawl

A few months ago I read a fascinating story about a couple who, as a sort of performance art/experiment, squatted for several years in a mall, undetected by mall security. The story surprised me, not in the least that some people find shopping malls so attractive or interesting that they would purposely spend such time there. I can imagine myself doing it as an experiment, or doing it as a form of civil disobedience ... but these people did it for those reasons AND because they really enjoy the mall. Safety in conformity, in predictability, in climate-controlled environments. Huh. Check out their website here.

While I was home this month I did some processing of my own personal history. I drove along the new and efficient Sorensen Parkway, which cuts a clean route through North Omaha. During my childhood the Sorensen's path stopped short at a field just behind my home. A large alfalfa field, forest and stream ran adjacent to my suburban neighborhood. As children we befriended the farmer, rode on his tractor, woke up to the smell of alfalfa, played with the cottonwood seed fluff, and explored this peaceful expanse. Our home life wasn't easy, but both my brother Chris and I found freedom and creative expression out there. I wrote poems about the trees that I befriended, and deeply grieved when one old tree died. One of my most spiritually poignant memories was coming upon an adult deer while alone in a silent clearing of the forest; the deer and I examined each other for a long while in the dappled light. Chris, now a successful contractor, built countless underground forts. Mom took us berry-picking to the mulberry trees, and we labored over many batches of sticky purple jelly. Chris' dad built incredible treeforts, sandboxes, horseshoe pits, and bountiful elevated gardens. Together with our farm cousins we caught snakes or turtles, and charged the nervous neighbor kids to see our wild pets. Mom used a loud whistle to call us home before twilight.

Now that forest has been chopped down to make the "parkway", or autoway.

Our house used to back up to that lovely hill of alfalfa field. The children who live in it now look up to the back of a huge strip mall and parking lot. The cottonwoods are down. The raised gardens and horseshoe pits are long gone. A few spindly pines were planted, but not enough to cover the eyesore of the mall.

And this, my dear readers, is where we're going. A useless, forlorn expanse of parking lot and several big-box stores. I walked into the Marshall's with several septuagenarians, and considered making conversation. The looked like long-time Nebraskans. Could they empathize with my bewilderment and grief? Are there shopping malls now in the places that were once holy to these elders? Should I just get on with it, get over it, buy a pair of shoes and call it progress?


Yet this is what Nebraska can look like. A dear friend of mine bought a home near here, on the edge of Lake Cunningham. I'm happy for her future children, who might have the freedom to play in a park that won't be turned into a parkway. Perhaps her kids will work for true progress.