“Imagine what it was like when the dinosaurs roamed the earth,” my voice is barely above a whisper. I feel the small hand in mine clutch a bit tighter as we walk among large fronds from palms trees and then through an area lush with ancient ferns, mosses and outcroppings. We are enveloped by a fog-like mist and it’s not difficult to imagine the jurassic period. The older child, a couple of feet away, makes a low-pitched throaty sound. I look toward him and he smiles, “That was me,” to reassure us that there really isn’t a dinosaur milling nearby. It’s about 28 degrees fahrenheit outside, but we are warm and cozy, ensconced in the midst of sweet smelling, plant-purified air.
I’ve been bringing my grandchildren to the Garfield Park Conservatory for about 10 years. The conservatory occupies 4.5 acres, including all of its indoor and outdoor areas. It stands proudly in the center of Chicago’s 185 acre Garfield Park. And it never ceases to stun me with its beautiful botanical treasure. It is a jewel of unmeasurable worth.
As you walk from one indoor room to another, you are bowled over with the ever-changing beauty of design, making each visit a unique experience. Oh, and did I mention that it’s free, with free parking? (Although donations are definitely welcome and well merited.) And when the harsh winter ends, they open up the outdoor gardens and the beauty seems to roll along forever. The first time I took our older grandson to the outdoor “city garden” he was about two. He ran out onto the lawn and threw himself on the ground, at first with his eyes closed he grasped the grass, then rolled onto his back, opened his eyes, laughing and throwing up his little arms, moving them as if he were awash in a sea of trees and birds and sunshine and clouds, that he could grasp, pull and place in his pockets.
Yes, it is a jewel of unmeasurable worth, and one that is set in a war zone.
This grand piece of nature lies in an economically downtrodden neighborhood, one that is spiked with unfathomable gun violence, as at any given time, it can rank near the top in the nation for homicides by guns.
As I walk from my youngest grandchild’s home on the Northside of Chicago to the nearby Mariano’s grocery store, where well-dressed, young families peacefully abound, buying organic groceries or expensive ready-cooked meals, it’s hard to imagine that just 7 miles away, as the crow flies, that crow will leave a site with scads of young families safely and happily frolicking outside and fly to an area where young children, who aside from their walk to and from school, mostly remain inside their homes, for fear of stray bullets from warring gangs.
Like many U.S. cities, Chicago contains segregated neighborhoods. Although many areas remain relatively unaffected by gun violence, in some neighborhoods the bloodletting is constant and unrelenting, and this is nearly always in black or Hispanic neighborhoods, where the victims are usually male.
When someone is shot, there are never any witnesses. I can’t blame them. I wouldn’t tell the authorities anything if it virtually guaranteed that I’d be the next victim. And I wasn’t raised with a lifelong mistrust or distrust of the police department. A code of silence is strictly enforced. It’s no different than turning evidence against the mafioso, except that there is no witness protection program for these people.
To whom does one turn for help if you can’t turn to the city officials? Even the religious leaders are stymied as to a permanent solution. Chicago's famed Catholic priest Michael Pfleger says, “Guns have become part of America’s wardrobe. People out here presume everyone has one, and they’ll tell you, ‘I’m going to draw mine before I get laid down.’ ” And throw in the fact that we, in the U.S., have a lily-livered Congress that kowtows to the gun and rifle associations' lobbyists (who insist "guns don't kill..." !) and thus refuse to put sensible restrictions on sales and ownership of assault weapons.
Teenagers are lured to gangs for companionship but also for a sense of protection, even though ironically it puts them at increased risk for one day becoming a statistic on the homicide chart. We all know that the teenage brain is not wired to think as logically as an adult brain, - “Consequence? What is consequence?"
Over a particularly bloody weekend, the youngest Chicago homicide victim is a 16-year-old boy, shot in the chest as he stands on a sidewalk in the East Garfield Park neighborhood. Was he a gang member? I don’t know, but I do know that 16 year old boys often make poor decisions, decisions they might rationalize differently were they lucky enough to live to be 28 years old.
There is a part of Werner Herzog’s Encounters at the End of the World documentary where a scientist discusses creatures found in the deepest of the oceans:
"They range in the way that they would gobble you up from slime-type blobs, but creepier than classic science fiction blobs - these would have long tendrils that would ensnare you, and as you try to get away from them you just become more and more ensnared by your own actions. And then after you would be frustrated and exhausted, then this creature would start to move in and take you apart…"
Werner Herzog responds (this may not be verbatim but it’s close):
“Life in the oceans must be sheer hell. A vast, merciless hell of permanent and immediate danger. So much of a hell that during evolution some species crawled... fled onto solid land.”
Come, come crawl away, flee from the danger and into the Conservatory, I think.
***
On a recent, unseasonably warm June day, I ask my youngest grandchild (almost 2 1/2 years old), “Where do you want to go today, to the beach or to Morning Glories?” Each Monday the conservatory hosts a program, for 2-5 years olds and their caregivers, called Morning Glories. There is no charge for this amazing program, where young children, mostly from privileged caucasian families, play in the sanitized dirt, dig for worms, plant seeds, mist the plants and flowers, have stories read to them, make take-home projects, -all against the prettiest backdrop you could envision. He’s a pretty sharp kid, so he replies, “Morning Glories first and then the beach."
I stand and watch as he clambers up a grass-covered hill and we look over the grounds. A Green Line CTA train passes nearby. As always, I’m astounded at the show of contrast between natural beauty and a city beset by combat. Just like the air purified by the trees, flowers and plants, there is a palpable change in this environment; the chaos of city life seems to have evaporated here and a sweet calm form of condensation falls upon us, like invisible raindrops. And I think of the flower that grows in a tiny crack or small fissure in the concrete...
Come on over, come on in, neighborhood children, this is your conservatory, too. Come, come and flourish...
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| a flower grows |
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| grandson prepares to throw his small change into the ever-changing coin pond - this particular week a tribute to Prince |
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| inspirational labyrinth |
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| the ever cool cactus room |
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| the fern room - when the misters are on seems like ancient america |
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| the eye-popping color of the display room |
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| the outdoor lily pond |
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| the indoor koi pond |
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| the indoor children's room slide |
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| this display just after the paris shootings, (when, I wonder, will I see a remembrance for the nearby child victims of gun violence?) |
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| would you believe me if I told you this is in the middle of "war-torn" Chicago? |
