He is called a Region Rat. He is a nature loving rat that feeds on the grains from the farmlands south of the big water and on the seeds of the sand reed grass in the dune and swale terrain. Today, he’s decided to take a journey in search of an old friend who he heard was back in the Region. He’s a bit of a home-body. He is not one with the necessity to stray far from home, except for going to work which really wouldn’t be classified as ‘far’. There is an odd sense of convenience about the Region in general. All you need is nearby and if your city or town doesn’t offer it, the next one is only a block or two away and they will be offering what you’re looking for. When he retires and if he isn’t suffering from some strange disease caused from environmental contamination, he just might become a snowbird. Becoming a snowbird is one of the time-honored traditions of retired individuals from America’s Midwestern rust-belt. Destinations are typically the sunshine and warm weather of Florida or Arizona. But that time is still several years away and in the meantime he’ll continue to hang out with the other divorcees at the local VFW. Winter is breaking and with the start of the spring thaw he hasn’t really gotten out much. So, today is a very special day.
He grabs a duffle and packs the bag with snack food, a lighter, smokes, flask, art supplies and an extra t-shirt, an old favorite from his younger days with ACDC on it. He and his friend saw them play back in the day. Heading to the door he hesitates, considering briefly on whether or not he should grab his gun. “No, I’ll be fine, just keep an eye out.” He says aloud, then, pauses as he feels the air move around him. “Well, best not let the dusts settle.” Traveling is usually pretty smooth sailing with any type of internal compass one should be able to navigate their location with Lake Michigan to the north and the grand Kankakee to the south, Illinois near west and rural route 49 to the East, with individual streets which run their way through several cities at a time, who could get lost? He dons a ball cap and in faded jeans and hard-soled shoes walks out the door. Good shoes are important. Last known, his buddy was couching it at his Grandmother’s crib. She lives in an area called Glen Park in southwest Gary, which years ago was a multicultural settlement of young millworker families. He lived there for a time up through the race riots of the early 1970’s.
As a child, he would be awakened by his mother in the wee hours of the morning for the weekend event – a house or garage burning. His eyes would burn first from the lights of fire trucks, police, and rescue units, then from the acrid smoke. One house had been burned and rebuilt three times at the end of the street. All the neighbors would come out in their pajamas to watch the fires. Entertainment at its best, until one day, it was his garage and the fort built with three boys from a large Irish family next door. A large Puerto Rican family had moved in across the street and it didn’t take long before they tried to run the block, harassing all the kids as they played ‘kick the can’ or ‘cricket’ out in the middle of the street or out building forts in the alleyways. He had been warned that if the fort was built it would burn. That was a hard life lesson at four. He had a chip on his shoulder ever since towards injustice. His family never went out for the weekend entertainment after that.
Going back to the old neighborhood was always bittersweet. A bit of his past that felt remarkably comfortable, yet was dark in context. His best friend, Kirk, was an American-Vietnamese kid that lived in the house next door to the north. Kirk had a beautiful dog, an Alaskan husky. “Damn”, he mutters while walking along an old sidewalk riddled with buckles and overgrown grass, weeds, trees or whatever could grow in the crevices, “What was that dog’s name.” He had cried for three days for that dog when he learned that “What was his name…” had been beaten to death by robbers that had broken into Kirk’s house. “That was a great dog.” Kirk and his family moved shortly thereafter. His family did the same when it happened to them. He was reminded of a pet bunny, Hoppy. Hoppy was one of those short-lived, poor parental decisions made around Easter. When Hoppy went missing in summer, he and his sisters wandered around the neighborhood asking if anyone had seen the white rabbit. The common response was that a German family down the street had rabbit stew for Sunday dinner.
Amongst countless life-influencing events were memories of ice cream socials, smoking cattails, bicycle ramps, playing in the sand hills, and stealing rhubarb from old ladies’ gardens along the alley fences - these women would run out in house coats with their hair in rollers and covered with a scarf, or native babushka, wielding broom and cursing in some foreign tongue – Polish, Hungarian, Yugoslavian, or Czechoslovakian.
His street was like a little united nations and when he was old enough to learn his colors, his mother instructed him on where each family had come and used their homes to teach the colors. How could he forget…Kirk lived in the green house and neighbors didn’t take to his American dad bringing home his Vietnamese wife after the Vietnam war…the orange house belonged to a Greek family, the white two-story homes were Polish, the yellow house was Puerto Rican, the white house with the fancy bushes out front were the Italians, the burned out house was Mexican…the Puerto Ricans and Mexicans did not get along. The brown house two doors down was Mr. Schneider’s, an old German man who lived alone who would ask children to help him find his dog. A warning about Mr. Schneider was issued by all parents to their children – do not help him find his dog, he has no dog, and don’t ever go into his house. He never understood that one. He had helped Mr. Schneider find his dog and once the little white dog went into the house Mr. Schneider gave him a quarter and thanked him. Everyone had an opinion about everyone else. His family was eastern european and with the Kelley family next door, he figures he had learned about half the globe just from his street. There was a famous family that lived just a few blocks down at the time, he would hear often about the nigger family that could dance and sing.
Hell, every group had some derogatory name and his grandfather used them all.
In fact, he felt over time that his grandfather hated everyone equally. “Don’t ever eat at a Greek restaurant, they pick food off the floor and serve it!”…”Gary ain’t even safe to fly over.” His grandfather was such a difficult person to understand that over time he just gave up trying. His grandma’s diaries tell of a man that changed greatly after the war, who suffered from shellshock. He beat her and the kids too, fucked his kids up in the mind. But from the day that his grandmother died, you would swear his grandpa had always kissed the ground she walked on.
Back in the day, his grandparents would throw the biggest parties on the Fourth of July. What seemed like two hundred people filled their home playing Pinochle and Kismet. He had learned to play the complicated card game of trump and betting at a very early age and his grandpa would always give him nickels to join in the fun. Kismet was a dice game of chance which his grandma would describe as a reminder of her gypsy roots. At least eight tables of games being played inside while outside a dozen chickens were roasting on a spit hovering above a small trench in the yard filled with charcoal. The men gathered around the roasting lamb and tended to the chicken. Whiskey and wine flowed! The women were lined up in sunbathing chairs with big colorful earrings and sunglasses and stripped bikinis. Everyone held a small American flag. When he visited the house last year to clean out the remnants of all those family memories his daughter found one of those small American flags and he remembered that day as he did now.
His grandparents lived on a main vein running through Lake County from the County Seat of Crown Point to Fifth Avenue in Gary. The town displayed the grandest displays of patriotism all year, but the fourth was extra special. He would watch in amazement. His grandfather would run cans of beer out to the policeman and fireman as they slowly passed by while candy flew all around him. He would run out into the street to collect all that he could grab and quickly store the booty under his woven plastic and metal frame lawn chair - kid sized. That year’s parade drew to a close with someone he knew very well, his uncle. This uncle taught him to play the piano and was involved in art and theatre. His grandma used to take him to the theatre performances when he was young. He loved watching his uncle on stage. In a grand performance, this bi-centennial year his uncle had shed his clothes and ended the parade with a streak on a chopper motorcycle, much to his grandfather’s chagrin. All he saw from his little chair was his uncle’s grin and the crack of his ass. During the excitement this display had caused, he wiggled through the growing throngs of people congregating on the front lawn to console or cajole his grandfather over the incident. Whap, he tripped over a garden hose and lost the skin on his left kneecap, which is a scar he still bears from that memorable day.
Patriotism was not taken lightly in the Region. When he turned seven, his mom took him to the polls to vote. On the way she shared with him that he was an American citizen and as part of a democratic republic, which believes in individual rights and freedom, he had a duty as a citizen to pay attention to politics and to vote, to share his voice. “People have died so that you can be free, you must never forget your duty to your relatives, your country, and yourself.” She stated. She also made it clear, “Your vote is your own and you mustn’t share that with anyone.” Both of his grandfathers had served in WWII and his uncles in Vietnam. One of his uncles killed himself after returning to the U.S. from Vietnam and another died of a drug overdose. Another uncle made it home only to be shot three times as a bouncer in local taverns, but suffered no injuries and appeared relatively unaffected by his experiences in Vietnam. This uncle was always a cocky S.O.B. and ended up as a teamster union representative. Patriotism and Unionism are two ‘isms’ deeply shared by Region Rats.
“Ah, how good it feels to be out stretching my legs after all standing all day - makes you stiff,” he comments as he approaches the lakeshore. He breathes deeply and the air smells so good, not recycled and dusty. He comes upon the Grand Marsh and stops a moment to take in the scenery. Lowland ferns unroll hairy tentacles as winter’s icy grip releases the soil as warmth brings life renewed. The purple lupine flowers reach out of a sandy loam between fallen leaves and decaying remnants of ancient debris. No Karner Blue butterfly spotted today, typically flitting from flower to flower. The Lupine flower provides the fuel source for the larva and chrysalis stages of the butterfly’s life cycle. The Karner Blue is as endangered as the Region Rat, as both do their best to survive a limited food source and sustainable territory. Traversing through terrain flat and muddy soon drenching himself in marshy waters coming to rise among the white birches on the outer edges. As he passes by, the blooms of the Mayapple bow to the ground, reverent and cloaked like a secret society. The Jack-in-the-Pulpit and White Trillium prepare for rebirth, drinking of the earth. He finds his way to a stand of Black Oak, a savannah, recalling the land of Africa. Their darkness and massive presence stop him, not out of fear, but shear glory as he reaches the ridge, breathless and subdued. He pauses for a time to capture his breath and the smell of white flowers fills the air. He desires to capture their essences and removes from his satchel, paper and lead. He begins to sketch four petals, four petals in small bunches, so delicate and small that he has to lean forward near ground level for a good view. The wind blows off the big water and the oak creaks a mournful cry. Standing so tall and still, yet full of voice and wisdom. They have stood the test of time and man. He drew too, a simple line drawing of their interface with sky, sun, and earth below. Shallow scrub and fallen debris are all that mark their territory. He decides to move closer to the shoreline and scurries up a small dune. He is met by a stag, huffing and standing so proud. He stops in fear, trepidation at the deer’s strength and fortitude. The ground trembles as he stamps his foot in declaration of his presence. Meek and silent, slowly moving and simply staring at the beast, the Region Rat retreats. He spots a muskrat and kingfisher poised for a strike sitting amongst the cattails. This is an isolated and undisturbed area that is quite difficult to access.
He begins to climb higher and soon soil relinquishes to sand. The oak stand lay in waiting for his return, a mile back. He stops to rest and lies at the base of a tree in a clearing of cottonwood, their silver back leaves shining brightly in the afternoon sun. The earthy smells of marsh long gone give way to the scent of fresh water and an odor he cannot readily describe. He rests among the treetops and watches flocks of foreign, colorful birds migrating through this passage – ringed neck with brown and orange on their wings. They looked like woodcocks but spoke a language he had never heard. He reached the crest of the hill to see a sea of blue for as far as vision would allow and sand and scrub 500 feet below. There is a loud sound churning to his left – grinding huffing and puffing and he can see black smoke, gray smoke, and white smoke. This must be where clouds are made. He sees them from far away billowing plumes rising into the atmosphere, but never from this vantage point. Yes, this must be where they come from, fed by the vast sea and endless sky.
Amazement washes over him as his view sharpens and he sees movement below. As much as he yearns for the refreshment of the lapping waves below, he is drawn to the sounds and movement from the steel mill. It appears endless and is rich with acrid smells, so many scents, burning in his nostrils. The sounds are now grinding in his head. He is drawn by the turbines, sucking him inward and downward. He is dizzy, falling now, head over heels tumbling and gaining speed with sand splashing about like the water below. He begins to laugh in fear and exhilaration, “What fear?!” “Where shall I land, will I ever stop!” The sand is hot from the sun and the air cool as he is whizzing down, down, down. He believes he has sand in every crevice, the grit in his mouth and his eyes in joy and terror. Burning eyes and burning nose. The landing was soft as his body came to a stop still several feet from the shore. He stood and shook himself off, as if that would help shed the weight of sand and earthy debris collected on his ride. He saw a fellow rat standing on the shoreline with fishing pole in hand and an old metal lunchbox at his side and a stringer hanging from his belt. The dirty rat was tall with a rounded slump in his shoulders that diminished his stature. Upon a closer look, the rat’s hands were large, rough, and strewn with cuts and deep cracks filled with the dark matter of the mill. “Good fishing today?” “Used to be,” the veteran millrat mumbled in his direction. “What you fishing for?” He asked. “Already dead fish, scram kid I’m trying to take a break here…oh and watch out for those millrats. They’ll eat you up and spit you out. They don’t take much to newbies. Hell, they barely like their friends!” He didn’t know much what to say to that, so he scurried off toward the land of enchantment or otherwise known as, the land of the lost.