On Griffin Woods, Food Deserts, and the Nature of Boys

"Forests greet us and deserts dog our heels."
-Derrick Jensen

     I began working on this week's post with the full intention of unpacking the Trifecta of the horse-race, in which we are all spectators and participants. We think we are merely sitting in the grandstand, watching the progress through binoculars, laying out two-dollar bets, according to the best guesses of the odds-makers and the bookies. Rather, we are the owners, trainers, and jockeys, whether we realize it or not. The favorites are Economic Growth and Technological Progress. The underdogs, who have unexpectedly pulled ahead: Financial Chicanery, Peak Oil, and Anthropogenic Climate Change. I promise, we will get there, along with exploring other taboo subjects (at least in polite company), the fate of Pax Americana, protest, politics, religion, and many more. I do not pretend to sway anyone to my point of view. If I can but convince even a small minority to think about the predicaments we all face, well then that alone will be something,
Then my youngest daughter asked me to teach her to ride a bike. After a small mishap, involving tangled feet, the pavement, her skinned knees, and her father's broken nose, she is ready to take the plunge once again. Bless her heart! Learning to ride a bicycle is one of the most terrifying and liberating experiences a child can have. You are expected to coordinate feet, hands, eyes, and body in a dance of incredible dexterity to accomplish...locomotion. Try to explaining it in words, the exact process to maintain control, balance, and forward motion, and I promise you, words will most certainly fail you. Riding a bike is just something you have to do.

     And from the child's point of view, this is sheer terror. They are set loose, upon a piece of unfamiliar machinery, that they alone control. Mom and Dad are not there, with them, to make everything OK, to prevent the fall. And fall they will. Try and take yourself back, years ago, when you sat upon that seat for the first time, sure that you would meet the asphalt in short order. It takes grit to learn to ride that bike. But once mastered, it is the child's first real venture into the wider world, it is freedom.

     Now, I freely admit that a girl's experience of the bicycle, and yes, even the outdoors in general, may be quite different from a boy's. After over twenty years of marriage, and raising three daughters, I can attest to a few truths. Firstly all-statements about people, generalizations, are often flawed. There are stark differences between my girls. One is an artist, one an accidental naturalist (wading in the slough and collecting tadpoles to raise) and one is my gardener (along with a deep fascination in dollhouses). Secondly, I wouldn't trade my situation for all the gold in El Dorado. At this point I have been swimming in estrogen for two decades. The only other person in the house who stands up to pee is the cat, and he's cut. I wouldn't even know where to begin with a son. And last of all, the ladies in my life are an absolute joy, and an abiding mystery. I am convinced now, that if I know anything about the battle of the sexes, it is this: I know nothing.
But I do know something about boys, since I am one. If fact, Mrs. Fairchild would probably point out that there are innumerable instances where I have proven that I never progressed much beyond the age of twelve. Yes, I still like Spongebob and fart jokes are still funny. As well, I think that the riding of a bike, and the attendant freedom, is fundamental to the state of boyhood.

     My first bike was a hand-me-down from my big brother. I no longer remember the brand, but it was red, with deep "longhorn" handlebars, and a banana-seat. I was eight, when I learned to ride, much to the dismay of our neighbor, Delores. After several aborted attempts, Dad sent me down the steep driveway with a chant of pedal, pedal, pedal! That's all it took, from that one trip down the driveway, across the street, and to an abrupt stop facilitated by the Colonel's privacy fence, I was off! Braking and steering, however, took a little longer to master.

     This is where Delores entered the picture. She was a big woman and ambled out onto the sidewalk, resplendent in a patterned house dress, right into my path. The nerve of some people. I can still hear my best friend Tim holler out "Billy! Stop!"

     "I can't! I don't know how!", I replied in a moment of sheer paralysis and terror, forgetting that most important of instructions from my Dad, you must pedal backwards to brake. I met Delores with a thud reminiscent of the Colonel's fence, and down she went, fainting straightaway. I was pretty sure I'd killed her and had visions of the police leading me off to the "hole" never to be heard from again. I am glad to report that Delores fully recovered, with nothing worse to show for it than a long bruise on her massive shin, upon which the tread pattern of the front wheel was embossed on her pallid flesh in purple relief. Oh, I had to apologize, and I was restricted to riding in front of the house for a week. My dad's insurance had to pay the medical bill. But I had not, in fact, committed criminally negligent homicide, and eventually I was turned loose upon the wider world.

     Back in the late seventies, after breakfast, and Saturday morning cartoons, our mothers packed peanut butter and jelly, apples, chips, and a thermos full of Kool-aid into our backpacks, and we boys set off for adventure, with the admonition to be back at home before the sun set, and not get our feet wet. The first condition was doable, the second nigh to impossible. Often, we would ride down the Highline Canal, an old irrigation and drainage ditch that snakes through Aurora, Co. It is a testament to their agrarian past, lined with majestic cottonwood trees and a first rate bike path. But often as not, we would head to the Cottonwood, the boys and I.

     That was what we called it, the Cottonwood. It was a copse of plains cottonwood trees situated on a multi-acre parcel of undeveloped land across from the new middle school. There were remnants of the short-grass prairie that had once covered all of eastern Colorado, studded with yucca cactus, prickly pear, and mullein plants dancing above the cheat-grass. The dried stalk of a mullein makes a great wizard's staff for a ten-year old, by the way. There were tracts of swampy wetlands with bulrushes, cattails, and an abandoned, rusted out, late fifties Chevy. And there were the willows and the massive cottonwood trees, ancient, brooding, dark and hoary, and dare I say it, sentient. This was our Fangorn Forest, our Sherwood, our Garroting Deep. Imagine our delight on discovering an old tree-house. She was made of two by fours and plywood, with one by twos secured to the living trunk with railroad spikes as a ladder. A garden-hose was tied to a branch and left dangling, for quick descent, or the escape of one's enemies. In today's world, this represents one word: litigation. But at that time, some kind soul, who understood the nature of boys, left us a priceless treasure, a place for our imagination to run free. In our mind's eyes, surely Elves, Forestals, Merry Men or other travelers of a long lost eldritch world had left this abandoned arboreal fort, for use in defense of the realm of light against the brewing darkness.

     It was here that I also learned of the kindness of strangers. Whilst trying to effect my escape from marauding orcs by sliding down the garden hose, I slipped and fell about ten feet, cracking a rib. I made it about a half mile back to my house, by bike, when a kindly construction worker, piled me, my friends, and our bikes into the back of his pickup amd drove us the rest of the way. He carried me gently to the door and presented me to my mother. To her credit, she never scolded, she just took care of me. After all, these things happen, boys will be boys. Six weeks later, I was off again.

     Fast forward 35 years, and a controversy is brewing (the way the Brit's pronounce that word, is ever so much cooler). It involves Griffin Woods. For those of you who may not know, this is a patch of approximately 20 acres of undeveloped, forested land, on Springfield, IL's near west side. It sits at the corner of Chatham and Washington. Now before I go further, I must distinguish, there is a clear difference between what we have a legal right to do, and what we ought to do. The Springfield Catholic Arch-Diocese owns the land, and they certainly have to right to sell it to whomever they choose. Schnuck's grocery is a legitimate business (within our standard paradigm) and they certainly have the right to buy and develop it. Schnuck's, to their credit will bring much needed jobs to the area, and will provide an additional source of fresh foods. This is a small beginning in the effort to improve both the economy and the health of the greater Springfield area. You see, much of Springfield, particularly in the central core, and the east-side, can be considered a food-desert. Due to the pioneering work of Mari Gallagher, food-deserts have come into the public eye of late. In a rural area, a food desert is defined as living in an area where the nearest source of fresh food (a grocery store, generally speaking) is more than a ten mile trip for residents. In an urban setting, if you have to travel more than a mile to shop for fresh food, you live in a food desert. Why the concern? It is far more likely that low-income families will face transportation challenges that are not experienced by most Americans. Lack of enough income to support the use of a car (e.g.- purchase price, insurance, licensing, fuel), poor public transportation, and a decidedly non bike-friendly environment are just a few of the obstacles faced by these families. So a daily or weekly trip to a grocery store may be all but impossible.

     Particularly in depressed urban centers, grocery stores see blight, high crime, poor infrastructure, and a low income base as impediments to a profitable operation. The rural landscape often fares worse. The tiny farming hamlet, with a small aging population, a decrepit Main St., and a decimated commercial base, is geographically isolated and considered unworthy of investment. The grocery chains are reluctant to locate in the areas that most need their services. This has led to entire generations of youth growing up on fast food such as burgers, or convenience store junk food, mostly made from high fructose corn syrup, corn derivatives, sugar, and salt. Think cheesy-poofs and cola. Not only does a diet like this lead to obesity and its attendant health-problems, in my opinion, it retards the physical and cognitive development of the children. We potentially end up with a large cohort of the population who grow up to be ignorant couch potatoes, more interested in America's Got Talent and the weekly football game than they are in the fate of the nation, in being engaged citizens.

     So on its surface, the proposal to raze Griffin Wood's and develop the land would appear to be in the public interest. I say "on the surface" because the economic argument may be quite transient. The much ballyhooed jobs and growth, may in fact be a short term phenomenon, for reasons that I will examine in later posts. The other reason that this proposal is of superficial benefit is that the woodland possesses qualities that are very, very hard to quantify in economic terms. The aesthetic benefits to our human community would be one, think of the colors in autumn, for example. As well, according to Urban Forestry, one acre of woods sequesters 2.7 tons of carbon and emits enough oxygen for one person to breathe on an annual basis. That means that Griffin Woods is a carbon sink for 54 Springfieldians. It produces the oxygen 20 residents depend on for their lives. Doesn't seem like much, does it? But this should begin to drive home the point that these woodlands, throughout the U.S. are critically important, and as each small patch is felled, in the name of growth, jobs, and business, it is death by a thousand cuts.

     The woodland also provides habitat for songbirds, for voles and mice and hence raptors such as the red-tailed hawk. It also supports countless populations of pollinators. Remember What Albert Einstein said, "One year with out bees means the next year without people." Finally, the woodland and the wetlands they contain, filter an unimaginable amount of rainwater and runoff, naturally removing toxins and pollutants from the watershed and preventing flooding. All these attributes are lumped under the dry moniker "ecosystem services" by conservation biologists. Boy, that's a slogan to rally behind, ain't it? Viva ecosystem services! Geez, it doesn't work. That is because most people experience a connection to the natural world through the lens of mythos, not logos. It seems nature is best described by the poet, the painter, the singer, and this does not lend itself to the "rational discussion" we like to pretend to in our political deliberations. So on a regular basis, the conservation argument is marginalized and the developers win. More wild areas fall to the bulldozer and more strip malls and parking lots blight our landscapes like a spreading pox.

     And this brings me full circle. Back to the Cottonwood. As we succumb to the relentless juggernaut of sprawl and suburbanization, of endless growth, more and more boys (and girls) find themselves cut off from exploring their world. We deprive them of what I believe is a necessary
part of growing up and developing into well rounded adults, the ability to ramble unsupervised in the natural world, to appreciate the fullness of her bounty, and to let the imagination run free. Who wants them crossing a six land road on a bike, much less piddling around unsupervised in a marshland? And so we end up with a legion of boys, isolated in sterile, cloned , cookie-cutter, vinyl clad subdivisions. And they still piddle around. They just do in alone, online, and discover the joys of violent video-games and internet porn. What a colossal mess we have made for ourselves.

     There is another way. CSAs, farmer's markets, community gardens and permaculture are offering a new model for food production and distribution. In 1995, developers expressed an interest in a parcel of undeveloped, wasted land, across from the middle school in Aurora, CO. They wanted raze the cottonwood trees and build yet another assembly of tract housing and condominium complexes. Local residents organized, began petition drives, consulted with the city, and eventually TPL acquired the property and preserved it while making a few improvements such as bike paths. The Cottonwood died, but the Jewell Park Wetlands were born. It is perhaps a bit over tame for my taste, but that copse of cottonwood trees still stands and is a wild oasis in the suburbs. Perhaps a similar path can be found for Griffin Woods. If Schnuck's brings another store to Springfield, they can find a more appropriate location. Surely this is what ought to be done. However, as sad as it makes me, I won't hold my breath. It seems that in these hard times, it is indeed "the economy, stupid", even at the cost of a living planet.