There’s something about sidewalks that conjures extremes, and seems to take us either to childhood, or the gutter. It could be that in order to look at a sidewalk you have to look down; and looking down is a trigger to thoughts of the past, and depression; or so certain psycho-babblers would have it.
But sidewalks are perfectly neutral; and they’re perfect example of form following function: no-nonsense, concrete, hardscapes necessary to civilization, built for walking in straight lines, and meant to last forever. As functional and non-aesthetic as they may normally be, occasionally you’ll hear someone say, “What a beautiful sidewalk,” and if the person’s not in the business of laying cement and commenting on something too subtle for laymen, it’s usually because some superbly talented individual has chalked “The Last Supper,” or the “Mona Lisa,” in one of those concrete squares. Check out this sidewalk art: Click Here.
One does not rest on a sidewalk. Resting on a sidewalk is tantamount to loitering; or in my neighborhood it could indicate a position in sales (probably not management.) One certainly does not lie down on a sidewalk. Lying on a sidewalk is a sure sign of death, or advanced inebriation; both of which civilization frowns upon.
Sidewalks are, however, perfect for certain types of play. Where would you play hopscotch, or double-dutch without a sidewalk? Stepping on a crack and breaking your mother’s back, or avoiding the same, would be impossible without sidewalks. They are also perfectly delineated areas for small children, as in: “You can play on the sidewalk in front of the house, but no further. And come in when the streetlights go on;” the city at its functional best marks space, and time for kids with sidewalks, and streetlights.
I remember sidewalks as a great childhood way to taunt the enemy of the moment. My friends and I would plant ourselves on the sidewalk in front of someone’s house and the following exclamatory dialogue, with nary a variation, would ensue:
“Get off of my sidewalk!”
“Can’t make me!”
“I’m not going to tell you again!”
“And it’s not your sidewalk. It’s the city’s sidewalk!”
At which point stalemate, unless flight became a more prudent option.
Amazingly, it’s still possible to walk until the sidewalk ends, but it’s a daunting task, and with the advent of strip cities a person would be wise to think twice.
In some distant future, archeologists defining us by our works may dig up our great network of sidewalks and mutter, “My, what an orderly civilization,” but in the meantime:
GOD BLESS THE GRASS
words and music by Malvina Reynolds
© Schroder Music Company, 1964
God bless the grass that grows through the crack.
They roll the concrete over it to try and keep it back.
The concrete gets tired of what it has to do,
It breaks and it buckles and the grass grows through.
And God bless the grass.
God bless the truth that fights toward the sun,
They roll the lies over it and think that it is done.
It moves through the ground and reaches for the air,
And after a while it is growing everywhere,
And God bless the grass.
God bless the grass that grows through cement.
It's green and it's tender and it's easily bent.
But after a while it lifts up its head,
For the grass is living and the stone is dead,
And God bless the grass.
God bless the grass that's gentle and low,
Its roots they are deep and its will is to grow.
And God bless the truth, the friend of the poor,
And the wild grass growing at the poor man's door,
And God bless the grass.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
