Page 68 - People & Places In Time

Vacant Lots - Miv Schaaf
Someday, when I’m rich, I’m going to have a vacant lot. It will have an old tree or two, lemon if apple is not available, and long grass. It would be nice if it had a broken-down wood fence on one side, but that is not essential. Bees would be a pleasant addition also, but one must not ask for everything.
When I was a kid, vacant lots were taken as a matter of course; there was always one next door or down the block. No one knew who owned it; it was just there, the property of everyone. Baseball, football, shack building, trench digging, grasshopper chasing – the vacant lot welcomed one and all, beaming silently in the sunshine.
I think I feel guilty now that I took vacant lots so for granted then, without even thanking them, as it were; I see now they are rare things, becom- ing rarer.
What will I do with my vacant lot? Nothing; I will just have a vacant lot. Of course, I will have to pay taxes on it, but why shouldn’t I pay for the privilege of having bees – if bees should happen to come. The dandelion growth on my vacant lot will be luxuriant, and hopefully an old white rosebush will, from time to time as it sees fit, put forth a sprinkling of those open faced, few petaled, small roses. It will not matter if anyone is look- ing or not.
And weeds – oh, there will be wonderful weeds – tall, angular, thistly ones; dry thin pencily ones; fat greedy bushy ones; microscopic weeds with tiny pink flowers so small only the ants will appreciate them. Birds will come to encourage them, and they will flourish in happiness forever. At least as long as I have anything to say about it.
One might imagine, with a little confident eccentricity, I might have picnics there – wicker hampers, wine, water-cress sandwiches, white cloth, the works. But I won’t. I won’t do anything special to or with it. I’ll walk through my lot alone, silent, three or four times a year, maybe. The rest of the time it will bloom unseen by me, but I will know it’s there.
When I’m there, I’ll pick up bottles, cans or paper thrown away by unappreciative people, and I’ll get mad and wonder why I bought a lot at all if it’s going to be desecrated by clods who can’t appreciate a beautiful clump of grass when it stares them in the face.
But then before I go home carrying the picked-up trash, I’ll turn for a last look at my lot, and in the farthest corners the long grass will move and beckon darkly, where shadows of evening are waiting to swallow up the dandelions. And a single bird may call, and then perhaps, catching the last glint of sunlight so its wings turn to bronze, a bee may zoom in over my shoulder, coming home for the night, home to my vacant lot.
Los Angeles Times - 1984