CAN'T HARDLY FIND THESE ANYMORE

The great American alley...!

You'll find no poems and hear no rhapsodies to these amazing little arteries back of the great streets and boulevards of our Park Ridge. In fact, in some neighborhoods you can't hardly find them anymore. Too dirty, too unhealthy, too uncivilized for our terribly civilized times.

Here's where some of you nod in soft satisfaction, knowing full well about the ancient mysteries and magic to these narrow gateways. And "gateway" is the correct definition, for while adults think of them as ugly necessities, children once knew much much better.

You didn't need a GPS system to track kids hanging out in alleys. All it took was a second look. I mean, to judge a neighborhood by its building fronts was only half the assignment. The more important half was how its inhabitants inhabited their alleys. What and how they discarded their refuse could tell you a lot about the people. Especially the little people, the kids out there where childhood games and imagination functioned freely.

A few generations ago, alleys were the main thoroughfares for a pageant of familiar vendors. First among them, the crisp-white-uniformed milk man. Early on, in his horse-drawn wagons; later in his motor-driven trucks; but either way, a member of the family who brought your milk, butter, eggs and gossip.

The ice-man was another frequent-flier, lugging bold blocks of ice over his padded shoulder to keep your kitchen's icebox cooling another few days. The ice-man was of particular importance to kids as we chased after him, scooping up precious shards of fallen ice to bear with pride until they melted in our hands.

Exotic is how best to describe other alley paraders from those long ago days. The produce man, pushing his cart spilling over with green and red vegetables freshly picked from nearby farms. Today's sleek supermarkets feature better and cleaner selections; but they don't come wrapped in one-on-one tributes to these treasures from the earth. Exotic also was the rags-n-old-iron guy who lumbered down these alleys collecting our disposables; and the scissors man whose grind-wheel kept our kitchen knives sharp; the pony-ride man and the monkey-man who featured their pets for our pleasure.

Today we have imposing routes like Lake Shore Drive, the Magnificent Mile, and Park Ridge's own tree-bannered main streets. Visitors rightfully fancy these features. Darn few will ever ask to see our alleys. And yet, to a child -- especially the children before TV, cellphones, iPads, and other assorted magic -- the real magic was to be found trekking the great parade routes of our alleys.

A silent prayer for the beloved deceased...