Two Letters

Jackie Kennedy, Ray Bradbury, Suburbia, and Me

“The first letter was posted during a winter storm in December 1963. I was nine years old. Wearing my duffle coat, red mittens and rubber boots, I placed the letter deep in my pocket to keep it dry. I made my way in blizzard conditions. Drifting snow, a near white-out. It was a mission. Left at the end of our street and then over two blocks to a particular mailbox, the one next to the big highway that led to Detroit. Leaving small footprints in the snow to be dusted over by more snow, I passed dozens of box houses strung with Christmas lights, many switched on to make the blizzard festive. Newly built, each house had cost less than $12,000, and favorable mortgage deals had been given to young family men who came back from the War.

“As I walked against the wind and flurries, I brimmed with love for the streets of “ticky-tacky.”* These were the last years before my malaise began to set in. Each driveway boasted an oversized Ford or Chevy, now disappearing beneath thickening white. Engines silent on cars owned by the people who made and sold them. Detroit, you were quiet that day. Did I dream you? Your glorious skyline, your elegant department stores and grand movie palaces, were lost in the blizzard.”

To read the story, click here!

(The link will take you to Belt Magazine, where this piece was first published.)

For Detroit, city of my dreams and longing, in the summer of its 325th birthday. With thanks, as ever to readers and subscribers.