PAVEMENT ABYSS
During the summer of 2022, I was the Easement Inspection Intern for Denver’s most significant historic preservation group. Over the course of 3 months, I led a small team of volunteers to investigate and record the condition of over 70 buildings in and around the city.
1. The great contrast between the conditions and designs of pre-WWII “Streetcar Suburbs” where I inspected homes and the post-war gridded “Suburbia” where I lived.
2. Spending just a little bit too much time walking in the summer sun along poorly maintained sidewalks.
Sand, slag, stone, and ash
wetted, mixed, and poured to bind.
Stick, steel, stucco, and glass
protects or traps what lives inside.
My feet fall in an awkward rhythm. An otherwise constant gait and cadence is interrupted as I have to step over cracked pavement and around utility poles. My attention is divided between the inconsistent surface and the cars rushing past just a few feet away. I can barely hear myself think. A narrow strip of dying grass and, if I’m lucky, a few juvenile trees separate me from the worn road, patched with tar that turns to glue during these dog days of late summer.
I trace the perimeter of this neighborhood, a perfect mile on each square side in this sprawling grid.
I can hear little beyond the automotive roar.
In the middle of the block, there’s a small intersection, where I make the turn into the neighborhood. With fewer and slower cars keeping me company, I take in the labyrinth before me. The arterial road where I came from divides itself into streets, from which spur various loops, cul-de-sacs, and dead ends. Along each are signs posted by a homeowner’s association, advertising a meeting which will barely be attended by the people who put up the signs. As far as I can see, in all directions, side- and backyards are guarded by fences of cedar, dull orange fading into gray.
I can hear little beyond the automotive roar.
In the middle of the block, there’s a small intersection, where I make the turn into the neighborhood. With fewer and slower cars keeping me company, I take in the labyrinth before me. The arterial road where I came from divides itself into streets, from which spur various loops, cul-de-sacs, and dead ends. Along each are signs posted by a homeowner’s association, advertising a meeting which will barely be attended by the people who put up the signs. As far as I can see, in all directions, side- and backyards are guarded by fences of cedar, dull orange fading into gray.
Those cedar fences, when they were built, were called “privacy fences.” Thin-cut, wide boards lie vertically between larger poles, supported by two or three horizontal wooden rails. The boards are close enough together that little can be seen between them of peoples' yards, even if I put my face well within the range of splinters.
However, as I move and keep my eye on the fence, the gaps act like the shutter opening on a film camera, blurring together. At a steady walk, a bit faster than my normal pace, the boards become all but invisible, and I receive a clear image of patios, grills, toys, and unraked leaves. So much for privacy.
My backyard movie is interrupted as I reach the end of a block, the one road splitting into four. My current sidewalk is no wider nor further from the road than the one on the main road, but in the shade of the houses I can appreciate its construction more. The gray-blue pavement is divided by highly regular joints into even squares, which gives the concrete much-needed room to move. Settling soil and sprouting roots warp the sidewalk, one and two tiles at a time.
However, as I move and keep my eye on the fence, the gaps act like the shutter opening on a film camera, blurring together. At a steady walk, a bit faster than my normal pace, the boards become all but invisible, and I receive a clear image of patios, grills, toys, and unraked leaves. So much for privacy.
My backyard movie is interrupted as I reach the end of a block, the one road splitting into four. My current sidewalk is no wider nor further from the road than the one on the main road, but in the shade of the houses I can appreciate its construction more. The gray-blue pavement is divided by highly regular joints into even squares, which gives the concrete much-needed room to move. Settling soil and sprouting roots warp the sidewalk, one and two tiles at a time.
Looking down, a perfect rectangle with rounded
edges stands out amongst the imperfect surface. A maker’s mark is relieved into
the path. This sidewalk was created by somebody, by hand, a long time ago. As they finished, they pressed a reversed stamp into the new ground, memorializing their effort. Although their names are now too worn to read, four central
characters are still clearly legible:
“1, 9, 4, 7”. I look up from the ground, and the houses around me are of this year.
Bungalows and saltboxes look back at me with crafted masonry and ornamented door frames. Inside, the newest in electric home appliance technology hums away. These are homes inhabited by a generation returned from a world war. They were given and took all opportunity to begin families and buy their homes. Many houses were ordered by catalog, shipped to the neighborhood packed tightly into boxcars, and assembled right on the lot by the people who would later occupy them.
In the distance, I can hear shovels digging up and scattering earth.
“1, 9, 4, 7”. I look up from the ground, and the houses around me are of this year.
Bungalows and saltboxes look back at me with crafted masonry and ornamented door frames. Inside, the newest in electric home appliance technology hums away. These are homes inhabited by a generation returned from a world war. They were given and took all opportunity to begin families and buy their homes. Many houses were ordered by catalog, shipped to the neighborhood packed tightly into boxcars, and assembled right on the lot by the people who would later occupy them.
In the distance, I can hear shovels digging up and scattering earth.