Our alley, like all alleys in Chicago, was rutted, dirty, neglected, and rarely used by cars. It was a perfect place for adventure. At its side were the scrubby unfenced backyards of three-story brick apartment buildings like the one we lived in. All were housing for graduate students and junior faculty at the University of Chicago, one block to the south. We lived in that first floor apartment until I was eight. My father was a student all those years, working on a medical degree and then a doctorate in pathology so he could teach other doctors.  

Our gang of six- and seven-year-olds had the run of the alley and a daily mission of discovery. The alley was our playground. The long summer days were our own. We were just expected to be home for dinner. We made magic potions by crushing the purple berries of privet bushes we found in the back of one building. We found a climbing tree good for aerial observation and were undeterred when one of the boys fell out of it and broke his arm. In one grassy backyard we conducted extended searches for four-leaf clovers, chewed on the stems of clover flowers, and sang Big Rock Candy Mountain on the swings.  

 

We spent several weeks digging a diamond mine. The block was a series of three-story brick apartment buildings, attached to each other and heated by coal furnaces. Inevitably, chunks of coal were dropped during deliveries under the metal chutes at the base of each building. These were our treasures. We had heard that coal turned into diamonds underground. So it seemed a simple matter to bury the coal, wait a few days, and dig up diamonds. The dirt was hard on those hot, dry summer days and we dug with sticks. Nonetheless, it was an absorbing and hopeful task, and we kept at it.

 

Our biggest project was a tunnel to China. China was on the other side of the world. A shortcut made sense. We had some spoons purloined from the kitchen. And China was in the news. It was 1950. The Chinese Communist Party had just gained control. We had a new friend at school. Her family had just arrived, fleeing the new government. We were engaged in another hopeful enterprise, with an emphasis on moving dirt. 

 

On slow days, we would die on the front sidewalk. We would lie on our backs, eyes closed, and wait for someone to discover the bodies. We knew about death. My father went to work every day to visit dead bodies and cut them up to find out why people had died. To us, it seemed like a perfectly normal sort of job. At the end of our block was Billings Hospital, the University of Chicago's training ground for medical students. Students on their way to and from class always came along. We knew they were interested in disease and death. We lay very still while they pondered our condition. Finally, one of them would say “Guess we’d better call an ambulance.” That was our cue. We jumped up and ran back to the alley.