Years ago, a shopkeeper on Lake Street in Oak Park compared the heavy foot traffic there to the lack of shoppers on Madison Street in Forest Park. He declared, “Forest Park is a myth.” The newspaper immediately sent out a reporter to check on his claim.
When the reporter crossed Harlem Avenue, he felt like he was passing into a different dimension. On the other side, he encountered happy inhabitants, cheerfully going about their daily business. He felt like he had reached a culturally diverse Shangri-La.
The cheerful inhabitants subsisted on ambrosia (bratwurst) and nectar (beer). They lived in modest houses, in complete harmony with their neighbors. As he traveled west across this magical kingdom, the reporter stumbled on the lost continent of Atlantis, complete with water slides and a cooling spray park.
The natives frolicked at this park. It was such a sacred place that they dared not utter its name. When they weren’t playing at “The Park,” the residents had many merry gatherings: Casket Races, German Fest, and the Holiday Walk to name a few.
They decorated their town with scarecrows, murals, and they wrapped trees with holiday lights. Music was everywhere, with concerts on porches, at the picnic grove and in music venues. Plays were performed under the night sky.
Just west of Atlantis, the reporter scaled Mount Olympus: a monument of giant softball bats orbiting a colossal Clincher. None of the gods were physically present, but their photos and batting averages were on prominent display. The reporter pressed even further west.
There it was — Hades! The reporter wandered this vast kingdom of the dead until he finally reached the banks of the River Styx. He searched the shore in vain for Charon to ferry him to the other side. But even the suspension bridge was closed. So his travels took him to 1st Avenue, the far edge of the Underworld.
Returning to the world of the living, he sought the leaders of this mystical land. He followed the brick road until he came to Village Hall, adorned with Greek columns.
There he learned the inhabitants pleasantly prospered under the gentle reign of The Five: The Insurance Attorney, The Safety Director, The Set Designer, The Grant Writer, The Writer, and the other so-called gods of legend, though gods they were!
He found the leaders still operated a commission form of government, an old-fashioned form, more suitable for farm towns. It even had a blinking yellow traffic signal on its main street, typical of rural communities.
The peaceful kingdom extended south to a remote island cut off by Roosevelt Road and Harlem Avenue. The reporter came ashore at 16th and Marengo. He found the natives engaged in a primitive rite, known as the “block party.” He saw islanders tossing eggs and water balloons at each other, and consuming great quantities of nectar.
Crossing Harlem Avenue back to the real world, he saw the ugly presence of parking meters in shopping districts and orange tickets fluttering on windshields. He saw forbidding high-rises and stores that charged for grocery bags.
This unsightliness he had never encountered in Forest Park. There, he had seen the inhabitants flocking to trade with the simple shopkeepers, with little fear of getting a ticket.
They were attracted to the personal service at homegrown businesses. They enjoyed the home cooking of the restaurants. They savored delicious ice cream and desserts. Even the poorest among them could afford a box of Lemonheads.
The reporter had found that shopkeeper’s words were true: Forest Park was indeed a place of fairy-tale endings.
