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My Regrets of Being a Serial Butterfly Killer
Reflections of childhood escapes to nature in the big city
We called it “The Prairie.” I didn’t name it. It was just our little green space to escape into. It was only a short walk from our backyard, through the city’s many alleyways, and into that green space that somebody dubbed The Prairie.
It was nothing more than a small overgrown lot. It was just a large enough space to accommodate an A&P grocery store and a parking lot in future years.
To a nine-year-old kid living on Chicago’s northwest side during the late 1960s, with no other frame of reference, it was our Prairie.
During those months, when the days are long and summertime seemed endless, that place was full of adventures and mystery.
Tall grasses, prickly weeds, and wildflowers claimed the spot. It welcomed us as much as the annual influx of natural wonders that come to life there every summer.
It’s buzzing with wildlife. There are snakes, rodents, hopping things, and critters that flutter and fly. We played there often; we left ownership marks.
Our proprietary imprints left over time. An abstract design of bicycle treads, footprints in hardened mud, and Red Ryder wagon wheel tracks created our unique signature on…
