I must admit it’s not a bad idea. Leaving behind the snow and cold of harsh, interminable winters is very appealing. Never having to worry whether your car will start. Never having to shovel. Never having to dress like you’re going on a moon walk. Never having to risk your life walking to the store on icy sidewalks.
There are other reasons to leave: You would reduce your property taxes by a factor of 10. You could burn your winter coat. You wouldn’t have to worry as much about someone stealing your stuff, or whether the achievement gap would ever be closed, or whether the village would continue to attract young families who could afford to live here.
But then I thought about all that I would lose if I moved from Oak Park.
All three of my children and their spouses live in the area. Living in Florida, I wouldn’t get to play with Lily, Ava and Cole every week. No sledding, swimming, chasing, holding or hugging.
I wouldn’t play golf with the boys, go to Bulls and Bears games with them, just hang out, or have family celebrations with everyone in attendance. I wouldn’t be able to attend our 30-year-old dinner group meals or my monthly philosophy class. Even I have managed to make some very dear friends over the almost 40 years I’ve lived here.
I would also miss talking to my neighbor Greg after we cut grass or shovel snow. Or taking a long walk with Dick before philosophy class. Or getting Dale’s take on most any issue. Or having breakfast with Ken or Anthony. Or any and all of those many interactions with those people, some of whose names I don’t even know, at the YMCA, the Lake Theatre, the library, Pan’s, the CVS on Roosevelt, really everywhere in Oak Park.
So I’m staying. Home really is where the heart is. Unlike Dorothy in Oz, I don’t have any ruby slippers to click, but when I settle into my Southwest Airlines seat to return to Chicago, I will remember that there is no place like home.
Even if the windchill is minus 13.
