There’s a lot going on in River Forest right now. Teacher contract negotiations. The Lake and Lathrop saga that never ends. Term limits debates. Ethics complaints. A proposed development on Madison Street that’s generating strong opinions.
I’m not here to weigh in on any of it. Not today. I’m here because we’ve been living in the noise so long we’ve forgotten to look up. When every conversation feels heavy and every thread goes sideways, it starts to feel like that’s all we are. A community defined by what we’re arguing about. We’re not. Not even close.
I was reminded a few weeks ago. One of those freak February afternoons where it hit 60. Kids were outside. Someone walking their dog in a T-shirt. Neighbors I hadn’t seen since November standing in driveways, squinting at the sun like they’d forgotten what it looked like. Nobody was arguing about anything. That’s the River Forest I want to talk about.
It’s a brave 5-year-old at Priory Park who decided today’s the day he rides without training wheels. Dad’s running alongside, hand hovering, can’t decide whether to hold on or let go. That’s River Forest.
It’s the sixth-grader at Roosevelt who launches a buzzer-beater that banks in. Teammates mob him like it’s the NBA Finals. Mom’s filming with a shaky hand. Nobody in that gym is thinking about tax levies.
It’s the Friday night Bertolli’s run. You pull open that screen door and the smell hits you before your foot crosses the threshold. Half the village had the same idea. In River Forest, Friday night means Bertolli’s. It just does.
It’s the elderly couple who reappears on the first mild evening, same route through Keystone. That’s not just a walk. That’s a love story playing out one slow lap at a time.
It’s the first-grader at the library pulling books off the shelf like she’s found buried treasure. She walks out with a stack so tall she can barely see over it, already asking when she can come back.
It’s the Memorial Day Parade down Lake Street. Lawn chairs, little flags, and coolers that aren’t fooling anyone. Someone’s three High Noons deep by 10 a.m. The veterans walk by and everyone gets quiet. Your kid asks why people are crying. You try to explain. You don’t do a great job, but you’re glad they asked.
It’s the Metra platform at 6:50 a.m. in 22-degree air. The train is late. Of course. Someone cracks a joke. Everyone laughs.
It’s the deer crossing Thatcher like they own the place. They stop traffic, stare you down, and leave presents in your yard. But there’s something about living where wildlife wanders through your neighborhood.
It’s the 60305 Facebook group, where someone posts that their power is out and within four minutes a neighbor offers a generator. Because their teenager will “absolutely not survive” if that phone dies.
Here’s what you forget reading a heated thread at 11 p.m.: Every house on your block is in the middle of something.
A newborn keeping everyone up. A teenager waiting on college decisions, the whole family holding their breath.
The woman who’s lived in that house 45 years finally moving out. She waves from the driveway one last time. The new family will never know she left cookies on every porch at Christmas. But we will.
A few houses down, a couple just closed on their first home, standing in an empty living room with champagne and no furniture, grinning like they won the lottery.
The issues matter. Keep paying attention. Keep holding leaders accountable.
But the next time you feel buried, walk outside. Take a breath. Look up.
Look up at the old trees that have been here longer than any of us. The sky getting brighter every morning. The kid on the bike, the couple on their walk.
Because one day the kid is driving away to college. The couple becomes one person walking alone.
None of this lasts forever.
That’s not the sad part. The sad part is missing it while it’s here.
Look up, River Forest. Look up.
