The History of Men is Reflected in the History of Sewers

Or so says Victor Hugo in Les Miserables. And I, for one, happen to agree. I have decided to spend a few days writing about things I did as a kid growing up in the 50's and 60's that I wouldn't let my own kids or grandkids do today. I begin with roaming through the sewers of El Cerrito, California.

When I read the complete and unabridged version of Les Mis about 20+ years ago I was not one of those who skipped the "sewer" chapter(s) and the reason for that is two-fold: 1) I feel guilty skipping parts of books and usually feel compelled to finish anything I've begun reading (but I'm getting better at walking away from a book I've started) and 2) I love the mystery and intrigue of sewers (think Phantom of the Opera).

When I was 7 or 8 which is the age I was in this picture,

the neighborhood kids, which included my older sister, Cheryl, and I and I'm sure at least one or two of my younger brothers, used to run through the sewer that ran from under the empty lot where the Northminster Presbyterian Church was finally built at 545 Ashbury to beyond Eureka Avenue; I think it ended somewhere near Linda Lawrence's back yard, which was about 1/2 block shy of the Chinese store. This large vacant lot had an open corrugated metal sewer pipe that was somewhat exposed and partially covered by wild blackberry bushes. The older neighbor kids (and isn't that how it always goes) taught us that if you crawled down into it you could go at least 3-4 blocks under the streets. It was a good idea to take a flashlight, they warned, even though there were occasional light sources along the way from the grates in the gutters so it wasn't pitch dark. And, oh, you might get your shoes wet so you better go barefoot.

The sewer pipe was a dark, dank, secret place that parents never heard about. You could become the bravest person in the 3rd grade just by entering into this world. I don't think anyone ever worried about rats or skunks or bubonic plague or rabies--in fact, if you saw a rodent or dead animal, it became even more exciting because you never knew if it was REALLY dead or just PRETENDING, waiting for the perfect moment to come to life and jump out at you.

The pipe wasn't big enough for me to stand up in but I didn't have to crawl either; I could just sort of run through half scrunched over. Sometimes you'd bump into other kids down there coming the other way. Sometimes you'd have meetings under the street. Lots of times you'd let out whoops and hollers just to hear your voice echo or see who was coming around the curve. As a well-intentioned older sister and role model, I made sure my youngest sisters learned about this great adventure and encouraged them to come along also when they were finally old enough.

It was a sad day when the backhoes came and started breaking ground for the church. For awhile we hung around watching the carnage. We discussed whether they would seal up the pipe. We hoped they'd leave it alone, maybe even put up a marker, like a famous historical site. But that didn't happen. It took about 2 years to complete the building of the church. I can't recall exploring sewers since then.

Years later, when I was a divorced young mother of a baby and pre-schooler the church ran a daycare center named Kathmandu. Eli and Chelsea attended it for about 6 months. I suppose I could have chosen other places to babysit the kids. But I knew just how magical that soil was and what was underneath. If I had to put my kids in daycare it was strangely comforting to know they were being cared for above sacred memories.