Alley Pickin' Time

Alley Pickin’ Fun

            It was in the allies of Detroit where I experienced the joy of youth. No where else held the adventure and intrigue of a day’s journey through the gravel sanitation bypasses that split the backyards of the rows of houses that made up Detroit’s lower eastside.

            We’d start fairly early on summer day, pretty much after we discovered that we needed to think of something to do that day – which was most days. You see, there weren’t many scheduled activities. Little league games were once a week on Tuesdays; there was church on Sunday; and that was about it. Alley picking, as we called it, wasn’t really picking things out of allies and bringing them home as the phrase implies, although there were times when we carried a small bounty home; but rather, it was what we could do  in the allies that made this a day of fulfillment. And yes, it was a full day.

            Around nine or ten in the morning, Bob and Ron Rose would come by.

            “Joey, Mikey, Joey, Mikey, Joey, Mikey,” they would call at our back door, because that’s how you called friends. If it was us getting them it would be “Bobby, Ronny . . .” Then we’d tell Mom we were going alley picking. She said to be careful and away we went.

            One of the reasons it was special, I guess, was because of all the streets in our neighborhood ours was the only one without an alley. For some reason our back fence looked over our neighbors yard. So we trekked one block and entered the alley either on the Flanders side of Jane or the Loretto side. It didn’t really depend on a choice. The four of us walked and chatted away about a TV show, a sport’s team, an event in our home, an upcoming trip to a lake, or whatever the jabber of the pre-ten set thought interesting; then we would find ourselves in one of the two allies.

            If it was the Flanders alley the whole first hour could be spent at the entrance, for on either side was a three-story apartment building. They had dumpsters, but the big stuff had to be put on the grass strip just outside the fence. Here we would find discarded hats (how we never contracted lice I’ll never know) and various mop handles we used as swords to accompany the garbage can lids that made great shields. Usually a discarded chair provided the cushion when a knight drove his opponent backward into a theatrical fall. The carcass of the chair also made for a dragon to slay, usually stabbed so it could “bleed” cotton stuffing.

            What ordinarily ended these games were that the contest would result in a victor through some rules we argued through on the scene, or,  more frequently would stop suddenly when the apartment manager was seen headed toward the back gate.

            No matter the extent of our mischief, we always had one failsafe method of getting out of it: we ran. And we knew we could outrun anyone because we ran all the time. We ran home when we though we’d be late; we ran against each other to see who was fastest; we ran home on cold days because that’s how we could stay warm. When we had the slightest inkling we couldn’t outrun someone, we hopped fences. Inall the years I fled a scene by jumping over fences, I was never caught. Adults, for some reason, could not see the value in risking this feat for capture.

            Further up the alley, we focused on the mission of any alley picking trip: to find pop bottles. Big ones were worth 5 cents and regular-size ones were 2 cents. That was it. Only two sizes. Somehow we would find a way to carry them, but usually each guy only found three or four in a two-to-three-block leg.

            We never looked in the cans. It was some rule that moms put bones, moldy veggies, and unidentifiable leftovers in cans. Outside the cans on the grass strip that buffered back fences from the gravel ruts were the broken toys, including an occasional toy horse or swing; and there was never a shortage of disposed furniture. When we came upon a couch we often decided that that was “headquarters”   for the time being. It could have been headquarters for a team, a group of workers, or a band of explorers; but more often than not, it had military roots, especially since the availability of broken toy guns was so pervasive in the allies. We played war games, then made peace and fanned out as a team to gather food.

            Most times in the summer, trees laden with peaches, plums, pears, apples, and cherries hung conveniently over fences and were, indeed, easy pickings. There were also fastidious fence farmers – those who decided to plow the grass strip and make a garden – who provided cucumbers and cherry tomatoes. I never ate tomatoes at home but ate them from allies.

            In the rare instance when there wasn’t anything near headquarters, we’d go into the yard where there was a garden and fruit trees. We jumped the fence and grabbed what we could and then got out. If we heard the slightest noise or saw any sign of a resident, we’d run. One reason we never got caught was probably because the only people home during the day were the elderly and women. Both of whom viewed chasing a group of nine year olds as distasteful and possibly dangerous.

            Somewhere around lunchtime, we’d depart the alley for a corner store. Our neighborhood had a corner store on almost every other block. This was the highlight of the day. The owner would cash in our bottles and of the 15 to 20 cents we’d each get, we could buy chips and candy. One of us would buy a soda and in exchange for swigs we would all share our treats with him.

            One day after we bought our “lunch” we came upon the vacant field off Coplin. The weeds were about four feet high and we knew that we could hide from the world right there. We stomped down an area, then sat in the warm weeds chattering on about the luxury of our existence and eating candy and Fritos washed down with Sprite. Strewn about us were littered papers and it didn’t take long before my brother Mike confided that he’s taken a pack of my Dad’s matches and slipped them in his pocket.

            Of course the necessary thing to do was get all the papers together with other cardboard, throw in a few sticks that were lying around, then light it and see if it catches. Well it didn’t burn that well and seemed to go out before it caught on. We were pretty good at starting fires though. We blew on the red smoldering embers and held thin pieces of paper until a flame appeared. This time Bobby had an armful of papers which he fed me one by one as Mike fanned the growing flame. We got caught up in the excitement and didn’t notice the fire had sneaked onto a nearby dead bush – until it seemed too late. The bush caught onto the dry high weeds and traveled fast. We tried to stomp it out, but it was spreading to fast. 

            Very soon, Mike yelled out what we were all thinking: “Let’s ditch it!” As if in a practiced escape plan, Bobby shouted back, “Meet behind the bowling alley!” Mike and I ran down the alley and hopped the third fence to the right, and Bobby and Ronny hopped the fourth fence to the left. We ran high on adrenalin through the yard, down the driveway, across the street, into another neighbors yard, hopped into the alley and sprinted straight ahead. Later we learned Bobby and Ronny did the same in the other direction.

            After circumventing the direct route to the bowling alley we arrived out of breath. Soon after, Bobby and Ronny showed up. In the distance we heard the siren. We waited a bit then went home to dinner. The next day we visited the field on bicycle. We didn’t stop but drove by. Half of it was blackened and we never did find out if the siren was for that fire. We rode to the bowling alley, parked our bikes, and talked about how great of an escape we made.