Dear Elgin
I’ve been working my way through Write It! 100 Poetry Prompts to Inspire, and one prompt stopped me. It starts with Kevin Young’s “Ode to the Midwest,” a playful poem that turns unexpectedly tender, and it asks you to remember a time when you were the only one of your kind.
I started there, but my poem took a different turn. It ended up being about Elgin, where I’ve lived for almost thirty years. For the first fifteen, it was just my zip code. Then I took on a project to tell the stories of everyday Elginites, and the city opened up.
Here is where the poem stands for now. As Tom and I prepare to leave Elgin in the coming years, I expect I’ll come back to it.
Dear Elgin.
For fifteen years,
you were simply 6-0-1-2-4.
A postal code.
A place to send our exorbitant property tax bill.
A place to lay my head.
Nothing more. Nothing less.
When I took on a project
to tell the stories of everyday Elginites—
not the who’s who list,
but the residents who make up
the tapestry of this community—
you answered with open arms and hearts.
The family-owned corner coffee shop,
where Diane greeted me by name
and Chef’s cinnamon rolls
were a luxurious delight.
A place to feel welcomed, seen, and heard.
The small businesses trying to take root
in a city that fights them at every turn.
The painted ladies and the family who painted them.
The carpenter who crafted elaborate porches and banisters.
The veteran who raced down Randall Road
before it was swallowed by retail,
carbon-copy strip malls.
The rival belly dance instructors,
each claiming to be the best.
The home brewer no one would back,
until his restaurant became a success.
Then everyone wanted a piece.
His response?
Thanks, but I’ll keep it all to myself.
The little girl who built her own soapbox car
and became a champion.
The Elgin Community College president,
seven degrees, each earned for a reason.
When he became president,
he went back to school for a law degree
to better serve the college.
Every conversation with Dr. Sam
left me thinking
I should enroll in another course.
The siblings who journeyed from Mexico to Elgin,
bused across town
when denied the support they deserved.
They learned English.
Earned honors. Won scholarships.
Excelled at ECC, then went on to four-year colleges.
Dear Elgin.
After twenty years
working outside your borders,
you welcomed me home.
Libraries. Social service agencies. The Symphony.
Houses of worship, of every denomination.
The townships. City Council. The Mayor.
More than sixty organizations,
all part of my orbit.
I loved connecting people.
I loved storytelling.
I loved being part of this community.
Dear Elgin.
After all this time, this is my Elgin.
Now my orbit is smaller.
A much shorter, more closely curated list.
The passionate wail of violins from the ESO.
Fantasy. Cookbooks. Fiction. Non-fiction. DVDs.
A world to explore within the walls of Gail Borden.
The rush of the water crashing over the Kimball Street Dam.
Still my favorite place to photograph.
Welcomed like family into Bea’s kitchen.
The aroma of plantains and barbacoa.
The crunch of a Crème Brûlatte from Sugar & Rhyme.
The embrace of trees along the Fox River Trail.
Cyclists whizzing past.
The jingle of a bell and the quiet that followed.
Dear Elgin.
Once, you were simply 6-0-1-2-4.
I know better now.
