A Place Called C-Street

It's 8:45 in the morning. Frank is sweeping again, whisking his corn-broom across the sidewalk in front of our business, removing the gingko leaves that have gathered there. With the smile never leaving his aged, creased face, he places them in the trash-bag looped at his side. Frank, to many people, looks homeless. He's not, actually. Sure, he may live at our area shelter, which houses mostly women and children, but he does so of his own free will. Frank has a calling. This street is his home, and he takes his job very seriously, even though it pays nothing, and most people don't even know his name or the fact that he got a fancy medal from the President of the United States. He's OK with that. He isn't looking for praise. He just does what he does.

That's something that we have in common here on C-street. There's just something about this place that has drawn all of us here. It's the smell of warm coffee wafting from Big Momma's, where Joe is waiting to greet you with a friendly smirk and a careless flop of graying hair. It's Christine, with her funky wardrobe, and her colorful sculpture garden.  It's Connie, walking her tiny poodle, Lily-Belle on a crisp morning, never too busy to give you a hug and a smile.  It's Stacey, with a gleam in her eye, and her raspy voice, spinning dough at Pizza House while she makes small-talk with her customers. Cash only, please.

It's Tom and Gary, purveyors of catfish and crystal, who may be known to dress as pharaohs on occasion, and who we lovingly call "The Boys." It's Anne tending bar at Ruthie's, slinging drinks and tucking her wheat-blonde hair behind her ear. She's also an artist.  It's Donnie, showing up every week for the merchant meeting, answering endless questions, and hardly ever getting the recognition he deserves. And we can't forget Dock and Eric, doing a perfect pour of Guinness at Lindberg's while a rockabilly band clamors on the stage behind them. This street is rough and ready,  yet elegant at the same time. It is an avenue of railroad barons, hopes, and dreams; some of them lofty, some of them no more ambitious than creating a perfect coiffure on an overworked mother, who FINALLY has a date night with her husband.  It's important work, all of it.

The buildings sing their songs of a golden age, before urban blight and a surly reputation started to plague them. Sure, we've had our rough days.  Days when you were afraid to say you lived on Commercial Street, and your parents gave you a certain look when you mentioned going there. Those days are gone, now. A generation of upstart entrepreneurs have decided to take matters into their own hands. On any given day, cranes lower their towering heads, depositing building materials on top of structures which at some point in history have been speakeasies, elegant department stores, and movie theaters. Now, they are becoming boutiques, restaurants, and art galleries. The facades spring to life with vibrant, historic colors. Some have glass tiles that Frank Lloyd Wright designed. There are layers of history within each wall.

Our dedicated police officer is our Andy Griffith - everyone knows him by name, and he's never too busy to answer an email or phone call. He knows that people sometimes see only the empty buildings (which are quickly becoming obsolete, and now full with tenants) and the rare drunk.  Never mind the fact that other parts of Springfield have many more problems - something he reiterates to anyone who will ask.  During the biggest street party of the year,  six officers were assigned to work the event. Five of them went to other areas of town within the first two hours. Why? There were no issues for them to correct.

There are the students and church groups who pick up trash, and the volunteers who run the C-Street Market. There is fresh produce and fresh music every Saturday in the spring and summer. For every negative perception, there are a thousand positive things happening at any given moment. Each day, we prove the naysayers wrong. Our business has done nothing but grow since we came here - the same can be said of many of the other establishments that line the street. 

It's so incredibly exciting to be a part of it all. Almost two years ago, when my  partner and I went into business, we looked at several locations. C-Street was the first. Like a bride choosing her wedding dress, we just "knew", but we kept looking anyway. All were below par compared to 320. It was us - the energy, the flaking plaster, the honeycomb tile. We set upon shopping for antiques and Victorian mish-mash to decorate our space. It was exhilarating. And we hadn't even met the community yet.

We were the new kids on the block. They were patient with us - listening to our ideas about ways to promote and get people excited about the district. We had no idea what we were getting into, not really. We made mistakes and we learned. We bit off more than we could chew at times, and they were there to help us muddle through. I have NEVER met a group of more supportive and kind people. When we were running dead sprints down C-Street during our first Mardi Gras, my mermaid costume in tatters, and my partner wobbling on top of a rickety scaffolding, throwing beads at the crowd, I realized something. This was it; this was what we had always needed. This was belonging and acceptance, and we were no longer just a pair of goofy hairstylists. We were part of an amazing collective of people who may not look alike on the outside, but inside we're pretty much the same.

Most of us have been underdogs. Most of us came from challenging backgrounds that we have overcome. Many of us are survivors of various things, and all of us have this sometimes irrational moxie that pushes us to keep going. We've faced media onslaughts and erroneous journalism. We've shown people that there is more than one "side" of Springfield. We've scraped, spackled, and painted over a thousand misconceptions - but we still have work to do.  We rally and we fight when we have to, but we're not so scary. We're friendly and we draw people to us,  if they'll just give us a chance. They seldom regret it.

Frank finishes sweeping, and taps the broom on the sidewalk with a satisfied look. The leaves are safely in their place, and he continues down the block, tidying up the place that he loves. He may be an arthritic steward, but he has majesty in his swinging gait. All of us are Franks, in our way. And when we are gone, others will take our place. C-Street will remain. It is as indomitable as the human spirit.

(All photos courtesy of www.itsalldowntown.com)