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Compound D (Old English-Public Domain): The Struggle of a Family in America’s Most Dangerous City
Now that we are retired, we travel around the country and meet folks who claim to be from Detroit. We ask, Really? What neighborhood? The response is some affluent suburban community. They react with mild surprise when we reply that we live downtown in Woodbridge, not the street on the east side. We are named for the Woodbridge Farms, one of the first housing communities of the new century, the twentieth century, that is.
We’ve lived here for over fifty years. For decades after the ‘67 Riots, one by one, businesses shuttered their doors and fled. The popular saying was the last one out, please turn off the lights. But in truth, it wasn’t long before the streetlights were already out of service. Over the years, we installed security, got rottweilers, obtained concealed-carry permits, and defended our home. During the summers, the lawns are manicured and the gardens are lush with food and beauty.
Why do we stay? Perhaps it’s a mixture of guilt for not volunteering to fight in a war I felt was wrong and a hardheadedness born in our deep Ozark roots. We don’t like being told where we can live. We worked hard, and over the years, we found enjoyment and pleasure around the city-from a Friday night beer and friendship at the old Dakota Inn Rathskeller (the last German bar in Detroit) to Saturday morning walks with the dogs and a friend around Belle Isle to a Sunday morning mass at Saint Anne Parish (the second-oldest parish in the United States).
We are finally beginning to emerge from Detroit’s nightmare. Detroit is roaring back and reinventing itself. Come for a visit.
