This year we moved into a neighborhood that has a walking path, a "covenant," and a pretentious and entirely unnecessary "e" on the end of it's name. I like to think of that "e" as being a flourish not unlike lifting one's pinky finger as one holds a cup of chamomile tea.
This year my employer bought the local synagogue and so the day after I took the picture of Eastpointe, I was scoping out potential shooting locations in the synagogue -- him for his horror-film-with-a-priest-at-the-center-of-the-story -- me for my documentary about an education innovator.
He gamely pretended to be one of the many witnesses who had seen Thelma work her magic -- and was testifying about it in a fabricated classroom setting.
It ends up that I couldn't use the classroom; Kyle did.
The synagogue still sits empty and probably a little haunted by a horror film about a priest. Eastpointe, with all its carefully manicured lawns and well-appointed seventies homes is haunted by the American Dream and a particular vision of urban togetherness that feels pretty nice on most days.