As recounted in a short story by James Baldwin, 'Becos' is a Phrygian (_pro_. frij'i an) word, and it means bread. The Phrygians are considered one of the first civilizations, bread, one of our first foods.
In this spirit, & with a call to recreate a sense of world community and simplicity, 'becoshood' is an interactive project.

Its aim to rebuild the feeling of neighborhood that
our grandparents had, but on a larger scale.
Why? Because, we are a world family now.
Technology has made our borders closer,
sometimes invisible.

Yet we still need to eat, and sometimes the most basic of foods, bread.

'Becoshood' begins with sharing a bread item with a neighbor and asking them to blog about it on this site.
We hope to collect many stories of community, and what it
means to interact with one another again, to weave a fabric of words, shared together with a simple meal as this project travels across the country.
Butter up your story! Make it sweet with honey words! Heat it up like toast! Please keep it clean and family appropriate, as this is a community project.

Becos means bread, bread means a meal, a meal means family,
family means love, love brings peace, and peace brings growth.

Please help the growth of peace in 'becoshood'!
Thank you for your participation!
~Ruth Follmann

From bus stops to driveways, storefronts and causeways, 'becoshood' 

begins. Many I spoke to recounted times past when the sense of

community flowed much easier. Our ever moving river of technology

sometimes sweeps away our little trickling brook of one to one

interactions. This project hopes to join the two in a new refreshing

way.

My mom recalled the family of neighborhood she had growing up on the

Southside of Chicago. The Rokavichs, (spelling?) would join her

parents for pinnacle card games every weekend. She babysat for the

Ross family's little boy, Stanley. Her father called him Stosho

and hung him on a doorknob by his suspenders while the little boy

laughed. Mom remembers collecting money door to door for Mrs. Ross

when she lost a little baby girl at birth.

She said, not all the neighbors knew the Ross family, but gave what

they could anyway.

Victory gardens were a small plot shared in a large unused lot at the

end of the street by the railroad tracks.

Every family would share a section of the lot. The owner of the land

didn't seem to mind it was being used this way for good.

Each neighbor respected the others garden section, and many including

my Grandfather would share their bounty with others on the city block.


Holidays were shared, birthdays celebrated, and best of all, the block

parties.

Sawhorses would close off street ends of the block, and

somewhere central, dishes to pass would be set up. Fire hydrants

would be opened so all kids could jump and play in the icy water

on that hot summer day. I remember as a child being tossed by the

direct hit of a hydrant stream to the flooded pavement below,

laughing, only to get in line with other wet little kids to

experience it again. Pink Jell-O molds, coleslaw salads, hot dogs,

and fresh baked pies all lined makeshift tables as we ate and

chased lightning bugs to put them in our peanut butter jars, (lids

perforated for air, of course).

We played hide and seek until the street lights went on.

That was the signal. When the street lights went on, all the mothers

had told their kids it would be time to come in and end the day.

Sometimes there would be a stubborn playmate who would talk you into

one more game of tag or hide & seek. But as soon as you found that

'perfect spot', the one that you were sure no one would find

you in, you would hear your name being called out from a cement front

porch, and your friend's too, but by another mom on another porch.

You would try to still win the game, until you heard that certain

pitch of your mother's voice, that meant business, calling you. It

was then you came slumping out of your 'perfect spot', only to find

your friend, 3 feet away from you, being called out too!

You looked at each other and laughed! Another day, and

another 'perfect spot', in a great neighborhood,

on the Southside of Chicago by Midway Airport, where you could pick

up the control tower on your clock radio, where no one took your

shoveled winter parking spot saved with an old kitchen chair.

Where you knew to stop your conversation outside until the plane flew

over, where your friend's mom would make sure you didn't get in

trouble, and your mom fed everybody pj sandwiches & milk for lunch

during the Bozo Show and Speed Racer cartoons, where you roamed the

streets and alleys garbage picking and taming stray cats.

Sometimes I really miss it.

But this is why we have this site. To recall those times, and maybe

in a small way, to recreate them with words and our interactions

with others, . . . with bread.