When I started this blog, I had intentions of countering all
these Crisco, corn syrup, and margarine laced recipes by pursuing another of my
grandmother’s routines. Taking a walk. The 8 month delay of those intentions suddenly
ended on Sunday night when I found myself at the start of a week at Mt.
Pleasant Ave.
Sunday was actually the perfect kickstart to this dusty
inspiration. It was one of those perfect,
almost summer evenings. My weeklong
companion, Nutmeg, was still unsure what to think of me… so I figured we should
explore the neighborhood as the sky slowly ebbed into magical golden cotton
candy stretched across the blue.
I turned left at the bottom of the driveway, walking up
towards Main Street. This is not an
unfamiliar path to me – nor, I suspect, to many of this blog’s readers. So many summer morning/afternoons took these
first steps in flip flops, clutching a plastic bucket or shovel, a towel
wrapped around our shoulders, anxious to kick off those shoes and sink toes
into the sand of Eagle Lake. Or at the
opposite time of the year, bundled up in a snowsuit, mittens, gloves, and
hat. Dragging an inflated snow tube or toboggan
across the street, passed the embankment, and up the hill to see if the
sledding could get you as far as the frozen swamp. Both walks made you forget it was a golf
course. Because who cares about golf
when there is swimming or sledding to be done?
Nutmeg and I did not take the shortcut through the parking
lot of the former Jefferson School that would bring us to Eagle Lake. I imagine the administrative offices have no
need for the playground that was often a distraction from our destination. Nor would my furry companion if it was even there. So we walked along Main Street.
There were many mornings I would drive to work and see my
grandmother on this very path. Sometimes
she would see me and wave as I sped by in my car – something I actually got to
do to my aunt as she passed me. Holden
is like that. Or maybe… maybe it’s
because I was following my grandmother’s steps.
She always knew someone wherever we went. And it always made me feel good knowing that
– that no matter where you go, there is a chance to find a connection or commonality.
So I passed the school and the house that was once a veterinarian office. I honestly
couldn’t tell you when that business went away, but I do remember going there
with my grandfather to get Abigail, the poor dog who suffered my toddler
pinches under the kitchen table. I
passed the white gothic looking house on the corner of the street that will
take you to Eagle Lake if you don’t take the school parking lot shortcut. The mill buildings that always signaled the
anticipation of arriving at Ma and Bubby’s.
The antique store that was closed, but in which my affinity for old
things had to look, and coveted some bar accoutrement that could easily have
belonged to Don Draper… or Vinny Brennan.
I turned the corner onto Princeton Street. There was a graduation party happening that
Sunday night. I could hear the teenagers
playing volleyball - or whatever silliness the liberation from high school
provided - well before I passed the house.
I wondered if that senior had lived in that house all his/her life. If he/she had walked this street and knew it
in the sappy sense of nostalgia I did… and I realized that the senior wasn’t even
born when I was the child walking around this block. But I didn’t think of that as an oh my God, I’m
old… just a progression of time that had already manifested itself in the
weathered paint on houses I knew, overgrown vegetation, and cracks in asphalt I
remember seeing repaved many times. This
walk was very timey wimey, so indulge me.
Anyway, just about the point I got to the house where those
teenagers were making happy noises of celebration, I noticed the last street
light flicker on. I am always awestruck
by watching street lights come on. It’s
probably because I love the in between times of night and day – twilight and (when
I’m awake for it) dawn. Something
magical. A thinning of perception
maybe. And… I realized the first time I
ever noticed a street light go on or off was on that street. Maybe it was even that very street
light. I was 19 at the time. And it’s… just one of those things that you
go through life not paying attention to… or taking for granted. That street lights will always be on when it’s
dark. And somehow turn on without anyone
looking. They don’t suddenly go off in
the middle of the night. Except that one
(or one of its close by neighbors) did a February evening as I was driving
with a car full of cousins back to MPA from my grandfather’s wake. I’m sure it could easily be explained as a
burnt out bulb… but I always remember that.
I think of him every time I see a street light suddenly go off or
flicker on. And… not so very strange
that I should think of him that night.
I can’t deny a little water in the eyes as I followed Nutmeg
towards St. Mary’s. The church to which
I am most connected, even if not by faith.
So many weddings and baptisms (indeed my own), anniversary parties and
showers in the hall… and sadly, the more recent occurrences … funerals. The parking lot was vacant, but I remember
getting out of the car in my Easter best, following my grandfather into the
church where he always sat at the edge of the pew so he could pass the basket. The rectory where once upon a time I remember
Christmas caroling with my parents and some collection of aunts and
uncles. And the priests rewarded us with
a box of chocolates to take back to my grandfather.
Then we were back at Mt. Pleasant Ave. The post office, which was the most common reason
to walk down that street. I don’t
remember much about the post office. It’s
a post office. But just before the
corner where one crosses the street is a bridge over the Asnebumskit
Brook. So many stones have fallen from
my fingertips into that brook. An urge
that I still feel in my palms and prompts my eyes to look for obliging stones
nearby.
The last stretch is so familiar, tread so many times in my
childhood, after filling my stomach with a Christmas buffet, walking to see my
uncle’s house in the various progresses of construction… I could probably
describe it, smell it, feel it without taking Nutmeg down there. The houses are more familiar to me than those
in any neighborhood in which I lived.
Even if the one that was built underground now has an above ground story
and its stone wall is no longer a dare devil attempt to walk with
balance. The Christmas lights turned on
inside a living room of another house.
Not that I don’t turn on my Christmas lights all year long, but these…
well… made me smell the turkey on my clothes.
The bear at the bottom of Mr. Novak’s driveway. I looked up to his windows and wondered if he
would know who I am. The baby he held so
many years ago. The daughter of a
daughter of one of his very good friends.
I thought of the neighborhood in the days when he and my grandparents
were my age. When the outdoor fireplace
grilled hamburgers and the bourbon sloshed in glasses as they sat in lawn
chairs. As I walked back towards the
golf course and saw the (relatively) new condos made to look like the old hotel
and the lights that came on in the clubhouse, I thought of those nights my grandmother
told me about. When my grandfather would
go up to the bar and bring a half full glass home.
Of the bartender who would bring my grandfather a set of keys and the
request to get someone home safely. Of
the concerts – Tina Turner – who apparently rocked me out my mother’s
womb. Of the fire. The wedding receptions. And I see the hill again where we raced in our sleds to
get to the edge of the swamp.
So many memories in less than a mile. I wonder how many of us have ghosts there –
happy ghosts – but a piece of us that will always live on Mt. Pleasant
Ave. I felt like I was walking with
them, as well as Nutmeg. Even the ones I
didn’t know – Rose Alba and Frank and Rhea and Lee Michael. So much of our family is embedded in the air
there. Laughter and love and sorrow and
childhood joy echoing through the years into the twilight of a June evening.
