Night had almost fallen, the houses and trees were
becoming indistinct as I stood at the end of
the street, watching and listening, witnessing the
ritual duplicated in thousands of small towns across
the country - the business of a small town saying
"goodnight America."
Somewhere over on another street, I heard the sound
of a lawnmower as someone raced to finish a job before
darkness. Most of the kids had already disappeared
through front doors or kitchens though their voices could
still be heard, indistinctly, as they busied themselves
with preparing for supper.
I heard the odd swishing sound a bicycle tire makes on
the pavement and turned to see a boy of 12 or so; he
stopped pedaling and coasted the rest of the way to
his drive. The bike rolled silently up the drive and
disappeared into the garage. I heard a clattering as
though the bike had fallen against something, then
quiet until I heard the sound of an unseen screen door
as it closed behind him. I heard a woman's
voice as she spoke to him, and his unintelligible reply
Somewhere down the street came the sound of a small
voice
yelling something out into the night, a pause,
and fainter
still, another small voice answering. This set of
gales
of laughter, which were cut off by the slamming
of a door
Lights appeared in upstairs bedrooms and the distinct
sound of rising and falling voices, evidently from a TV
just turned on. Loud rock music was heard until a
woman's voice sounded, and the music was lowered.
The odor of what smelled like beef stew or roast beef
drifted across the lawns, and mingled with the definite
smell of garlic.
A street light at the end of the block had been on
for some time and I could hear the sound of large
moths as they beat a steady tattoo against the
reflector, attracted there by the light. The shadow of
what must have been a small bat, swooped through the
umbrella of light as he went about collecting his evening
meal. The cicadas and other insects had been singing
their evening songs; they were suddenly quiet, then
continued their seranade.
The headlights of a car appeared as the car turned
down
the street. It paused at the curb, I heard the sound
of a mailbox being opened and closed, the car then
disappeared up the drive and into the garage. I saw that
the garage light had come on, a car door slammed, and,
after a moment the sound of another screen door, the light
went out, and all was silent.
I stood and watched all this, and listened, because fifty
years before, this had been my street. It was just a
dirt street then, with no sidewalks, and not nearly so
many houses. They were mostly small frame homes back
then, although, before I left, Mr. Franklin was putting
himself up a new brick home across the street and down
the block. It was the only one there that I recognized.
The others had been torn down I guess, to make way for
the larger more modern ones that now lined the street.
Mr. Franklin didn't live there any more - I didn't
recognize the people who were arriving as I passed by.
I spoke to them, and they were polite, but they didn't
recognize me, nor did I know them
I didn't recognize the names on any of the other mail
boxes either, although I was hoping perhaps, that I would.
Of course the street is paved now, with nice sidewalks
and with green lawns right out to the edge. Back
then it had been our shinny court, with our shinny
sticks and Pet milk cans
Over behind this street there had been no more houses,
just vacant lots. They were full of weeds, but we had
cleared one off enough that we could play a game of ball
there, when we could find enough players for a team. Of
course
nine people for a team is nice, but it doesn't
always
have to be that way, sometimes 3 or maybe 4
works out
just as well.
Our bikes had made a path through the weeds
and we extended it until it ran all the way around
the lot. Riding kept the weeds down. It made a
fine place to ride and to have an occasional race.
There are houses there too now, and paved streets. Some
fancy names like Terrace Circle, Weeping Willow Drive;
names like that. Ours was Second Street, and the name
always seemed to fit just fine
I don't know where they play ball now - I noticed a new
school in the area so maybe they play there, or maybe
at one of the new parks nearby.
Perhaps I shouldn't have gone back. Had I been realistic,
I would have known that I should expect great changes.
Still, there is always the hope that not everything changed;
there might be a small part of the long ago I could
recognize, and could say to myself, "yes!, there is my
childhood again."
I walked back up the block to where I had parked my
rented car. I slowly drove down the street one last
time, knowing I would never return. What I had been
searching for was no longer there.
Then, as I drove away, it slowly began dawning on
me that I had never left it there. It had gone with
me the day I departed so many years ago. All the
school days and
the measles and skinned knees, the
Saturday matinees
and the vacant lots - I had taken
them and locked them
safely away in my memory
where they would stay safe and
unchanged
throughout all the years.
They didn't fit in here, on this paved street with its
manicured lawns and back yard swimming pools,
they were
exactly where they belonged.
With a lighter heart, I took them back with me, to the
hotel, where in the morning we would catch an early
flight out to Chicago.
| BACK |
| HOME |
