Just before the 4th of July, I rode my bike into the village along the Erie Canal Trail. It’s a 2 1/2 mile ride east to my hometown from where I presently live. I only had intention of riding to Zem's, Canastota’s popular ice cream stand that now occupies the former GLF building on Main St.
It was a gorgeous evening, much like those perfect ones remembered from childhood. The sky was deep blue, undisturbed and sun-filled; the air clear, the rolling hills lush, velvety green. It was the kind of evening that called up memory and led me away from my intention.
My bike and I left the trail at State St, hooked right on to Buck St, then passed the public library on Center St. I continued south on Main St. to my destination where kids and adults streamed in all day and evening for cones and sundaes, flurries and shakes, sodas and slushies.
I ordered what I always order--a small orange vanilla twist in a cone. With that in hand, I
meandered over to one of the picnic tables shaded by an old maple. I sat down savoring every lick of my ice cream. As I regretfully finished that last bite of cone bottom where it gets all soggy and drips on to one’s palm, landing softly on to a lap, I thought it time to head home. The sun was lowering to it’s dusky angle, As I mounted my black Raleigh, I was pulled to ride along Hickory St. away from the direction home.
I passed Fireman's Field where each June a carnival was held, where my friends and I looked out over rooftops from the ferris wheel. I pedaled across Peterboro St. towards South Side school where I spent my elementary years, where we played sandlot baseball, where we swung on the playground. Before I made it to High St, I rode over Prospect St., took a left onto Second St. then crossed over High St . I went by the house where a friend used to live, where we used to practice piano duets for recital. Two young unfamiliar women sat on the front porch. I thought to myself "where's Kathy?"
My mother lived her last few years one door away in a house we renovated for her--where my classmate Greg once called home. I rode passed that house going south on to Delano and then west along Third. No more childhood friends there-no Vinny, no Elizabeth, no Ann Marie, no Patty. As I approached High St. again, I took a left where Judy used to live and rode up the hill that always had me puffing to make it to the top. It didn't seem so steep that evening. I had no problem making it all the way without pause. I passed by homes of friends and relatives who no longer live there--
Bobby, Jackie, Arthur, Marsha, Aunt Elia--yards where we played baseball, explorers, air craft carrier, formed secret clubs, had parties or just sat along the street waiting for something to happen. As I reached Rt5, I took a left toward the house where I grew up, where tractor trailers kicked into low gear grinding their way up the hill, where cars streamed by all day and all night. I rode into the driveway. A woman was getting out of her car holding a boxed pizza. I introduced myself and mentioned that I grew up in “her” house. She was genuinely happy to greet me (even while she was holding the steaming pizza.) She said she heard many wonderful things about my parents.
There was something about standing on the tarmac of of our old driveway that almost undid me. Eddie, my dear childhood campanion, lived next door all the years we were growing up. I pass that house many times a week and I am never touched by it. Perhaps it is the music blaring through the car stereo or the ever-mounting daily agenda playing out in my mind that keeps me from thinking about that life. When my mother asked to move from the house, we were happy for her to leave. My father had passed on. My brothers and I had moved out. My mother wanted to move to a neighborhood where she could easily walk along quiet streets, where the traffic was gentle, where there was less house to care for and where there were no dark and empty corners. But the night I dismounted my bike and placed my feet on the blacktop, a lot of things came flooding back--a lifetime.
Before I could even get a glimpse of the where the treefort was or the sandbox, I quickly said good bye to the lady, mounted my thin-tired two wheeler and rode toward High St once again. At the top of the hill, I tried to hold back the growing lump in my throat. I didn’t let go of the handlebars like I used to do in my youth. I did not spread my arms out and balance on the speed of gravity pushing me down the hill. Instead, I kept swallowing down that which threatened to rise too close to the surface. I turned left on Second St., left on Prospect St, right on to Rasbach where I saw Gail. She lives in her family’s original homestead. She and her husband were working in their lovely, gardens. I shouted hi, waved and I rode north on Peterboro St., west on Canal St, through to State St., right onto Catherine where my Nana used to live. How short Catherine St. seemed now! I guided the bike left onto New Boston passed Butch's nonna's house, right on to Depolitti Ave making my way to the Little League field which is now two fields complete with dugouts and even tennis courts nearby. The voices I heard could have been those of the children with whom I grew up so many years ago. They sounded so much the same. Many of us walked through town to the field. My house was a little more than a mile away. George rode his bike a few miles from his home in Whitelaw in order to play baseball. Kids could do that without worry then.
Eventually, I made my way back onto New Boston St. turned east onto West Ave and found my way back to the Canal Trail. The cool shadows beneath long leafy branches of dense woods welcomed me like a tender hug. I drew in a deep breath and sighed. Sunlight peeked through openings like spotlight haloes along the path guiding my way. The breeze of onward motion fanned along my face, my arms, my legs brushing dust away. I heard the summer bird songs and frog chants as I cycled west, the soft crunch of cinder under my wheels as I sped home.
I have always loved bike riding. I have tacked hundreds of miles on to a handful of bikes, as I tacked years on to this life. To this day, I ride
regularly wherever we are. It is my
favorite sport. But more, there is
something about being on a bicycle that
connects you to where you are.
A car just doesn't bring you to that place.
July, 2008
October 2008
Two Summers and a Fall
The intent was to make it to Pratts Falls each season. So far the tally is two summers and a fall.
Poets who picnic, bring a cotton table cloth, potato salad minus mayonnaise, but with olive oil and lots of vegetables, garbanzo beans dressed with herbs, mint tea, dark chocolate with dried cherries and rich blue bottles of Saratoga water. They huddle at a picnic table with their faces to the sun trying to negate autumn’s first chill wind with attitude. At a moment, they plop onto the ground--human berms deflecting gusts of cold air. They negotiate their way down stone stairs, duck “Do Not Cross” barriers, slide down slick mossy walls to place themselves where water speaks, shouts, laughs, sings --
water that spills over a rock ledge, roars down a cliff;
water that burbles and laughs while it clamors over throngs
of rocks;
water that croons lullabies as glides through brook pools.
Here where wind is offered no admittance in the deep vale, coats lay strewn,
leafy mosaics are rendered,
poets lust after roads not taken
until after a time, they climb the old steps back to where
tables go wanting and pavilions stand empty.
What will winter bring?
