As I entered my adult years, I finally admitted to myself that once in a while I wanted to run back to the safety I had when I was 12. The family room with the woodstove awaited me, where we’d all sit down at 5:30pm and watch All in the Family. Or, I would love to have laid down once again on top of my bed and look directly at my Run DMC poster. Nothing could replace sitting at the kitchen table on a cold Sunday morning, with the smell of coffee and fresh baked cornbread intertwined in a heavenly dance.
There was a comfort that life provided and my parents had been the root. Back then, as life was truly straightforward, my world consisted of my parents love and discipline, their principle and hard work; piano lessons and Boy Scouts; baseball and basketball; fights in school and fights at home; and of course, my few good friends. It was a simple world and a small town, with an overabundance of dreams and hopes and yes, it was good.
Life was so simple when I was 12. Of course I knew little about little. My music tastes varied. I did like Rod Stewart (only today can I admit that) and Noah still remembers my extensive collection of Hall and Oates. We would play them over and over again at night, pretending to be DJ’s on my Realistic tape recorder my Dad bought me. Noah and I would listen to WCOZ or WROR and when a good song came on, hit “Record” and “Play.” It didn’t matter that we’d catch a little of the DJ’s voice. We didn’t have iTunes back then. We had imagination.
My family and I grew up on Cider Mill Road, in a town called Sudbury. It had 12,000 people. Our house was set back from the street, with woods all around. There was a huge and hilly back yard that was absolutely perfect for sledding in winter. Our mountain began at the basketball pole, down the first small hill. Then it went on to the big one and from there to the third hill, the most challenging, that went past the stacked wood on the right, and down through the woods. I had to avoid the oaks and maples that were standing or fallen, to land on the frozen little stream that never seemed to go anywhere. Every Spring I’d go down there to see if there were any fish or turtles. There never were. But, one day while exploring the woods, not quite like Christopher Columbus, I discovered oil! I ran back home, screaming, to my mom that we were going to be rich. Shortly thereafter as I guided her to the secret location, she told me that some fool had dumped his car oil into the stream.
Hard work was what also defined my mother. One thing that she slaved at and could do and outdo anyone was cooking. I can still recall from the recesses of my mind the smell of the feasts cooked by my mother. They would have won awards at any competition. Forget Rachel Ray and those other overpriced, overmarketed figures on television as they cannot compare. My mother could take scraps of food and any leftovers and within 30 minutes whip up a meal worthy of a banquet. My mother cooked an incredible meatloaf. Noah and I partook of one particular iteration of that meatloaf one night. It was so good that we helped ourselves to more and more until it all disappeared. Of course, the next day he and I denied any involvement. But, we had no alibi nor did she have anything to serve for dinner that night. She knew it had been us.
Christmas and Thanksgiving were special times for my mother to show off her skill. She would spend all day basting and cutting and preparing and making sure that every detail, smell, and taste would be perfectly coordinated. I will never forget that one Thanksgiving, as we all sat down in absolute drooling hunger. My mother was slicing the turkey in the kitchen. Her friend brought it to the table. Her footsteps got closer and closer to the dining room where all ten of us friends and family were sitting in pure agony waiting to feast. In absolute slow motion horror, I watched as my mother’s friend stepped in to the dining room and tripped over something. The beautifully juicy and perfectly sliced turkey breast unceremoniously fell to the floor. Our dog loved her even more that year.
My parents would give me an allowance for raking leaves, mowing lawn, shoveling the driveway and cutting, splitting and stacking wood. Before I hit 14, I alone deforested half of Sudbury, on direct orders from my father. Also, I contributed to global warming by polluting the winter air as I kept the wood stove fed and roaring throughout the winter. I was a Republican years before I could vote. But, work did not stop there. My mom had to have hers, too. So, without a union to defend me or any rights whatsoever for protection, I also became her servant. At a young age I became adept at dish washing, dusting, vacuuming and knowing how to keep the house ready for the ever pending Presidential visit. Of course, he never came.
Santa Claus did stop by, every year. But, I knew he did, and that he must have really liked our cookies and milk. Every morning on Christmas day, one bite was taken from the cookie and he drank some milk. Like most other kids, it was impossible for me to fall asleep as the great anticipation of Christmas morning was more than I could take alone in my bed. Somehow, I did fall asleep. Waking up was never a problem! One year, Santa hung out a little too long since, I guess, he had finished his rounds. I remember vaguely Santa walking up and down the hallway one winter, with his bell, waking us up, saying, “HO HO HO! Merry Christmas!” I woke up and there he was. I watched him and watched him in total disbelief for about one minute. Then I realized he sounded familiar and feminine. It was my mother, as a surprise to us all, dressed as Santa, doing her best to give us the most amazing Christmas possible.
Even at Christmas, our pets were given a little something. Canela was our German Shepard that outweighed me when I was ten by at least 30 pounds, she was faster, had bigger teeth and loved Frisbees, peanuts my sisters and I. She was a great wrestling partner, a gentle giant, protective of all that she considered hers, even the cats Sandy and Ashley. The cats would team up and tease Canela and make her run after them, up and down the hallways and stairs. My father would swear the house was coming down or that some earthquake had just rocked us. We learned to get out of the way so as to not become some statistic of injury inside the house. Once in a while, I did want to push a sister in the way, just to see what would happen. But, all big brothers are like that.
In the fall I would rake leaves with my cousin Charles, who was much older than me. We would always build the biggest pile of leaves possible at the bottom of the hill. Then, he’d encourage my sisters and I, at the top of his lungs, to jump in. And we did, over and over again. We seemed to have an endless supply of energy back then. We always made sure our pile of leaves was really big, as we could really get some speed and height running down that hill. Canela would gallop after us and jump in also, as she knew nothing but happiness when she was with us. We were only jumping into a big leaf pile in a New England fall, nothing more. We would delight ourselves at leaping into it over and over again, best friends in absolute and innocent ecstasy. The ache, twenty years later, is in my heart and no longer my arms.
My very first Mustang was in fact a blue Ross Ten Speed with baskets on the side in the back. I’d ride in loops, up and down my street, between Raymond Road and Robert Frost Lane, for those were my boundaries. I would pretend to be John Poncharello, imitating a siren and pulling my sisters over on their bikes. I had a little notepad and pen to write out fake tickets, for ugliness, being liberals or for just plain breathing too loudly. My mom told me years later that she had fielded at least two or three calls from the neighbors because the siren sound was just too loud. I wonder if they ever appreciated my sacrifice.
Back then, I worked at Star Market as a bagger and made $3.25 an hour, which was great money at the time. I was on my way to being the next Bill Gates. I hated having to take the bus to work downtown after school because it was embarrassing. I also had a paper route for a while. It was terrible having to deliver papers early in the morning and get laughed at by the high school kids who stood on Robert Frost Road while I made my way home for the middle school bus. And it was all the worse when there was snow and I rode my Ross 10 speed, trying to out run snowballs, without snow tires. I detested having to mow lawn, clear leaves, shovel the driveway, cut and split wood and make sure there was enough in the garage in case a monster snow storm suddenly appeared that Dick Albert had not seen, yet somehow my father with his Farmer’s Almanc had predicted. I am still wondering if he co authored it.
My dad used to embarrass me a long time ago. I have seen my father blow his nose in public in a sheet of newspaper. When he would go to the apothecary, and the charge was $9.73, he’d unload his two pants pockets which somehow, amazingly, held enough miscellaneous items to build a space shuttle. Then in front of everyone, he’d separate the exact change from the crumpled bills, the binaca, the keys, handkerchief, pens, notepad, wallet and credit cards. My father would always start up a conversation with any stranger and crack dumb jokes. Back then, I would instantly go running quickly in another direction, head low, wanting to divorce him somehow for embarrassing me. But, those are quirks and I, as an adult, have inherited them. I swore I would never do all that and today, I am just like him. The apple never falls far from the tree and I’m glad.
When I was younger, the first few times I’d smell a wood stove burning in October represented a sadness as it was the signal for winter. This would mark the exclamation point on the temporary death of late nights at Friendly’s and the pool hall; Saturdays at Horseneck Beach and Sunday morning basketball. It would spark thoughts of the coming months, of snow and Christmas, of mid terms and college applications, of cloudy days and 4pm sunsets, of cold mornings and the Toro snowblower.
Children look in amazement at the world around them and wonder about all that will be theirs. Somewhere that vanishes. As a child I was no different. I wanted to grow up so fast, that the handcuffs of time frustrated me. One day I was going to be a pilot. Then I thought about a fireman or a lawyer. Then I thought about basketball. Then girls. Quickly I had graduated college, got a job and the difficulties of life expanded exponentially. Looking back on a simple time, there were downs but not like today. It was the last decade of innocence. Those few negative things were simple strangers that passed by. All that they left in their wake, was a bed of memories so warm and comforting that still today I want to jump back in, fall asleep and be woken up again by Santa Claus.
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