Our house was lodged far into Eastern Massachusetts woods, huddled within the South Shore of Boston, situated along dark Forest Street, further plummeted down an
old lane, old as the 1800’s and probably older, its rutted paths providing
shaded solace on oppressive, sweat slicked summer days, transformed into an
ice skating puddle replete with face-prickling cold on dark winter afternoons . Our towering Pine
forest finding itself shrouded with its glistening greens or heavy snow by
seasonal turn.
Along this lane I would run, then leap my small self into the dark woodland quiet, years of golden, soft pine needles underfoot,
legions of thick aged bittersweet vines inviting a leap and a swing, as you
pulled your body into a propelled weight that created some loft, its bark sharp beneath
your tender child palms, the height a view of a few feet of difference, gazing over the thick forested land that opened before you and you swang, suspended in the sun filtered forest air.
Living in the woods became a vital part of life for my siblings and myself- one’s blood and bones, necessary
for survival into adulthood. That it was a Pine forest was all the more
fortunate. Have you truly known a Pine
forest, yourself?
They have characteristics which change according to the season, as all forests do. Always there are the impossibly thick
masses of lithe, brilliant green needles, sour to the taste, pungent to the
nose, soothing to the eye, and the sound is akin to some great number of caring
ones, all clamoring gently and applauding your existence. That essential,
loving murmur, as you wander through after school, or early in the morning, or after a particularly impossible day, or when you sense that one of your young siblings simply needs to be listened to. Off you go, the two of you, aimless, the sap pockets dappling the broad, protective trunks, the remaining branches so far overhead, ranging in the winds, while down below, in their protective realm, you lay at their feet, a pillowed aromatic needle strewn humus beneath you, rich with insect and microbe and as a child, you simply know all of this is life giving.
Wandering round a forest, you
slowly come to know each small deer thicket, every old downed tree that can be run along,
horizontal, the deep roots ripped out of the ground, revealing life beneath with its own stark and
delicious smells of earth and creatures …a place you can nestle into on a cold
winters day, or whose soil cools and embraces on a difficult summers night.
Down this path I would go, at
age 8, finally inured to woods and fears and darkenings… and at the far end of
the Lane came an opening into the small town’s Main Street, a quiet paved
affair, with open fields bordered by the stone walls that crept into sight
everywhere one turned…built by some unknown person, huge rock by rock, at some
unknown time.
Cars would come by now and
then, to your left simply forest and grass, while the right side showed the very beginnings of the town…some
largish rather nice old homes in this intentional WASP outpost…as it slowly made its way two or three miles down into the small town square of tiny
ancient library, the police station, the
Town Green with its ubiquitous monument to those who fought and died in
wars, the stately Town Hall with its smartly turned , vast windows , site of
dreaded obligatory piano concerts, a small ,one engine Fire Station, and finally a modest row of stores and one office, lined up
politely, replete with sidewalk , Jocelyn’s Market hunkered down in the midst
of them all.
Mr. Jocelyn was a kind man, tall
and old, gleaming gold wire glasses, a broad true smile beneath his thoughtful
eyes, vigorous yet stiff as he ventured along his aisles in search of requested
items.
Being from a family of eventually seven children, often I was sent
running in for this much hamburger, that many bags of frozen beans, some dishwasher soap,
and a few other things, while the huge station wagon idled outside, squabbling
brothers fresh from swim practice or tennis lessons or back from the crabby
piano teacher’s insistent lessons.
We had a tab at the grocery store in those days, which would build and build,until my parents would then
erupt, and somehow it would be paid down once again. We did drive by one day
to pick up a case of Escargot, the intended order being for a small box, and
summarily had escargot at Sunday dinner each week for months thereafter, which
delighted us all, the garlic and herbs
and butter sautéed into those poor snails, then stuffed back into someone
else’s shell for presentation.
Once, at age 5, I stole a 5 cent
Chiclet gum from Jocelyn’s and was made to bring it back and apologize. The
mortification I experienced is an acute memory even today, as my big brother looked me
silently in the eye, took my recalcitrant hand, and led me in to say my sorries
to a very pained Mr. Jocelyn, who promptly tried to give the candy back. But I
knew, I knew I should not take it, my brother squeezing my hand a bit and
giving me another silent look, and I managed a ‘No Thank you, Mr. Jocelyn.”, as
we ran out the door, task over and done with.
Growing bolder at age 8, I
learned to selectively grab some but not
all of the change from my father’s bureau top, and just as my much martini’ed
mother began to announce pending dinner for her large brood at around 7 or 8 , or sometimes 9 pm, I would launch myself out the back door, down the sometimes blackened lane,
through the now rather frightening expanse of nighttime forest, out the other
side onto pavement, screech down the road, panting, past homes lit against the
coming dark, down to Jocelyn’s Market, where I would buy a gum and a candy,
stuff them into my mouth as I began the flight back along the Main Street,
swallow the gum, chew up the candy, begin to detect the growing sense of utter
sick-to-stomach-ness as I finally loped into the back yard, sweat shined face
bright with cold or heat, slipped quietly into the never-used back door, and
faked a make-believe saunter down the stairs, to arrive at the usually rather
gourmet meal that was put upon the long pine table, alas, a dinner too late for
children full of pilfered crackers. Too late for parents simmered in alcohol
while circling their evening’s vitriol.
There I would find my big sister
self, perched on my chair, filled to the brim with my own style of back lash,
quietly sickened, as I pushed food about on my plate, stealthily changing it’s
appearance, let a few bites make their way onto my fork, into my mouth, as
requisite camouflaged activity that would be noticed and pass muster.
Across the evening kitchen table
would be salad or vegetables beautifully prepared, some unusual main dish that
most children would not tender, with complex ingredients and preparation
guidelines, the children of all ages lining the sides of the table, parents on
either end, tired children taking care not to bicker and risk setting off a
parent.
As the meal went on, it would become evident that even the adults would not actually eat…a thing….some baby
fed with a spoon in an old beautifully painted wooden highchair, cigarettes
maybe relit and brought to the table.
As we grew older, we would begin
to take note of the increasing rancor, the disparaging remarks, as the small
ones shuffled, tired and cranky in their chairs. It was then that my older
brother and I , and later my younger brothers, would stand, and take our places
behind a parent, slowly beginning to massage their shoulders, slowly eclipsing
their capacity for immature idiocy, as their sodden eyes slowly dropped, their
hands left their cigarettes, and they
began slowly to relax.
We would motion to the next younger ones, to
quick bring some plates over to the counter, then to the even smaller ones, to quick
go on upstairs and get ready for bed. Of course they would bicker and fight
their way up to the bedrooms, but no matter, we were that closer to the day
being done, to getting the adults past the perilous parts of the evening’s
path.
Having evaded disaster, I would
grab a baby to change, to bottle, to put to bed, pulling their beautiful small
baby selves to me, quietly talking to them as if all was truly well, while leaving my older brother to press the younger ones to get some of the dishes
done , and quickly, before she came to her senses, and then quickly scuttle themselves off to bed too. They would finish up a bit of work, silently pull open
the low freezer drawer to grab themselves fudge bars and popsicles, to be seen
and heard no more, safely off-stage for the night.
And they knew this. Don’t need
anything downstairs. Don't’ ask for school notes tonight. Don’t say you have no clean
pants for tomorrow. Clean sweep of kids upstairs, leave the adults to whatever
they then bring upon themselves, and see if it can simply stay down
stairs. Sometimes we managed this. And
sometimes it worked.
Upstairs was the pulling of
small arms and sweet legs into pajamas, the tooth brushing, the stories read,
then the tucking in (Can you please tuck me in??), the back rubs (Can you
please rub my back??) and then the lights darkened, save the older ones quietly
reading or sitting with the Guinea Pig who would sleep beneath their covers
with them, or the small quiet drawings being made until I would make a round again,
hissing that she will be up soon and to turn off the lights!
The mother would yell up the
stairs and we would yell down, “Oh no, everything is fine up here”, as she
unhappily returned to the uneaten dinner spread like so many carcasses across
the long wooden table, the partially done dishes, as she fired up her martini
and upped the volume of some Dvorjak symphony loud enough to shake the windows, pursuant of
some sort of comfort, I suppose.
As the father crept off to the
living room to read the paper, smoke his cigarette, hoping against hope to
avoid the erupting distress that more often than not will pursue him, relentless,
guileless, and endless, in a little while.
Or possibly tonight she lingers in the
library, moving on now to Frank Sinatra, immersed in the tragedy of her own
maligned life, while by the stairs, her husband now slips
undetected up and falls into bed, quickly, to side-step rancor and tumble
into his own unhappy dreams.
Myself, I move silently into the
bedroom I always share with the newest baby, small room, my ridiculous double
bed squeezed in with a crib, a strange elaborately framed portrait of Queen
Josephine of France above the headboard, with her incongruously heaped of curls of hair, her delicate clothing and demeanor of ultimately tragic disdain.
I am so quiet so as not to
awaken the baby, now softly snuffling just feet away. I change, and slide between cool smooth sun-dried sheets, the skies outside my paned windows filled
with stars or falling snows or the calls of summer insects. My flashlight is
held carefully as I revel some novel, entering with ease a far
away world, emerging into a far different life, as the sounds and smells
and circumstance of another existence gradually bleed into my own.
Yet, finally there are the awkward steps upon the staircase, and ,that abruptly, I am back, into this present life. Clicking off the flashlight,
pulling the book to my side, I turn, and feign my sleep, until that sleep truly does
arrive.
