Reverend Higgins was his usual dry self as he delivered a solemn message to the Pilgrim Church congregation. I always found him a bit dull, but he had good intentions. After all, he was the parson.
I visited ‘the old neighborhood’ recently, and, surprisingly, it began with a Sunday morning service. My sister joined me, unexpectedly. Our father, who never attended service, encouraged us to attend church, made us go, actually.
We usually walked home together after service and today was no different. Like an earlier time, we were expecting mother had a traditional roast leg of lamb ready for Sunday dinner. Ohhh, the skin, always crunchy and tasty, but not so healthy, was a favorite part.
Lucky day, the aroma of cooked lamb guided us past the Boling sisters’ house and down the long blacktop driveway to the screened back door of our ‘three decker’ house. Our big yellow house stood out from others because dad maintained it well, scraping and painting wherever necessary, every summer. Three families lived here, the ‘landlord’ on one floor and renters on two and three. Dad was the ‘landlord’, the first floor was ours.
‘Three deckers’ were typical of New England and Hollywood Street was lined with them, like old ships cleated to the dock. Front porches and big backyards, long driveways and spinning clothes lines attached to the enclosed back porch, these houses were working class domiciles in every sense of the word.
A small market store anchored the our street to the corner. Fresh cold cuts and ground beef, ground on demand, were staples there. The red cooler, filled with ice cold water, always had a variety of tonics* bobbing for the taking. A quarter more than covered the cost. The proprietor was busy, so I’ll catch him next time…
While old neighbors were stirring about, it seemed odd that no one acknowledged me with anything more than eye contact. The Sullivans, a good Catholic family of six kids, a mother and grandmother, were coming home from church. The dad, would come later, from a bar, drunk as usual. Sad to see.
Next door, old man Gibson is going about his property, head down, probably still looking for evidence of last night’s disturbance when some kids threw firecrackers and it sounded like gunshots. A long string of crackers would do that.
There’s my father tending his small tomato garden alongside the neighbor’s fence. It’s Sunday evening, now, and he’s waiting for mother. They’re going bowling, something they enjoy together in their retiring years. I’d love to talk but don’t want to make them late. Next time, maybe…
I saw a lot more today than I could recall, I’m certain. They say we don’t remember all of our dreams. I realized that when I snapped awake in my bed this morning, hundreds of miles and many years removed from Hollywood Street and Worcester, Massachusetts.
It was an enjoyable ‘visit’ home, albeit short, but more nights and chances to dream await me. I’m excited about it. Maybe I’ll visit Beaver Brook Park where I saw the circus, played ball and went to summer day camp. I’ll do that the next time, maybe…
You know, I should call my sister…
Steve (August 2019)
*a common New England word for soda, pop, etc.