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| One of many muck ponds located behind my parent's house |
I grew up some 300 yards behind a tire company near the Laurel Highlands of Pennsylvania, a patch of land that’s settled on the borough side of the city/township line.
On the northern side rests the township’s stretch of woods that extends up and out into a vast bony pile of cascading hillsides intermixed with coal, long, overgrown grasslands, and sporadic tree growth consisting of pine, oak, crabapple, walnut or poplar. The scent of dust, sap, and burnt wood always lingers in the air, for winds blow swiftly, rustling the leaves and smacking the branches of many treetops.
The black and elderberry bushes that grow along an unnamed creek attract a few black bears and their cubs, a mass of white tail deer, and plenty of pesky raccoons that can be found coming and going from town.
All of which, surrounds a few muck ponds, stretching a mile or so in length, one of which is visible a few hundred yards out from my family’s property, past a dusty alley that lies directly on the township line.
Southward is the borough of my town, a population of less than 1,400 people, nestled between two larger cities ten times its size. On First Avenue, a few dozen elderly folk live peacefully in their homes from the 1970’s. The couples occasionally wander out to their front porches in the early evenings, disrupted by the calls of laughter pouring in through their front door screens. They watch over the few neighborhood children as they dribble their basketballs, play hopscotch in the streets, and ride their bikes passed, bells ringing, and baseball cards puttering against dirty tires.
The house to the left of the tire company doubles as a daycare center, where students ages three to twelve spend their afternoons playing in a makeshift school house or roughhousing in the yard enclosed by a rainbow-colored fence. Though, only until their parents return from work, which results in the anticipated rush of traffic along my street between the hours of 4-6 pm. One can hear a constant crunch of gravel over a television at low volume, as dozens of tires travel gingerly passed the house.
On the northern side rests the township’s stretch of woods that extends up and out into a vast bony pile of cascading hillsides intermixed with coal, long, overgrown grasslands, and sporadic tree growth consisting of pine, oak, crabapple, walnut or poplar. The scent of dust, sap, and burnt wood always lingers in the air, for winds blow swiftly, rustling the leaves and smacking the branches of many treetops.
The black and elderberry bushes that grow along an unnamed creek attract a few black bears and their cubs, a mass of white tail deer, and plenty of pesky raccoons that can be found coming and going from town.
All of which, surrounds a few muck ponds, stretching a mile or so in length, one of which is visible a few hundred yards out from my family’s property, past a dusty alley that lies directly on the township line.
Southward is the borough of my town, a population of less than 1,400 people, nestled between two larger cities ten times its size. On First Avenue, a few dozen elderly folk live peacefully in their homes from the 1970’s. The couples occasionally wander out to their front porches in the early evenings, disrupted by the calls of laughter pouring in through their front door screens. They watch over the few neighborhood children as they dribble their basketballs, play hopscotch in the streets, and ride their bikes passed, bells ringing, and baseball cards puttering against dirty tires.
The house to the left of the tire company doubles as a daycare center, where students ages three to twelve spend their afternoons playing in a makeshift school house or roughhousing in the yard enclosed by a rainbow-colored fence. Though, only until their parents return from work, which results in the anticipated rush of traffic along my street between the hours of 4-6 pm. One can hear a constant crunch of gravel over a television at low volume, as dozens of tires travel gingerly passed the house.
The tire company is situated just a few feet before the strip of highway that runs through the borough. The constant roar of bustling traffic becomes second nature to a local. One intersection, just 100 yards from my double-wide trailer, was an infamous spot of numerous wrecks, which led to the permanent east to west way block off a few summers back.
Down the street rests an old Ma/Pa Deli, the only place in town where you can buy a block of brick cheese, a pound of cooked ham chipped, a six-pack of beer, and order a pizza. It is one of very few kid’s hangout s available, where boys rides their bikes through the unmarked parking lot, popping wheelies, and jumping off the four-inch curb of sidewalk. Girls simply walk over in pairs, buy themselves a crème soda, a Hershey’s bar, maybe a strip of beef jerky, teriyaki flavored.
Of course, they all know to be home before the sun settles on the horizon and the aging streetlights project their faint, amber light onto the street corners. And as the children age, the blare of a steady, fire whistle, sounding promptly at the strike of ten, reminds all minors that they must now be safe and soundly in their houses (unless in the company of an adult.)
"If You Only Knew"
Sounds great, doesn't it? A house situated between a patch of woods, and a block of town, almost the best of both worlds to a growing kid, right? As charming as my small town neighborhood appears to be, let's be perfectly clear. From the time I was about eight years old, I had come to understand one simple fact that would disconnect me emotionally from my family forever: nothing is always as it appears to be. My parent's house was never a home.
There was no "Family Game Night," Mommy/Daughter Day," or "Sleepover Weekend." There were unwritten laws that floated in the air of that double wide trailer, and as one grew older, it only became clearer that those laws were never to be broken. Simply put, the Golden Rule I lived by: "What happens in this house, STAYS in this house." We were not to invite outsiders in, nor venture out.
"Your With Us Now."
I walked around the single level, red bricked palace, exploring foreign territory. I gingerly tip-toed across the woolen, tan carpeting, (without shoes of course) and marveled at the beauty of Joshua's house.
Peeking into the bedrooms located in the far right wing, I stopped in my tracks just before the door frames. The spaces looked so put together: cleanly painted walls, flawless bedspreads, vibrant sheer curtains, and matching furniture sets.
Peeking into the bedrooms located in the far right wing, I stopped in my tracks just before the door frames. The spaces looked so put together: cleanly painted walls, flawless bedspreads, vibrant sheer curtains, and matching furniture sets.
"Whatcha doing, silly girl," Joshua's mom called as she stocked up the linen closet with freshly washed towels. The unfamiliar scent of Gain floated up into my nostrils and comforted me.
I glued my eyes to the carpet, observing the many intricate shades of tan that made up the overall color. "Just looking around, I'm sorry," I stuttered. I plowed through the hall, heading back to the openness of the living room.
Darla looked at me quizzically. "You don't have to park it in the living room, it's okay to look around. It's not like we're gonna spank you for being nosy," she chuckled, flipping the closet door closed.
A surge of queasiness flooded my stomach, and I'm sure it was present in my face, for Darla inched closer to me and looked me square in the eye.
"Make yourself at home, you're with us now." She wandered off into the laundry room, and threw in another load of clothes. I stood in the hallway, tears gathering upon my lash line.
There's such restraint here--what you don't say is as powerful as what you do.
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