Connections

Forty two years. Forty two years since I have seen you…talked with you…heard your laugh. Forty two years since we rode around town in your old ford truck stopping at friends houses to visit for a while before heading off to the next. Cherry red. You liked to paint your trucks cherry red.

The bus station... I was taking an early morning departure from my current life back into the place of my my earlier life. Now I live in two different worlds. One from where I grew up. The other from where I now lived. They were so vastly different in the sense of how comfortable I was within each. In one, people knew who I was since birth. They knew my family, my history. In the other I had no connections. No one knew me. It was terrifying to think I would have to talk to many people in order to find a few close friends.

Last summer I had forgone my month long visit so I could work and save up money to buy a camera that I wanted. This year I had no such pressing need. I hated this ride. It was long and got crowded the further south I traveled. I had a backpack full of food and a small suit case tucked under the seat in front of me. Inside the backpack was another bag holding a pad of drawing paper, drawing pencils of varying leads, and a book to read. I took out the drawing pad and began to draw as the states slid by just outside my window.

I watch as the flow of people got off and got on. Though every seat was taken, by the end of my journey, there was no one from my starting point who was still on the bus. We had arrived late. I knew my grandfather was picking me up. He had told me to meet him outside so he did not have to find parking.

This was Grand Central Station and I had just spent nearly five hours on a bus. The warm sunlight was filtering through the air of the expansive space. Golden sideway slanted shafts playing high above my head. The serenity of the light from above juxtaposed with the never ending stream of dashing people was completely captivating.

The bus had arrived late. It always arrived late which usually caused a scene with whoever was picking me up as they had to wait which meant driving around until one of us spotted the other. This time my grandfather had spotted me. According to him I was too busy people watching to hear him for a good ten minutes. I could tell he was a little grumpy about it. I made my apology and climbed into the front bench seat of the Studebaker, closed the door and rolled down the window. We were heading home, my first home. It felt good to be here. I knew every tree in the neighborhood, every dip in the path between bases in the softball field. I knew what each family’s sauce and meatballs tasted like. It was a comforting place to land after my traveling.

“Your Dad asked me to have you call him today. He said he wants to stop by and pick you up.”

I was tired and my body sore from traveling all day on a bus. I wanted to tell him tomorrow would be better but I knew my dad was always eager to see me so I just kept it to myself and muttered my acknowledgement. When we finally pulled into the driveway, I noticed how big the trees lining the front yard had grown. When I was a kid you used to have to mow the grass between them. Not so much anymore as each tree’s branches entangled themselves with those of the others creating an impenetrable wall of ravenous pine needles.

The metal planter box in the shape of a well still sat in the middle of the lawn. She used to plant geraniums in it every year. I wonder if the stain from my blood is still on the corner of the little roof from when I ran into it? These days the planter sits cambered, a soft sun faded blue. An empty box of potted memories. No longer are there are sweet petals to catch the drops of my life.

Everything inside the house was the same as I always remembered it. There was kitchen table where countless stories had been shared by both family and friends. In the dining room was the big table reserved for holidays and large gatherings where by nightfall people would fall into speaking in their native languages. The laughter, so much laughter…the one and only thing that had changed was this new presence of quietness. On the one hand I welcomed the solace of it. On the other hand, the silence represented grief filled holes in my heart.

My grandfather had some errands to do so I decided to head over to my best friends house next door. I walked over the cement sidewalk squares he had poured when he first built the house and jumped over the childhood treasure swallowing sewer grate on the corner. I passed my beloved elm tree and our neighborhood softball field. I knew just the spot when her dog Shadow would see me and begin to bellow more beautifully than any other beagle I had ever heard.

By habit I chose to walk along the side of their garage and use the back set of stairs to their house as I had always done. I knocked on the back door and could hear someone say my name in surprise. Amy opened the door and before I could even walk out of the kitchen, she handed me a glass of iced tea. It was uncanny how she always knew what I needed. I was most grateful as it was one of those hot summer days in Jersey when the air felt like a weight on your body.

The living room was full of energy and as I walked in I was greeted by her brothers and sister. I gave her mom and dad a hug and kiss and took some time to talk with them a bit. They were both warm and caring, genuinely showing their interest in me. I can only hope they knew what a positive impact they had on my life. I can only hope they knew how much they meant to me.

After my hellos and a bit bucking off some playful teasing from her brothers, we escaped to her room. Much like in my grandfather’s house, everything remained the same except maybe the Peter Frampton poster was replaced by one of Roger Daltry.

Before we started catching up and planning things to do during the month, I asked how they knew it was me at the door for I was sure no one saw me walking up the street.

“No one uses the back door anymore. You are the only one who does.”

I asked her if she remembered the surprise going away party she threw for me when I moved out of town.

“Of course I do!”

“So I have a confession,” I told her as I began to tell her what I had done.

“I kinda had an inkling that something was up but had no idea what It could be as I walked over to your house. Just like today, I went around to go up the stairs to your back door. As I was about to knock, I peeked in the window and could see all our friends with their backs turned towards me and facing the front door. Eagerly waiting, their bodies frozen in anticipation at something that was apparently going to happen at the front door. As my gaze turned to the side, I saw the cake and the presents. It dawned on me that “I” was what was supposed to happen at the front door!

I had no idea what to do so I snuck down the stairs as quietly as I could. When I got to the safety of the side of the garage where I knew no one could see me, I stopped and tried to figure out what to do. I did not want to spoil the surprise!”

Guided by all these emotions I decided to go along with the surprise. What else could I do? It was so thoughtful and I could see everyone worked together to pull it all off.”

Looking back, I realize this whole moving thing was freaking me out. It was not something I ever thought I would experience. I felt lost thinking about how I would not see all my friends and family nearly as much as I had for my entire life. Who was I outside of this life I had been living?

Seeing the cake and presents sent it all home to me. This was as real as it got.

We laughed at the story. We laughed at the fact I had not told her until now. We settled into that place of being around someone who knows you to your very core until the phone eventually rang. It was my grandfather letting me know my Dad was on his way over. I was slow at making tentative plans and saying my goodbyes.

As I darted out the door I could see his red truck turning onto our street. I never knew what possessed me, but every time I would see his truck, I would dash behind a car and make him look for me as I made my way home. It was a game for me. Not so much for him though. He would drive up and down the street until I let him see me standing in front of my house. More than once he made it clear to me that my behavior was not cool. I always wondered why he just did not go visit my grandfather and wait until I gave up and came in.

It has been forty two years since I came down to visit your resting place. I am here and it is raining. Hard. A hazy mist settled, surrounding the headstones in a softening reality. I knew his plot was along the back but I was not sure exactly where. I decided to start in the back corner and work my way over to the far side. It started raining harder. I could feel the dampness coming through my raincoat chilling me to the bone. I have always been sensitive to temperature and was not enjoying myself at all. The longer I searched the more cold I became. I could feel my chest rising with irritation.

“What the hell Dad! I came all the way here to see you and it is pouring out. Im soaked, cold and getting mad at you so what gives? Where the heck are you?”

As I walked down the path between the rows of graves I could hear my husband calling to me and pointing. We had split up earlier in hopes of finding the headstone sooner. I tried to focus on where he was pointing but it was hard to see in the midst. I kept walking until what he was pointing at materialized. I could see it was a pretty good sized buck quite near my father’s grave. Being that he was a hunter, the deer immediately reminded me of him. It was almost like Dad was standing there looking at me with a light in his eyes. I instantly felt like he had finally been beaten in my own game of hide and seek. Pretty cool Dad, pretty cool.