I took my kids home a few weeks ago. To the place I feel most at home. To Boston. To Hingham, the town I grew up in. To the house I grew up in and the neighborhood I loved. To the streets between my house and Jeannie's and the million and one memories that live there. To the beach, the water, the smell of the salt air and the winding roads along the coast. To the cemetery on High Street where Mitch is remembered. To the North End, Quincy Market, and my new digs in Cambridge. Up to Boothbay Harbor and back.
We went to places that meant the most to me growing up. And still, they hold strong as the places I love best. These places are the backdrop for so much of the color and texture and pattern of my life. In them I grew close to my family, made unbreakable bonds, fell deeply in love, learned the value of friendship and loyalty, had my heart broken a few times, and had more fun than any teenager should ever be allowed.
So many of my memories of these places are lost. So many are vague sort of shadows and I wonder if I remember them correctly. I wish I had those pages filled with my stories. I wish I remembered more details than I do. Not just because there was something magical about this place I got to live, but because I want my kids to know some of those stories. Not all of them, but a few are worthy of sharing.
I do remember running up the path from my house to the playground at Plymouth River School, across Harvard and Stanford to Blackhorse Lane hundreds of times. I remember smoking pot with my brother and his best friend on that very playground before our huge family dinners on Sundays where there were always at least ten extra people. (If you knew the chaos that often came with ten or more extra people, you'd have been at that playground with us.)
I remember my mother's terrible pink and green wallpaper and how happy (and terrified) we were when my dad left oil on the stove one morning and the kitchen burned up so that we would never have to see it again... only, she put the same crap back up! I remember driving to school on snowy mornings and taking the turn on to Main Street a little too fast every time so that the back end of my mom's Jeep would fishtail just enough to make our little sisters pee a little.
I remember long walks down my street to the side yard that led to Ward Street. Wishing Berkley Circle were miles longer so I wouldn't have to say goodnight. (Mosty I just didn't ever want to stop making out with my boyfriend on that big patch of open grass that ruined my favorite white jeans.) I remember the night I was supposed to be at Dances With Wolves and instead had the best date in the history of dates. I remember spending more time at Jeannie's house because that's where our boys always were. And, long summer days laying by her pool with sun-in in our hair and ridiculously long discussions about summer camp and her boyfriend's smelly feet and debating whether her adopted brother was gay or not.
I remember standing on this very deck behind the Lobstermen's Co-op in Boothbay Harbor, Maine and taking a similar photo with my whole family, including Bruce and Diane. What was so amazing about this vacation with my kids was how incredibly easy they were. They fell in love with my beautiful Hingham instantly. And, they were no match for Boothbay Harbor. They are fully under the spell.
As am I.
NOW, I remember these three running up and down the street I lived on and the beaches I played on through the tiny town I spent summer vacations in. I watched them eat their first whole lobsters without worrying about the weird insides or the dribbling butter. And I watched them stand quietly over the tiny harbor in Cohasset and stare at the boats going out to the open water. It was where Molly turned and said that it was the most beautiful place she had ever seen. I remember how easy they were in these places that always bring me comfort. They were happy and for a week they didn't argue or call names or whine. There will be many many more of these trips. Longer versions with more time for nothing and less driving and sightseeing. For now, though, I remember a tiny bit of perfection.
We went to places that meant the most to me growing up. And still, they hold strong as the places I love best. These places are the backdrop for so much of the color and texture and pattern of my life. In them I grew close to my family, made unbreakable bonds, fell deeply in love, learned the value of friendship and loyalty, had my heart broken a few times, and had more fun than any teenager should ever be allowed.
So many of my memories of these places are lost. So many are vague sort of shadows and I wonder if I remember them correctly. I wish I had those pages filled with my stories. I wish I remembered more details than I do. Not just because there was something magical about this place I got to live, but because I want my kids to know some of those stories. Not all of them, but a few are worthy of sharing.
I do remember running up the path from my house to the playground at Plymouth River School, across Harvard and Stanford to Blackhorse Lane hundreds of times. I remember smoking pot with my brother and his best friend on that very playground before our huge family dinners on Sundays where there were always at least ten extra people. (If you knew the chaos that often came with ten or more extra people, you'd have been at that playground with us.)
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| One Berkley Circle with overgrown hedges and the sinking walk that my dad put in by hand. |
I remember long walks down my street to the side yard that led to Ward Street. Wishing Berkley Circle were miles longer so I wouldn't have to say goodnight. (Mosty I just didn't ever want to stop making out with my boyfriend on that big patch of open grass that ruined my favorite white jeans.) I remember the night I was supposed to be at Dances With Wolves and instead had the best date in the history of dates. I remember spending more time at Jeannie's house because that's where our boys always were. And, long summer days laying by her pool with sun-in in our hair and ridiculously long discussions about summer camp and her boyfriend's smelly feet and debating whether her adopted brother was gay or not.
I remember standing on this very deck behind the Lobstermen's Co-op in Boothbay Harbor, Maine and taking a similar photo with my whole family, including Bruce and Diane. What was so amazing about this vacation with my kids was how incredibly easy they were. They fell in love with my beautiful Hingham instantly. And, they were no match for Boothbay Harbor. They are fully under the spell.
As am I.
NOW, I remember these three running up and down the street I lived on and the beaches I played on through the tiny town I spent summer vacations in. I watched them eat their first whole lobsters without worrying about the weird insides or the dribbling butter. And I watched them stand quietly over the tiny harbor in Cohasset and stare at the boats going out to the open water. It was where Molly turned and said that it was the most beautiful place she had ever seen. I remember how easy they were in these places that always bring me comfort. They were happy and for a week they didn't argue or call names or whine. There will be many many more of these trips. Longer versions with more time for nothing and less driving and sightseeing. For now, though, I remember a tiny bit of perfection.
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