Arthur Street Litany
He'd lead the way, through the cemetery,
Gesturing right, then left,
calling the roll of friends and family
from the past:
"And he lived down the road,
a part of the crew from school.
Remember the toboggan story?"
Schoolmates, here. The farms were busy.
And Ma and Pa, right by Sexton..."
Frank ands Ruby are new, as is Dale,
strangers to his litany, but his in life,
family moved a bit closer
to where he and mom now lie.
He knew so many, and there are newcomers,
taking their place in the cemetery litany.
Tonight, I'm driving to his old house,
the one I grew up in.
Tonight, my child, her husband,
and their child
open the door for family,
for Christmas, for posterity,
forever.
And as I drive the streets,
round the bends, appreciate the strange weather
(Who ever heard of rain in December in Minnesota?
Not me...) my memories take me back
to the business of driving.
And I find myself assuming the memories
of life, the passage of time,
the vagaries of near absent traffic,
but my brain has a life of its own
and a recitation begins,
as I drive down Arthur Street:
"Carol lived on the left, Naomi a few houses down.
and June lived down that side street
(she had a pet fox, for a while).
My kids' in-laws live in the corner house, over there,
and Roxanne lived on the right...
the school bus had a terrible time
stopping at the top of this hill--her hill.
And Larry lived here, his cousin Sharon
lived two houses away. Meridith
lived on the corner by Hart Lake
(she won that pageant we were in...)
and Tim and Diane
live in the apartments across from it, now.
Right turn onto 39th,
and church folks lived on the other corner;
one of the Docs lived across the street,
before I knew him, at work.
And Gordy and Jim and family
lived mid block on the south:
(remember that hunting accident?)
Here's Hayes Street, where Tim grew up,
and Olga lived across that corner,
and John lived across from her.
Lenny lived on the block--
he taught me how to ride my bike--
a push down the hill and shouted instruction,
"Peddle like crazy!",
and he rode off in the opposite direction:
and before Dorothy and her folks moved in next door,
it was the Smiths,
with a house, full of small babies and desperation.
Here's my driveway.
No, Erin's driveway, now. Next door was Schmidts,
then came Kocurs.
Now, it's the other Grandma, Jeanne, so lucky...
My own litany is longer than Dad's was.
His had seniority, and the wisdom of immigrants.
His knew the sudden, early destinations of friends,
His contained history,
the weight of the Greatest Generation.
Mine is an upstart's litany,
facile, simple, just classmates.
We became hippies, soldiers, protesters,
educated fools, eager amateurs, all.
We still dared to dream.
Some have dared to die.
I am an upstart,
whose litany has reached no depth.
It is only a school bus run,
lost to the past:
destinies, mostly still scattered.
I'm still running out the front door,
to catch the bus,
unaware that things behind me,
in close pursuit,
are beginning to run
faster than I.
Gesturing right, then left,
calling the roll of friends and family
from the past:
"And he lived down the road,
a part of the crew from school.
Remember the toboggan story?"
Schoolmates, here. The farms were busy.
And Ma and Pa, right by Sexton..."
Frank ands Ruby are new, as is Dale,
strangers to his litany, but his in life,
family moved a bit closer
to where he and mom now lie.
He knew so many, and there are newcomers,
taking their place in the cemetery litany.
Tonight, I'm driving to his old house,
the one I grew up in.
Tonight, my child, her husband,
and their child
open the door for family,
for Christmas, for posterity,
forever.
And as I drive the streets,
round the bends, appreciate the strange weather
(Who ever heard of rain in December in Minnesota?
Not me...) my memories take me back
to the business of driving.
And I find myself assuming the memories
of life, the passage of time,
the vagaries of near absent traffic,
but my brain has a life of its own
and a recitation begins,
as I drive down Arthur Street:
"Carol lived on the left, Naomi a few houses down.
and June lived down that side street
(she had a pet fox, for a while).
My kids' in-laws live in the corner house, over there,
and Roxanne lived on the right...
the school bus had a terrible time
stopping at the top of this hill--her hill.
And Larry lived here, his cousin Sharon
lived two houses away. Meridith
lived on the corner by Hart Lake
(she won that pageant we were in...)
and Tim and Diane
live in the apartments across from it, now.
Right turn onto 39th,
and church folks lived on the other corner;
one of the Docs lived across the street,
before I knew him, at work.
And Gordy and Jim and family
lived mid block on the south:
(remember that hunting accident?)
Here's Hayes Street, where Tim grew up,
and Olga lived across that corner,
and John lived across from her.
Lenny lived on the block--
he taught me how to ride my bike--
a push down the hill and shouted instruction,
"Peddle like crazy!",
and he rode off in the opposite direction:
and before Dorothy and her folks moved in next door,
it was the Smiths,
with a house, full of small babies and desperation.
Here's my driveway.
No, Erin's driveway, now. Next door was Schmidts,
then came Kocurs.
Now, it's the other Grandma, Jeanne, so lucky...
My own litany is longer than Dad's was.
His had seniority, and the wisdom of immigrants.
His knew the sudden, early destinations of friends,
His contained history,
the weight of the Greatest Generation.
Mine is an upstart's litany,
facile, simple, just classmates.
We became hippies, soldiers, protesters,
educated fools, eager amateurs, all.
We still dared to dream.
Some have dared to die.
I am an upstart,
whose litany has reached no depth.
It is only a school bus run,
lost to the past:
destinies, mostly still scattered.
I'm still running out the front door,
to catch the bus,
unaware that things behind me,
in close pursuit,
are beginning to run
faster than I.