Before I was really able to believe that I was out of the Lycee for good, we were racing through Picardy on the Nord railway. Pretty soon the atmosphere would take on that dim pearlish grey that would tell us we were nearing the Channel, and all along the line we would read the big billboards saying, in English, "Visit Egypt!"
Then, after that, the channel steamer, Folkestone cliffs, white as cream in the sunny haze, the jetty, the grey-green downs and the line of prim hotels along the top of the rock: these things all made me happy. And the cockney cries of the porters and the smell of strong tea in the station refreshment room spelled out all the associations of what had, up to now, always been a holiday country for me, a land heavy with awe-inspiring properties, but laden with kinds of comforts, and in which every impact of experience seemed to reach the soul through seven or eight layers of insulation.
England meant all this for me, in those days, and continued to do so for a year or two more, because going to England meant going to Aunt Maud's house in Ealing.
The red brick house at 18 Carlton Road, with the little lawn that was also a bowling green and the windows looking out on the enclosed patch of grass which was the Durston House cricket field, was a fortress of nineteenth-century security. Here in Ealing, where all the Victorian standards stood entrenched in row upon row of identical houses, Aunt Maud and Uncle Ben lived in the very heart and the center of the citadel, and indeed Uncle Ben was one of the commanders.
I spent a good portion of today walking with my dog. According to my iPhone, I walked close to 21,000 steps. That's 9.8 miles. On my walks, I visited places where I had lived in the past. I walked past the first apartment my wife and I had when we were married. It was a duplex at the time. We lived in the lower part. It was large and spacious, with a nice-sized kitchen and a sun room that leaked in the winter. I have fond memories of the place, even though the landlord eventually rented the upper level to her sister whose favorite pastime was having sex, loudly, with her weed-smoking boyfriend at 7 o'clock in the morning.
At first, I couldn't locate this duplex. After circling the block once or twice, I realized that the building has been renovated, new siding and a two-car garage erected in the backyard. It looked nothing like the place I remember, with its 1970s yellow paint and cluttered front porch. That house has retreated into the golden light of nostalgia.
This evening, I walked by the building which used to house my father's small business--a plumbing supply store. That building, on the outside, still looks the same. Pastel green with brown trim. Up above, the sign with my father's name on it still hangs. When I pressed my face to the windows to peer inside, I could see displays, tables, and the counter with the cash register. All stuff that I remember clearly from the days when I worked there. I could tell there was a fine layer of dust over everything.
For all four years of high school, every Saturday, I worked at that store. I sort of hated the fact that eight hours of my precious weekend time was taken up in that place. Tonight, however, I found myself wanting to go inside, sit on the high stool that used to be behind the cash register counter, and return for a few moments to that time when all the members of my family were still alive and the future seemed like a bright and shining thing that I wanted to chase down.
This pandemic has forced me (everyone?) into thinking about the past, when you could put your arms around a relative or friend without worry. Masks were reserved for Halloween. Rubber gloves were only used to scrub the toilet. Simpler times, although they didn't seem simple when I was living them. Just as Merton seems to engage in a little retrospective falsification in the passage above, I've been indulging in a little of that myself today. (Definition of retrospective falsification: the unconscious distortion of past experiences to conform to a person's needs in the present.)
What do I need in this present that my distorted memory of the past offers? Take your pick. No bills. No mental illness. No coronavirus. No worry. A future that seemed limitless--college, job, wife, kids, books to write, dreams to chase, happily ever after. Everything seemed possible back then.
I know what I did today wasn't necessarily healthy for my state of mind. But it brought me comfort to remember, even if my mind whitewashed those memories so that they shone like agates in lake water. It was medicine. Sweet and good tasting. Yet, it also filled me with an ache for all the things/people/times that I've lost, as well.
Tomorrow, I will be changing the routes of my walks. Avoiding those places that drag me back to the past so strongly. Instead, I will try to be thankful for my present life, where all of my family is together in my home. Safe. Healthy. Warm. Loved.
Saint Marty is going to go have an adult beverage now. That's something he didn't do when he was in high school. Much.
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