On the street where I lived

It’s a typically warm summer morning in the late ’70s.

My friend is dropped off at my house so her mom can head to work. Every day during the summer, we walk down our suburban street to swim practice together. Since it’s early, she climbs into bed with me, and we doze for another hour or so. At the appointed time, we put on our suits, each covered in shorts and a T-shirt, wearing towels around our necks.

The excursion to the pool begins at the top of my driveway.

It is so steep that walking down isn’t an option; instead, you run the short distance down with arms flailing. But, it is not without risk. Leashed to the side of the garage, our black Standard Poodle, Nicky stands and barks at all passersby. He is half in, half out of the garage and is the first to alert us of strangers, should they appear. He’s usually relieved himself as illustrated by the multiple pieces of poop slowly rolling down the pebbled expanse. Today is no exception. Our challenge is two-fold: avoid stepping in the poop while barefoot and get to the bottom before the excrement does.

Once at the bottom, we ready ourselves to pass the next door neighbor’s house.

Here lives the nose picker, also our classmate.

Through the years, we have convinced ourselves that he has something that is catchy. We will only survive if we run by, while also holding our breath. No one speaks. We look at each other, take a deep breath, and run like Olympians.

The next zone is upon us, and we stop in our tracks to regroup.

History has told us this house is scary. In reality, the older kid that lives there is the one who haunts us. He is dead-set on scaring the crap out of us on a daily basis. His favorite thing to do is hide behind a brick retaining wall that juts out next to the sidewalk. He silently waits until we are right upon the wall. He jumps out, yells, and chases us. He has been known to throw dirt clods after us from time to time. We scream and run wishing something would happen to him before we have to pass by again on the return trip.

Every summer the bottom of my feet are the color of asphalt because I refuse to wear shoes.

By the time the second block approaches the sidewalk ends, we are now trekking on the street, and the pavement is blazing hot. We start a competition of who can throw their towel the furthest down the road. It doesn’t matter who wins. We throw the towels to have something to run to, to cool off our feet.

On our way, we pass by a neighbor dog who dozes on the front porch of his house.

He never leaves his yard, despite our observation of the “dogcatcher” often trying to lure him away with food. The end of the second block we find another member of our pack, waiting at her driveway to walk the rest of the way with us.

The last block is pretty uneventful. We might pick up another straggler walking to practice too. We’re now in the home stretch, snacking on wild blackberries growing near the creek.

The swaying, creaking Eucalyptus trees signal we have arrived.

We climb the steps to the front gate ready to get in the pool.

40 years later, I am walking this same route again.

My companions this time around are my mom with her cane, and my dog delightedly sniffing everything in sight. My mom and I refer to houses as if our neighbors still live there; “You know, the house between the Roudnevs and the Valentines.” We share memories, “Remember when X family used to leave their garage door open and they’d always find beer missing from their garage refrigerator?” “Yes, I’m pretty sure I know who was doing that.”

I see old neighbors open their front door for the morning paper, and this tethers me to the past. Though the company has changed on this walk, in my mind, I am still ten years old. I still feel the sliver of glass stuck in my foot. I have perpetual green hair.

A fire engine passes with lights ablaze and siren blaring. I watch in my memories as moments later, every kid on the block is now on their bike, trying to catch up to the engine and see all of the action.

I think I’ll always travel this road as a child, ambling my way to swim practice. What could be better?

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