Cary Avenue
Cary was a fine street, crammed with tall, full trees and Hispanic Americans. It was the place where Christina and I made tacos out of dirt and leaves and ate who-knows-what kind of berries off of a bush on the side of her house. It was where Michelle and I caught butterflies in the palms of our dirty hands and later held funerals for them (the poor murdered creatures), complete with dirge and eulogy. It was where Michelle, Gloria, and I performed award-winning reproductions of Madonna’s “Material Girl” and Michael Jackson’s “Beat It” in Gloria’s dismal backyard.
Cary also had a haunting quality. It was home to the Drum Barracks, which was built to house soldiers during the Civil War; many said the edifice was haunted. To me it was just plain-ole spooky. But Cary was haunting in a different way. It had a dark, often foreboding, quality to it. A caution sign at the end of the street frowned upon visitors, “Not a Through Street.” And though the street itself ended, it could be exited through two adjoining alleys, both with presentiment natures, cautioning the curious.
The alley was where I was almost abducted. I remember a large dark vehicle, something like a 1970s Chevy Chavelle, and two men, one behind the wheel and one who had just stepped out, beckoning me to come. I turned and ran with all of my might, never looking back. What might have happened had I ventured into their beckoning arms, I do not wish to know.
It was also a dark street in other ways. The neighbors on Cary were not always of good moral fiber. Ernie, across the street, peed in a glass and offered it to me as lemonade. Later I had to eat dry toast to absorb any bacteria or any other ill effects from the urine. Roger, Ernie’s brother, started my older brother, Nathan, on pot, speed, and alcohol at the age of 11. Theresa urged me to stick my pinky finger up at Lily across the street, who later told my mom I flipped her off. After an argument with her husband, Larry’s mother unknowingly backed the car over my little brother, Joel, who was on his knees riding his skateboard past her house. Joel, who came close to death with tire-mark bruises down his back, was miraculously spared. Theresa locked me in a car and refused to let me leave even though my mom was calling me to come home. I also remember a savage hair-pulling fight with her later. I don’t remember what started it. Larry exposed his private part for the block to witness from inside his bedroom window. The family next door owned chickens and pigeons, which attracted cockroaches. Mice were common as well.
Cary was a poor street. Those who owned homes there were not usually in the upper end of the socioeconomic ladder. We did not have a lot. Growing up, most of our toys were makeshift creations of the mind, forts created from chairs and blankets. We were always playing adults in childhood; whatever we played, we were grown-ups, not children. The shack in the backyard, housing for the gardening apparatus, became our playhouse. Michelle and I were the dad and mom, while Joel was the dog. Our bikes were our vehicles, transporting us from make-believe store to store. Though we were poorer, it is the contributing factor to the vivid imaginations it created within us. And it made us cling to one another ever closer, as we were all we had.
Today, Cary is home to gang wars and frequent drive-by shootings. The gingerbread blue-and-white cottage I grew up in, with lush green lawns and pops of impatiens, is now an army-green stucco'd monster with bars on the windows and security fencing. It's hardly a place I'd recognize anymore. In spite of all of its haunting and dark qualities, though, it still evokes warm memories for me, even today. I loved my block, my childhood. Nobody told me I was living on this side of hell. It's the street that raised me, my little hometown paradise.
Cary also had a haunting quality. It was home to the Drum Barracks, which was built to house soldiers during the Civil War; many said the edifice was haunted. To me it was just plain-ole spooky. But Cary was haunting in a different way. It had a dark, often foreboding, quality to it. A caution sign at the end of the street frowned upon visitors, “Not a Through Street.” And though the street itself ended, it could be exited through two adjoining alleys, both with presentiment natures, cautioning the curious.
The alley was where I was almost abducted. I remember a large dark vehicle, something like a 1970s Chevy Chavelle, and two men, one behind the wheel and one who had just stepped out, beckoning me to come. I turned and ran with all of my might, never looking back. What might have happened had I ventured into their beckoning arms, I do not wish to know.
It was also a dark street in other ways. The neighbors on Cary were not always of good moral fiber. Ernie, across the street, peed in a glass and offered it to me as lemonade. Later I had to eat dry toast to absorb any bacteria or any other ill effects from the urine. Roger, Ernie’s brother, started my older brother, Nathan, on pot, speed, and alcohol at the age of 11. Theresa urged me to stick my pinky finger up at Lily across the street, who later told my mom I flipped her off. After an argument with her husband, Larry’s mother unknowingly backed the car over my little brother, Joel, who was on his knees riding his skateboard past her house. Joel, who came close to death with tire-mark bruises down his back, was miraculously spared. Theresa locked me in a car and refused to let me leave even though my mom was calling me to come home. I also remember a savage hair-pulling fight with her later. I don’t remember what started it. Larry exposed his private part for the block to witness from inside his bedroom window. The family next door owned chickens and pigeons, which attracted cockroaches. Mice were common as well.
Cary was a poor street. Those who owned homes there were not usually in the upper end of the socioeconomic ladder. We did not have a lot. Growing up, most of our toys were makeshift creations of the mind, forts created from chairs and blankets. We were always playing adults in childhood; whatever we played, we were grown-ups, not children. The shack in the backyard, housing for the gardening apparatus, became our playhouse. Michelle and I were the dad and mom, while Joel was the dog. Our bikes were our vehicles, transporting us from make-believe store to store. Though we were poorer, it is the contributing factor to the vivid imaginations it created within us. And it made us cling to one another ever closer, as we were all we had.
Today, Cary is home to gang wars and frequent drive-by shootings. The gingerbread blue-and-white cottage I grew up in, with lush green lawns and pops of impatiens, is now an army-green stucco'd monster with bars on the windows and security fencing. It's hardly a place I'd recognize anymore. In spite of all of its haunting and dark qualities, though, it still evokes warm memories for me, even today. I loved my block, my childhood. Nobody told me I was living on this side of hell. It's the street that raised me, my little hometown paradise.
Comments
glad your vacation was fun!