Retracing Steps

Scott and I are walking on a sidewalk uprooted by a tree that’s shaded the spot for decades. The street has houses on both sides, but the sounds of the city are all around. We’re in the town where he grew up.

We turn a corner and he slows in front of the house of his elementary school buddies: 3 brothers. He remembers playing whatever sport was in season in the front yard. 

I can almost see the gangly boy in shorts and an OP t-shirt swinging the bat, making contact, and running to the grass-worn spot that was always first base. His face is serious. Even though it’s only a pickup game, it’s a game with friends he’ll see tomorrow and the next day. You can’t just walk away. It means something to win. 

The boys play hundreds of games in the front yard until the pickup games are replaced with high school practices and games with scoreboards and fans. 

This morning he says: I think Nancy (their mom) still lives here. Without deliberating, we walk to the front door, with our sleepy eyes and morning breath. He knocks on the door, then rings the bell.  Nothing. He knocks again. A few seconds later, Nancy cracks the door to my husband’s past. 

When she recognizes him, she swings the door wide open and the present fades into yesterday. He may have aged and Nancy may have aged, but the house hasn’t changed since the last time he ran in for water. Though he didn’t know it was the last time then. 

We cross the threshold into her arms and then the family room. Its paneled walls now hold pictures of another generation: her grandsons. Nancy and Scott haven’t talked in decades, but they jump into catching up from the last 40 years. 

I like Nancy immediately. She is real and kind and funny. I learn she’s lived a life where she had to make up the difference for an absentee father. I think she’s used humor to laugh her way through the hard times. 

After an hour, we stand to leave. The next day is Mother’s Day. We stop for some flowers and go back to Nancy’s house. Still in her bathrobe, she answers the door faster this time. When Scott hands her the flowers, she says, “You’ve always been a joy.” 

Our next stop is to see Ita, a neighbor of 50 years who is more like an aunt to Scott than his real ones. In her early 20’s Ita emigrated to the US from Ireland. She is feisty and likes a good story. When we approach the front door, we see her red hair through the front window of the house-turned-care facility She’s been there for a few months and misses home. I’m not sure she notices the flowers we bring, but she lights up when she sees Scott. 

I love to get Ita started on stories of my husband as a kid. She had two girls, so Scott and his brother were anomalies. I can almost see junior high Scott running to Ita’s backyard pool with no towel. Once there, he amuses himself by jumping in to splash bystanders and by tossing patio chairs in the pool so he can sit comfortably. Ita’s voice rings through the years: “Scott!!!” 

We have an orchid from her house. It was kind of drab until a week after Ita passed to the other side. Now it blooms like crazy and I think of her every time I walk past. 

There’s something about adults who knew you in your childhood. They’ve seen you through cute and awkward stages and are just about as proud that you’ve turned out as your own mom.