I knew where I was by the
cracks in the sidewalk. Some were
longer. Some had weeds. Some had entire
chunks missing, some were patched together, some had heaved from endless thaws
and winters.
“Step on a crack and you’ll
break your mother’s back” my friends and I would chant on our walks home and in
some places you would have to jump, and in other sections you could fit in
three steps before the next one. One had
to pay attention to keep their mom safe.
Many times I walked
alone--though my close familiarity with the sidewalk kept me company. I would
know when I was getting close to home by the changing patterns that endlessly
held my attention. Certain cracks actually evoked feelings; initial weariness
on the new sidewalks at the edge of the elementary school but happiness and
anticipation on the last worn stretch to home.
I watched for the repeating patterns with every trip, literally and
figuratively, my touchstones. About a
half mile from my house the sidewalk ended.
Here I walked on the side of the street and the only noteworthy part was
where we would stop and stare at the house with the monkey in the window. It didn’t feel unusual then—a live monkey in
a window, it was just part of the walk home and it was a good day when the
shades were open.
Sometimes, on Fridays, I got
to walk to my dad’s office, requiring a turn at the crossing guard. Here
was an entirely different sidewalk, one that had much more variability due to
its age. It was on the oldest street in
town. There were narrow spots, a curve
around a tree (that’s when I was very close) and lots of moss between the
stones. I loved this path. On very lucky Fridays, a friend who happened
to live in a house on that street walked with me. She was a girl with an air of mystery living
in a family of artists. In our conventional
town, her parents were not—their Victorian held long dark hallways with nude
photography and paintings. I saw them
one day when she invited me over to watch “Return to Witch Mountain” in her
parent’s bedroom. Her mom had long black
hair and very straight posture that held a bit of aloofness—and I think it was
actually her in some of the photos, but I can’t be sure. When
the girl brought me down two staircases to see the studio, she whispered
something to me about it, which for the life of me, I cannot remember.
On rare occasions, I got to
walk to my nana’s house across town.
This was an entirely different walk, with unexamined sidewalks at every turn,
an adventure as big as they came for me.
On my first trip there (I was probably
in first grade), my brother was instructed to walk with me. Of course older brothers run ahead without
supervision when offered freedom, and this is what he did. Not one to be left behind, I ran right after
him, starting up the hill with great determination. But, I was outdone and promptly tripped and
fell down, scraping both knees. Bloody
and stunned on the sidewalk, I remember crying in disbelief. At this point my brother was way too far
ahead to have noticed. I had no choice
but to pick myself up and carry on. With
no familiar cracks for landmarks, I remember an overwhelming sense of
loneliness. When I finally reached the
house, he was in quite a bit of trouble, having arrived without me. I knew however, it wasn’t really his
fault. It was because I was on a brand
new sidewalk. I had forgotten to pay
attention in my eagerness to catch up with him; I didn’t even know about that
crack that tripped me up.
It was just unfamiliar
ground.
