Sidewalk Cracks

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.