I reach the bottom of the street, more quickly than I expect, and remember to turn my wheels curbside to staunch the incline. Unwedging myself from the front seat, I instruct myself not to forget the keys; and then, not to forget that I put them in that pocket. I have been misplacing details, and sets of keys, lately.
I encounter a gift that pulls me down from my scattered place, a portal to the present. It appears to be a brambly sort of sunflower, growing on the corner of this college town street.
I’m tall enough to see the bees bumbling around their centers; and short enough that they don’t notice me. My attention wanders upward to the sign next to the bees: Oswego and Hill. I stand at an intersection where this chapter began.
Something tells me to cross the street and start up the block on the far side; though sometimes random synapses masquerade as my intuition. On a slow swivel, I start to look for houses with an attached patio. The cars are all lined up on the right, for street cleaning. A grad student sweeps leaves out the side yard, and we catch eye contact in greeting. The earth and sky are vignetted brown and green; I photograph the patterned crunch of leaves at my feet.
Looking up, I’m stopped where I stand. Haba’s words, sending me off to Michigan, come back to me.
“Two story, old fashioned house. There’s an attached patio; attached patio is very popular that area … One of my room assigned was attached patio. It’s cold like hell, winter time. You put the clear vinyl plastic cover, and here, there, staple all over. Winter is winter. No heating.”
The white picket fence is ajar — almost an invitation, or a marking. I linger minutes here, wondering if this could be the place. I don’t feel quite certain; then again, I don’t know how I could be. Two-story, old fashioned house. Attached patio. I search for more clues in my memory — what am I missing?
Pushed onward by logic, I decide to walk the rest of the block for further patio sightings. A moment passed can never return; but perhaps a lap there and back is worth the metaphysical price for more certainty.
At the end of the block, a young bicyclist zooms circles between the sidewalk and her front yard. Every 30 seconds or so, she becomes a blur on wheels, framed by the boughs of unturned summer trees.
There are no matching house sightings. I circle back to the first place, and take it in while standing in the street. Inching closer, I place myself between cars — attempt to frame a shot, before settling on something unsatisfactory. As I bring the camera down from my face, the right-hand car starts up. I realize a couple has been sitting inside, patiently waiting.
I wonder if they live here. Perhaps they’re simply neighbors, or visiting friends. I can only hope that they are curious or amused, rather than suspicious, of this five-foot stranger taking photographs on their street.
Faltering around the fence, I am caught between self-awareness and the whisper to get closer. The little voice, a cross between hope and my high school journalism teacher, inquires for the insight that proximity might bring. In my wishes, a resident of this house might walk up beside me, or pop their head out onto the porch. It is easier to ask permission out loud, than in a prayer only heard by me.
But no one appears.
So gingerly, I interpret the open gate as a greeting.
Every so often in life, a swell will catch and subside. “Something is happening,” my body tells me. And then the world settles back into stasis. Despite my wishes, the impulses fade quickly. With training, I might ride these waves to the places they ought to take me.
I channel my preoccupied mind into photographs: the rooftop, the house number, the chairs on the patio dotted by an American flag. With a bit of vinyl stapled up for walls, could this have served as a room in the wintertime? I can’t tell from a distance, and can’t bring myself to step onto the porch directly.
More swiftly than I would like, I thank the house, depart through the gate, and walk down the hill with finality.
And one more clue floats back to me.
“Oswego … is on top of hill. Of Ann Arbor city … Park on top of the hill, and put some stone on tire, so it won’t roll down. But when you start, starter always has a problem. You have to change the starter, but I couldn’t afford to change the starter.
So what you do is take the stone out, and then car moves downhill. All right? Then, the gear — it’s a stick type of gear, not an automatic — the gear will start, before it’s reaching the bottom of the hill. So that’s the way we used to start car. Not key.
I think I paid twenty five dollar, something. It’s a Studebaker.”
For a last time, I turn. It’s a shallow incline, more slope than hill. But this is the house at the top of Oswego street.
