Life’s Landscapes Change and We Respond
I am five and my street is my touchstone. I don’t wander far and certainly not when alone. I don’t have to cross the street to get to most places. Next door to my house is the convent, where the ominous nuns, who will soon be my teachers, live. Behind their house is the playground where I spend a lot of time with the neighborhood kids and beyond that is where I will start school. If I keep walking, dangerously close to my allowable boundary for adventures, I will reach our church.
I know this street well, as I spend many hours watching the cars go by, waiting for the ice cream truck, and imagining what lies beyond these roads. This landscape, which began as something to explore and learn, has become a part of who I am even though it has been many years since I have lived there.
While I grew up in a small city, it was a community. A place where people invested in each other. It was a safe space back in the day. Our neighbors (beyond those called by God) consisted of families with children of all ages. I would wake to the sound of the boy across the street riding his big wheel (oh, how I wanted a big wheel!) and fall asleep hoping one day, when I “grew up” I would be invited to play Manhunt with the older kids.
We were centrally located and part of an Italian enclave. In fact, my identity as a child was Italian first and “Med-i-gon” (For the non-Italians, that translates to “American” in Italian speak) second. My mom, outgoing in many ways, had a revolving door of friends who would visit at all hours of the day. Our house was always full. I could walk home from school the 500 feet from their door to mine and would arrive to the smells of a home cooked Italian meal that quite frankly, I was too young to appreciate (I was an irrationally picky eater until I reached about 20 years old — OK, maybe 30). My street meant safety, it meant community, it meant home.
As is the case for many other once vibrant urban areas, when I return home, I am struck by the way this familiar landscape has changed. I am saddened by the decline of this street. My house, having reached an age well over 100 years old, has fallen into a state of disrepair. Floors sag, a porch has fallen, and the foundation has cracked. Many of the families have long since moved, replaced by renters, some drug dealers, and gang members. The convent is still there, though there are bars on the windows that serve as a reminder of stark changes over the last 25 years.
And while the street bears little resemblance to the place where I grew up, I feel bound to this place by something deep within my bones.
The changing landscape mirrors our changing lives. My mother still holds down the fort — determined to hold onto the structure that carries the memories (some known and some forgotten) formed there. She suffers from dementia and in some ways is as unrecognizable as the street. While she is still able to live alone (with family as close as a flight of stairs away in a second floor apartment), I am struck by the changes that have occurred in what seems like a short time. But like the neighborhood, so instrumental in grounding me as a child, the essence of my mother remains unchanged.
I have grown and changed. My place now is some 250 miles away in a small rural town in Western Massachusetts. I live amidst farmland and across from the meandering Connecticut River, my new touchstone. My street is a scenic byway. There are no sidewalks and so visits here (and we have many visitors) are planned and intentional. Friends arrive by car. We have neighbors, but especially in winter, we can go for weeks without seeing each other. We have community, but it is more disparate. I’ve adapted to this new place and it too continues to provide me new opportunities for life. But, I know this too will change one day, and I will have to adapt once again, carrying with me new memories which build upon (not replace) the traditions and lessons of my first place.
Place matters. It connects me to my past which is integrally a part of my present and will be a part of my future. It reminds me of who I was and who I have become.
Reflecting on my landscape keeps me aware of the fragility of life. It provides me with grounding, in a sometimes unsettling world. And place changes. For better or worse, our landscapes shift and we respond.
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