Where one grows up as a child is a place that even if you try to forget, is always with you. You may not return to your childhood home, but it is in your memory bank sometimes influencing all your decisions. We can try and convince ourselves that we are adults moving forward with our lives and not the awkward kid who was so unsure of themselves and the decisions that they made. Yet that awkward kid still looms somewhat, at least that is true for me. I am a runner and can outrun most people in a run. Yet I cannot outrun my past. I am running in front of my past, but I can hear and feel the footsteps behind me like one does in a race when you feel another runner behind you. Except unlike a runner in a race the past never pulls in front or falls completely back. It is a constant companion.
My 97-year-old mom was not in great health, and I needed to
stay with her for a few days. While I knew that I would have to curtail my
running, I did not want to stop running for those days either. When traveling I
love running in a new location I have written about this before in my blog
about Running
in Strange Places. Yet this would be the strangest place even if it was
very familiar. Before I ran, I had been watching the news reports of the
devastating fires in Los Angeles County, California. More than a couple of
reporters mentioned that this was a neighborhood where they grew up, but it was
now nothing but rubble. This fire was
more personal. As if part of their youth was gone. This motivated me to look at
this run as an opportunity to see my roots.
I spent the first 39 years of my life in the town of Lincoln
Park and was very involved in the community having served as a council person
and on the planning board as well. So, I was more than aware of how the
community has changed over time. However, when you traverse a place on foot for
miles you get a different feel.
On this run while I noticed the buildings that had changed
over time when I was running it was not about the buildings as it was about the
people I had known in my youth. I was running by homes and roads that I had
walked to school on or rode my bike to a baseball game on. While I will mention
a few names, believe me every turn brought an old memory and family. It was a
slew of people.
At first it was the buildings I noticed as I ran up Skyline
Drive passing by the townhomes that I sat on the planning board when they were
approved. I noticed that the sidewalks and roads were no longer newer and that
those new developments were well over 30 years old. I ran by my old elementary
school which was completely renovated and expanded. The lyrics of the school
song started popping into my head “Pinebrook, Pinebrook - Every time I open
up a book, whether here or on vacation I thank you for my education.” I
can’t believe that I remember that.
However, as I ran past the school through the houses nearby, I remembered the last names of those kids in elementary school Nowacki, Tanner, and Zammit. Then I headed down the school path towards the development I grew up in. It was called Ernstville at one time. I am probably the only person left who knows that. The houses were all different colors and landscaped differently from when I roamed the area. I ran by the Miller’s home as well as the Smith’s. I saw my friend Jimmy DelGuidice’s home. I was not seeing the house as they are now but going back in time. The Millers were dark brown, the Smith’s dark green, and my friend Jimmy’s house was light green.
Before I got to my parent’s old house, I ran by what used to
be a sandlot where all the boys in the neighborhood played baseball and
football. This is where I hit my first home run which also broke a window of a
house. I was proud and aghast at the same time. Now it is a playground with
slides and tubes. Nowadays, kids don’t do sports on their own, it is all youth
leagues. We, however, were like the kids in the movie Sandlot. We played
on this lot like those kids no set teams just dividing up the kids who came
into what we thought would be equal teams.
I could barely recognize my parent’s yard as I ran by. I
noticed some houses were no longer there. The area was in a flood zone and the
state sometimes bought the owners’ home and razed it, then left the lot vacant.
On my way back I had extra time, so I went up a dead end to check on my friend
Sam Bundz’s home. I used to carpool with him to football practice in high
school. To my shock I could not remember which house was his. They were all the
same design and the same color.
The next day I took a different route to another part of
town. While I was in college I worked at a local pharmacy and did deliveries
all over the area. I used to know the area better than modern day GPS. I went
down Ryerson Road and couldn’t remember many of the side streets. I went into
the Lyn Park section and thought of all my high school friends from this
section. Then I headed back and around the small neighborhood by my old middle
school, Chapel Hill. I ran pass a house and
I remembered that it was Dorna Johnson’s. I had a crush on her in eighth grade
but was too chicken to ask her out.
When I left my mom’s, I reflected not only on my run but the
memories that it had stirred within me. They were for the most part very
positive memories. Yet it was a time that is in the past and of another era. This
generation would probably find it more amusing than important and our lifestyle
close to archaic. While the run was filled with nostalgia it felt very strange.
The next day I was home and did my early morning run in my
neighborhood. It felt so comfortable. I was running in the present, not in the
past. I realized that this is now my
home with a new set of memories. All those names and people who I remembered on
the run are like me. They too have new homes and memories. Though we have
shared roots in Lincoln Park.
