I remember quite clearly a dream I had maybe 20 to 25 years ago, when nephew Chris was in grade school: I was in the backyard at dusk with Chris, and together we were digging a grave for my dad. (a generational image: maybe too many Ingmar Bergman film festivals!) When I saw this picture, with Chris’ son Andrew touching my melon, I remembered that dream.
When the time comes to change lifetimes I would like Chris and Andrew (or “Buddha,” as he will be known then) to deposit my ashes on that little island in John Ball Park's duck pond. I spent so much time around there, trying to figure out the world and the silly notion that I fit in somewhere; so many times I thought I could become a pirate, hiding out on that little island, living off---well, the island. The most recent time that occurred to me was about a year ago.
The island in the duck pond at John Ball Park
From the north edge of the pond you can wade to the island and the water doesn’t go over your knees. In sixth grade, I would capture snapping turtles sunning themselves on the island. toss them in a box and bring them home and put them in the garage until mom discovered them and called me every name in the Polish dictionary, and made me take them back, along with the library books on “Reptiles and Amphibians” I had just checked out.
In the summer there are plenty of ducks and geese, and they’ve just added paddle-boats for the kids. In the winter, it is quick to ice over and brings out the skaters, with the island providing a perfect place to rest. Many a time, many a year, I would walk around the pond, or sit under a nearby tree and try to sort my problems out, figure out why I didn’t seem to have a place in this world, and finally where all the days had gone.
This parochial elementary school, across the street from the park, was brand new when my first grade class moved into it in the middle of the year. There used to be wrought-iron fencing bordering the sidewalks, where we would all sit until being told to get off by some fascist-in-training masquerading as a third grade teacher. In those days, there were only a couple lay teachers, the rest were nuns.
At recess and lunch hour most of us older kids would “ hang out” just walking in groups around the block a bunch of times, while the younger kids “played” in the streets they closed to traffic. The boys were told they couldn’t sit and watch the girls play jump-rope, lest the devil occupy their thoughts while watching the uniform skirts go up and down.
I hated classroom situations, and looked for ways to shave off class time, e.g. delivering forms to the office, delivering milk to the class rooms each morning (I really loved that job-----I got to go into all the classrooms while everybody else were stuck in their desks being yelled at by their teachers.) I also made friends with the cafeteria ladies. Then, in 6th or 7th grade, I became a traffic safety guard, standing on the street corners in the morning and afternoon, allegedly making sure kids got across the streets safely, although I mostly hung out and bossed around the younger kids.
This corner was Susie’s post in the mornings when we were on “Safety Patrol” in 7th grade. I was a” lieutenant” and got to walk around the block and make sure everyone was at their post.( I paid special attention to this corner.) Twice a day, morning and afternoon, I could have her attention, if only for a couple minutes.
And so it came to pass that I developed an incredible crush on Susie, but had no idea how to go about getting closer to her, and she had no idea who I was, and so it died of petrification. If someone had told me this pattern would repeat itself continuously over the next decades, I might have just exiled myself to the duck pond island----an option I considered every noon time as I walked back to school after lunch.
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