Silent Places of the Past

Martinsburg, West Virginia. For the most part, most of us function pretty well wherever we find ourselves on this growing-smaller planet. Unlike our peasant forbearers, we are not chained by circumstance to any certain plot of ground. Our visions are not limited by its horizons: our consciousness is molded by more than its particular contours. We are free to fly above it and away, to escape the shackles that enthralled generations before us.

 
Those of us who bother at all to return to the place of our childhood find that it has changed as much as we. Stranger to stranger we converse, seeking the lost or hidden thread that once bound us so closely. Like a face from the past, we eagerly search it for telltale clues to unlock the memory, the context, the moment. We walk the alleys, revisit the playing fields, and seek out the sidewalks on which we died a thousand deaths. How small and shoddy they seem now — these battlefields of the past — hardly capable of holding the vast armies that marched across them in the chilly gray of those January evenings.

Where are the swarms of supermen who leapt from garage roofs at unwary passers-by? In supermarkets and suburban malls, no doubt, still a danger to the unsuspecting. Where are the hopscotch patterns on broken pavements — that chalk art of yesterday’s children? On canvasses now, lining the walls of galleries, or on greeting cards, websites and packaging. Where are the platoons of hiders and seekers, of sledders and sliders, of rock throwers and magic show-ers? Where are the Indian Chiefs in brightly colored plumage, the creatures from outer space, the phantoms from the deep lagoon? Where are the feet tangled in jumping ropes, the full-throated threats to go tell Momma, the bouncers of balls in busy streets?

Some have remained, keeping alive the continuity of the community. One finds them occasionally in the factories, the stores, the churches, the banks. They speak slowly, secure in the knowledge of their roots and probable destinies. Yet occasionally one detects a certain restlessness in their manner, a certain yearning for that which will not be.

Others carried their childhood memories with them to faraway places, contributing to the cross-fertilization and rich mixing of our global village. Usually in a hurry, they walk confidently in the world beyond their homes, the world of their own choosing. Yet, on their occasional sojourns home, one sees them wistfully seek out and savor the silent places of the pasts.

© Gilbert Friend-Jones

From: Faith in a Minor Key