Living on a dead-end street was magical beyond my youthful understanding. At age ten I knew one thing about my ideal home: There would be a window above the kitchen sink. The kitchen of my youth in Windsor had a window on the world of neighbors with wings, paws, and claws. It was a daily reminder that we share the world with many creatures. I had begun noticing it was not a fixture in my friend's homes. During after meal clean-up or large family gatherings, everyone seemed drawn to the window's outdoor drama of the moment, most often Blue Jay squabbles. I did not consider the view exceptional, but it had a very visceral impact on us all.
What was exceptional was how my dad, father of six, in a one-income family living on a dead-end street made certain we would never see a neighboring house from that window. When developers discovered the potential of our neighbor's farmland, my dad became preoccupied with purchasing a portion of an adjacent parcel, a strip of wetlands. At a Windsor Planning & Zoning Meeting, my dad was asked, "Why do you want 15 feet of frontage land on which nothing can happen?" His response was, "That is why; nothing can happen." This parcel cost him what sounded like humongous money to a 10-year-old. It was more than had been spent on EVERY Christmas since my birth, I imagined, but unlike any other gift, this one was everlasting.
Another neighbor of the farmland, Mr. Shea, attended these special meetings too. I do not recall him being a friend of my father. He was older but they were both earnest about something they each called open space. My favorite picture of my dad is him sitting pond-side among the reeds. I had often encountered Mr. Shea fishing in that same place. One day after seeing him at a meeting, I decided to talk to him about the swamp, the pond, the trucks in his yard set way off the road, and this thing called 'open space' that I especially liked for its wild strawberries and pussy willows and winter skating parties.
Another day I asked him, "When you got to be ten, what did you want to be when you grew up?" I had tested this question on my dad. My dad answered with what he knew he would be, "I knew I would be a dad." And, what he did not want was to live in a city with chickens. He did not mention wanting to be a soldier when in fact just the year before, he prepared to defend our country during the Cuban Missile Crisis. Every day he wore military greens and worked on airplanes, but he did not say he loved planes.
I knew it was a hard question. I was wrestling with Someday I would be a mom. But was wondering if it were possible to be more. I was reading books about women, mostly historical biographies: John Adam's wife, Betsy Ross, the potential of the novel Little Women was still too out of reach, but The Family Nobody Wanted, a memoir by Helen Doss, presented being a mom in a whole new light. Being a mom could be a 'calling.' That sounded so Catholic, but she was Methodist. I was attending the First Congregational Church. (The Poem Down By the River should follow this essay.)
Mr. Shea looked at me saying, "That is a big question," he chuckled, continuing, "I am very old. Maybe that is too far back for me to remember." Then, as if captured by my big question and with profound seriousness, he replied, "I did not live in America when I was ten. I lived in County Kerry Ireland until 1928. Back then I wanted to live up to my stately name. Names hold power over us you know. I believed anything could be possible in America where some of my family had gone to escape the famine years before I was born. I wanted to be able to make a difference."
As it became my habit of urgency to know, I immediately asked him about the results. "How did that turn out?" He chuckled again, "Just fine. I am a Sanitation Engineer. Back then the voices in my head mostly happened at church so I blurted, wide-eyed with "That sounds IMPORTANT," and followed with, "Is that why you have so much stuff in your yard?" I was invited to come by his yard on another day. There I saw many things discarded by others. He showed me where he welded and things he repurposed for his wife or to sell. It was all dazzling and I thought I now know why Mr. Shea's house is so far from the road because it was safer for his treasures. I felt as if I were sprinkled with pixie-dust in this place.
I never told anyone about how many afternoons my walks had become regular visits and animated conversations with Mr. Shea – a man, proud of John Fitzgerald Kennedy, whom he described as a famine descendant like himself. I scratched the surface of understanding the many things he spoke of. Mr. Shea, who called me Susan, agreeing that Susie could be forbidden, often mentioned Kennedy and other things I heard from Walter Cronkite's voice. Years later, I learned he had early-onset dementia. His sons disassembled the welding station. They hauled much of the back yard away in his waste removal company trucks, a company they eventually owned.
After Kennedy's assassination, I understood less what he was saying, "They would not let him finish what Al Smith wanted to do." He said, "Al Smith knew the importance of sanitation. Trash collection was a public health matter. Being Catholic just means you also want God to be pleased. Prejudice. Prosperity. Foolishness. KKK. One man's garbage is..." After a while the visits stopped, his family making the request of my family concerned about impropriety, but my curiosity remained.
My dead-end street held the magic of huge forts the snow plowman took care to help architect, a bob-sled hill, fires in oil cans, fishing, skating, hiking on impulse, seasons of capturing Japanese Beatles for 10 cents a jar, or fireflies for delight. The dead-end street gave way to a few housing developments that benefited by the advocates of open space and the whimsey of a laborer that seeded in me a love for conversations with strangers and awareness that anyone can make a difference, especially if you see them as neighbors.
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