125 Vassar Lane

I did something today I haven’t done in forty-five years—I stood in the front yard of my childhood home. The yard, at 125 Vassar Lane, sketched the boundaries of life during my insurgent adolescent years. Times I thought I had long forgotten.

I parked against the curb, looking through the window at the first home I remember. I had come to this spot today to show my daughter and grandson where I had grown up. I hadn’t intended to get out of the car, but my daughter convinced me to do so; she wanted to take a picture of me standing in a place I had not tread upon in almost five decades.

I looked around, urging memories to come with me. The house seemed smaller than I remember, the street shorter in distance from block-end to block-end. There had been a hedgerow of fig trees between our house and the neighbors. Now, only a single fig tree, barren of fruit, stands. The mesquite tree that had skinned my shins and poked her thorns into my side is gone.

My first job was delivering newspapers for the now defunct San Antonio Light. I would sit under that old mesquite tree rolling newspapers, popping a rubber band around them before mounting my bike, hands covered in black newspaper ink, and soaring through our neighborhood delivering with great precision the day’s news to a hundred-plus front doors. I may be mis-remembering the precision part, but hey, it’s my memory.

The St. Augustine grass beneath that old mesquite tree also marks the spot where I had my first real kiss.

The tree is gone, so is the girl. But the memories are fresh.

I let Sara take her picture and then turned and looked at the old house one more time. It’s in bad shape; the siding is falling off and in bad need of fresh paint. I think it was the same back then. That’s how I remember it.

Dad had just retired from the Air Force; both him and Mom were unemployed having just moved six kids, crowded in the back seats of an old station wagon filled with...whatever would fit...from Oscoda, Michigan to this great state. We didn’t have much money and the house at 125 Vassar Lane fit perfectly into that budget. I don’t know the details; Mom and Dad never talked about family finances or such things. We just trusted that somehow there would be a roof over our head and food on the table.

Mom did that.

My dad was a good man but had a passion for cheap bourbon and cheaper beer. Yet, he always managed somehow to provide the necessities of life. But I was too young to appreciate that and for years only held the memories that hurt. There were many of them.

But my Mom never gave up on having a family...a large family. She could take a can of stewed tomatoes, a slice of pork and half loaf of bread and feed her family like we were the children of kings and queens. She would save Popsicle sticks, rubber bands and the Sunday funnies, convincing us these were the tools of great artists, placing them in our hands, encouraging words whispered as we created masterpieces to be hung by a magnet on the front of the icebox...for just a moment...and just in our imaginations.

I look at the small front porch and can almost see my Mom standing there waiting for one of her children to come home later than he was supposed to. As I cross over the front yard, passing the mesquite tree and hedgerow of figs, she would place her finger against her lips warning me to walk quietly, Dad had passed out, safer to let him sleep.

We got to Mom’s house after my trip down memory lane to celebrate Mother’s Day with her and my sisters who have daughters who are Moms. Today is the 64^th time Mom has been celebrated on a Sunday in May.

I showed her the picture Sara had taken of me standing in the front yard of 125 Vassar Lane. I asked her—

“Do you remember this place, Mom?”

She looks at the photo for just a moment before smiling, “That was our home.”

I love you Mom, Happy Mother’s Day.

Thanks for all the memories.