Hey, Chicago, we’re back! Super pleased to announce that we were successful in both 15-hour, Midwest-to-East Coast jaunts. (The latter is especially impressive, since the return trip should’ve tacked on an extra three hours to the drive due to its even further East starting point.) Some people are just crazy intense drivers. Some of those people are my husband.
So. For today’s post, I’m going to include those pix on my “Farewell, Pittsfield” tour. Keeping in mind that there’s no way to fully check “saying peace out to your hometown” off of any list. And keeping in mind that, even if that were possible, there’s no way I fully did that on this trip. Maybe I should call this photo array “the places where I dragged my kids in the name of hyper-specific nostalgia.” Ah, it just rolls off the tongue. Let’s begin.
For starters, we spent as much time as humanly possible in the gorgeous pool (that my parents installed the summer after I went away to college). I think I’ve made up for lost time in this trip alone. By the end of the week, my formerly water-shy kiddos were flinging themselves off of the pool sides- which is both good/brave, bad/terrifying.
This band photo was taken in probably the most magical location of my youth: the brook in the middle of the woods not so far from my childhood home. (Yep, I drove to the other side of town, parked on a quiet residential street, and took my kids tromping through the forest.) My big sis (and later little sisters) and I would spend the better part of summer creating “houses” out of wooded clearings, propping logs across the banks of the brook, and fishing for the two guppies that would end up in the deeper water.
Down the street from the house where I resided between ages 5-17 was a place called Johnnie’s Variety. I remember the first time I rode my bike there- I felt like a Kerouac character. (A pal and I used to play dress-up and walk there from her house, where -inexplicably- we attempted to convince people we were twin sisters.) The place has long since been re-modeled and re-strip malled, but one section of the store still sells Slush Puppies. IT’S PART OF THE TOUR, PEOPLE.
Next up, we visited my Dad’s bench. Not gonna lie, this was a tough one. Flynn VW was started by my Dad’s Dad- and was a large part of the reason we moved from Cape Cod when I was 5. Except for the (wonderful, delicious) years when we owned Court Square Breakfast & Deli, my father was a fixture at this place. And when he died, his coworkers dedicated this fantastic bench to him. It’s right in the showroom and he would’ve loved it. I wish it didn’t have to be there, but he would’ve loved it.
I spent so many afternoons at the Children’s Library; it’s the place where we raced with Read-a-thons, lounged for story times, and even where I won my first writing competitions. (Some of those early mysteries I crafted were page-turners.)
Guys, this is the door to my kindergarten classroom. Guys, Nora starts kindergarten in a matter of weeks. GUYS, my almost-kindergartener is leaning against my kindergarten door. And even though Highland Elementary is now called Capeless Elementary, this is still “Highland” and this is where I nervously/excitedly lined up to meet my teacher in 1985 with a backpack sporting shiny fabric hearts.
Second band photo: In front of Reid Middle School’s mammoth front building. This was the place where I donned floral jumpsuits, teased my bangs, hid behind braces and books of bad poetry, and desperately hoped that no one would discover my crippling latex allergy. They were rough years. That said, this picture makes me happy. Also- what the heck is Nora doing?
I loved Taconic. Granted, the theatre curtains were rotten with asbestos and I tore my right quad during my first-ever JV soccer game, but the fantastic teachers I had, the shows I took part in, and the senior art project mural I got to paint in the theatre wing more than made up for any pesky chemicals/ER visits. Also? I went to four proms here. FOUR PROMS, PEOPLE.
P.J. flew in between weeks 1 and 2, so we visited the gorgeously restored Colonial Theatre, where P.J.’s parents held our rehearsal dinner. Onstage. It was awesome. It was extra special for me, since I had briefly been part of the reno team during a college internship. I still have the (stolen) marquee from a show about pirates and love or something.
Speaking of interns, the kid at the front desk let us sneak into the theatre and even snapped a quick picture of us. (Sure, he forgot to use the flash, but I was able to lighten it a tad. My bangs are not silver, I’ll have you know.)
P.J. and I had decided to have a Catholic ceremony and were married at this fantastically pink church. I’d always loved Sacred Heart from the outside, and it made me so happy to have our wedding in what I’d- as a child- referred to as “Secret Heart.” And you can tell that Suzy’s stoked to be here, too.
But this is the place that my memory will forever hold as “my church.” I spent Sundays at First Church Congregational for the entirety of my childhood- and Sunday schools, day camps, youth group talent shows, bake sales, and the most beautiful candlelit Christmas Eves ever. I loved this place.
Speaking of worship, this is King Kone. When I was a kid, my Dad would take us there at the drop of a hat- which might’ve had something to do with the fact that a two-foot twisty soft serve was maybe 99 cents. (It’s now $2.29. And those cones shown? Those are BABY sizes.) Peanut brittle all the way.
Yes, he came with us, too. And by the end of his cone, that tiny little bib was the only part of him not covered in chocolate and rainbow jimmies.
And I can’t even begin to describe how much I’m going to miss the Narnia of my parents’ home. The peaceful country landscape and fresh air, the gracefully sprawling house that easily fit all 17 of us this past Christmas, the barbecues, the late nights around the pool with family and friends as my Dad strummed his guitar, the dog pile movie-viewing marathons in the cozy family room, and the knowledge that- no matter what time you woke up- someone in the house had started a pot of coffee and had breakfast on for you.
This isn’t all. This can’t possibly be all. But I don’t have photographs of my friends’ back porch birthday parties and cafes where I excitedly went on first dates. I didn’t take my kids to flop in the fields where I soared kites, cross-country skied, and pretended to race ponies. I held myself back from trespassing into the childhood home near the brook- the one with the bedroom that got perfectly West-facing sunlight, the one where I decided to someday rewrite Quantum Leap and star in The X-Files and stun the world with my 80s hair metal singing skills. I didn’t capture where I went in the mall to get my ears pierced at age 7. I couldn’t make myself go back to our family’s restaurant.
I know, years down the road, it’ll all still be there, all of those landmarks residing- in some form or another- in Pittsfield, Massachusetts.
And I know I won’t be.
And I know that it’s okay. Or at least that it will be.
Because just last night I re-read the ending of The House at Pooh Corner- “But wherever they go, and whatever happens to them on the way, in that enchanted place on the top of the Forest, a little boy and his Bear will always be playing.” So even if the sky falls tomorrow, I firmly believe there’s a definite spot in time and space where a girl with a hoodie, skinny chicken legs, and a sideways ponytail will always be tying back twigs with 80s hair elastics in her real-life Terabithia.
Isn’t that pretty great?
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