The street where I live was closed off just about the time the radio announced that schools were closed. There is instant jubilation for a fifth-grader or any grade for that matter when you hear your school’s name and then the words closed. Sleds are out, snow is heavy and wet and my friends and I do not know yet what the word monotony means. We don’t care. We are sledding down the hill again and again and again. Dares plentiful, laughter contagious, we are in a magical world on a school day no less.

*******

The snow that fell today brought with it this memory from my childhood. Whenever the noise gets too loud I walk away from the electronic world and head outside or remember something I did when I was young. That childhood goodness then gets the time it deserves. Often we are too preoccupied to give these experiences in our life the room to breathe.

In December of 2021 I wrote about my elementary school, a kickball game and a girl named Sue. Today I remember one winter’s day on a street always filled with laughter and the proverbial fight from time to time. That street in my neighborhood was a constant in my life and that of my friends. Our lives of course were changing day-by-day as we grew older, we just didn’t know it or even care about it then. Our time was forever.

We had backyards for specific activities. Cameron’s yard was for whiffle ball games; Wagner’s was the basketball court (the only one in the neighborhood) and Matthew’s yard was where we played a rugby-style game on an atypical bank of grass you could slide on forever. And then there was our street and the alley and our backyard paths connecting one yard to the next, all of it was a world unto its own and it was ours. And on this snow day we sledded down the street catching and holding snowy moments that would nourish us until the next snowstorm.

We all have that childhood game we once played inside us. It is and will always be a part of us. When times are strained, when lemons are the fruit of the day, we remember that game or even a snow day when the world was ours for just a brief period of time. They may not have stood out then in our hearts and minds, but over time we realize it all is an important part of who we are today.

In whatever we did, when we played together we were one. We had our teams, our favorites and of course our disagreements, but together we felt we could not be denied “our time.” Knowing as adults that our time grows shorter with each passing day it is ever more important to reminisce and tell stories from when we were young. The pure joy of life these stories provide depends on us to tell them to others.

In this adult world we are faced with continuous uncertainty. We have bills to pay, deadlines to meet, family commitments, friends needing our support and parents growing older, needing our love and care now more than ever. My parents still live in the house I grew up in. They raised me and now “that me” along with other family members are seeing to their needs.

The neighborhood I called home throughout my school years is now a time capsule. Friends were plentiful in the early years, but as time moved on so did we. People moved out, moved in and then the games we played stopped and moved away for good, leaving houses and yards to fend for themselves, leaving the adults to mark time alone.

Sometimes a break in the day needs us just about as much as we need it. Deep breaths may slow down the heart rate, but a good story or memory is tonic for the soul.  All of us — young and old — are surrounded by story all the while we make new ones. When some of those memories come back for a visit, they take us to a better place — if but for a moment — just like that long ago snow day did for me.

*******

End of day, street open, a large panel truck lumbers down the hill. The side of the truck taunts me. I answer back with the most perfect of snowballs. It explodes off the side of the truck. Then a squeal of brakes wrapped in our laughter, the truck comes to a sliding halt. A woman gets out. I freeze in place saying to myself: “It can’t be.” Her finger is pointed and then — what only teachers can do — her finger tells me “this way Mr. Heller.” My ear is tugged for all to see as I apologize to her and her husband.  Next day in school, I am leaving the classroom to go to lunch and Mrs. Kehnel, sitting at her desk smiles at me as I pass by and says: “Nice arm there Mr. Heller.” All the way to lunch my friends want to know what is so funny.

© 2024 RJ Heller

First published February 23, 2024 The Quoddy Tides   Eastport, Maine