Lincoln Road was the whole world to me during my formative years. My life took place between polar ends of a country dirt road. Well actually, it was small enough to be called a lane. On one end lived Reverend Swan and the other end was occupied by a pack of Marlboros a day and cheap whiskey wafting out of a layer of honey-brown skin wrapped around a walking pitch fork. His name was Mr. Nat. I’m not sure how anyone can be pissed about something all the time, but Nat held on tight to that persona.
My feet touched the pedals of my 1970-something banana seat bike more than they graced that narrow, dusty, “Road of Morrocco” lane. Between the houses of the Swan’s and Mr. Nat, I know I put 450,000 miles on that bike. For years and years I craved a smooth flat paved road. The town of Middleburg eventually threw us a few bones and blessed us with one. Unfortunately, that day never came before I orphaned that Fat Albert style banana seat vehicle and all other bikes that followed. By then, puberty had taken over along with playing in an R&B band, and oh, did I say chicks (puberty hits hard man).
Reverend Swan’s – everyone knew him by Swannie – house to me was always the house with the addition. While the house was being remodeled, I remember the smell of cement and cinder blocks. I know it was ill-advised to climb up on the scaffolding to inspect things but I did it anyway, heck my father did it. This was definitely before I morphed into a fat little piglet to accomplish such a feat. In a jiffy, Swannie turned that tornado-mess of blocks, mortar and ceiling-less structure into a two story palace. Not sure if that is what he had in mind conceptually, he always was looking for shortcuts. He was cheap like that. It seemed to have worked out in the end though. My only thought at 9 years of age was probably, What…In…The…Holy…Jiminy Christmas is this going to look like in the end?
Miss Bunny lived across the street from the Swannie Chateau. Think Mother Goose. no, not that one, the black one who wrote the playbook on social distancing way before social distancing was a thing. She was a widow and a hermit. Her house was Water World. Being the lowest lying house in the neighborhood and occasional torrential rain downpours certainly didn’t do her or anyone any favors. I can remember times spent watching the men in the neighborhood dedicating hours to bailing her basement out of the tsunami tide and smudge. Poor lady could’ve used a new house, or at the very least a small yacht.
Taking a sip and a bite from the air around the Washington house would have been excusable. Miss Malvina never left the kitchen. That house was tall glasses of sweet tea, bread & butter, fried chicken, mashed potatoes and green beans. It was amazing how such bold aromas came out of a little cape cod doll house.
The sentry of the neighborhood saw EVERYTHING. I’m convinced Juanita Fisher was a drill sergeant in another life. I kept a baseball field’s distance from her whenever possible. Being approached or yelled at from her open screen door was never an ideal circumstance. Even her Captain Hook scowl brought heart palpitations. Because the safety of us mischievous boys was her intent and the dismissal from the pain from her reprimand was our desire, we immediately dropped the fist-sized rocks in our hands and ceased hurling them at each other.
Those were the good old days. I’d love to go back for a day.
Let me know when teleportation is a thing.
