Hovering Over the Past

The act of writing requires a constant plunging back into the shadow of the past where time hovers ghostlike.

~ Ralph Ellison

I like to use Google Maps to revisit the places on earth that hold special meaning to me. Who says technology can't be warm and fuzzy? It can certainly feed my nostalgia.

I can see the house my dad built in Tucson, the one I grew up in, the backyard mostly unchanged, the stairs leading into the pool, the Spanish tiled porch, the circular drive where I parked my little Mazda and then later my little Hyundai. I think I can see the prickly pear cactus that took a beating when I tried to teach my brother David how to drive, the one he replanted at dawn so my dad wouldn't see it and get mad. I can see the curved walls that announced the name of our subdivision, the place I'd wait for the school bus at 6:35 a.m., and now I remember that the bus always smelled of marijuana.  I cannot see, but I can imagine, the lizards scurrying in the heat, the Palo Verde tree I planted from a seed, and a young woman walking to the mailbox, checking for the au pair application that might carry her overseas.

I go to Italy.  I can see the impossibly narrow, winding road I'd walk up to get to my au pair house in Florence, and I can feel the cool stone wall pressed against my back as a car inches past.  I can look at that house and see the big tree in the yard where the dad would sit and read the Corriere della Sera, and the enormous Rosemary bush outside the kitchen door and I can imagine that I see the rose bush that was outside my bedroom window, even though it doesn't seem to be there. I can almost see Andrea, six and a half years old, playing "Quanti passi?" in the garden.  I can see the gardens at the Boboli Gardens, high above the city, where I used to eat cheese sandwiches and apricots, and Santa Maria Novella station that took me to so many other places, and Il Duomo, and the San Lorenzo Market where I bought t-shirts for my friends and a black leather jacket for my little brother. 

I can wander up the hills north of Florence to Fiesole, then follow the country road out of Fiesole and see the 600-year-old converted convent of my other au pair family, the one with curly-headed Georgio and a baby whose name I can't remember. We revisited Italy last year, and I can see the pool at the hotel we stayed at last year, in Fiesole, and the Etruscan ruins, and the restaurant where we saw a young man dressed up for a night on the town and we all, including the young man, had a good laugh because Declan thought he was a pirate. I can see the hotel terrace where we ate the breakfast we still pine over.  I can taste a cappuccino.

I can see my inlaws' house in Dundrum, the lovely little back garden that my father-in-law has spent countless hours tenderly cultivating. I can follow the road from their house into the main street and see the top of the little worker's cottage that now houses the internet cafe I sometimes use when we visit. I can see the working farm we take the kids to, and the spinster sisters' house that now houses a sunny cafe and serves hot chocolate with pink and white marshmallows on top. I can see the primary school my husband and his brothers went to.  Are those ducks floating in the pond at St. Stephen's Green?

Back over the Atlantic I hover over New York City, zooming in on our old apartment buildings, playgrounds, favorite places in Central Park. I see the little pier that juts out over Turtle Pond, just south of the Great Lawn. There's Belvedere Castle, and the Bethesda Fountain where we'd see all the Asian brides getting their wedding photos taken, and the Boat House, where Justin and I once sipped cocktails without the kids. The Reservoir looks enormous. I can't make out the details of outdoor tables and awnings, but I imagine I can see Georgia's Bake Shop on the southeast corner of 89th and Broadway, and then I wander down to French Roast. New York is hard to revisit, all concrete, no detail.

Now I come home, to Winnetka, but there's no need to look at my house or my yard or my driveway, the school, the shops, the playground. Five-year-old Declan is wearing red slippers and a blue plaid shirt, always in long-sleeves, even in the summer, and seven-year-old Aidan is in PJs, his face still puffy from sleep. It looks like a gorgeous day out there, and we're going to go make some memories. Maybe the satellites will take a picture and I'll look at it a few years from now.

Comments

[mom]

beautifully done, I am there with you, in all these places thru the mind's eye.

[Wife and Mommy]

Yay! I'm so glad you've started a blog. I love your writings and look forward to reading along.

:D

[Matt Kelly]

Marie, Great post. You've inspired me to go back and look at some of my favorite places. We'll use this idea as we plan our around the world trip. We've got some saving to do, but we're planning 15 months of travel when Malcolm is 12 or 13.

[Marie]

Matt, what a wonderful opportunity! We hosted a family of five from New Zealand last summer; they were spending two years traveling around the world while homeschooling. We met them on www.homeexchange.com and will stay with them when we eventually go to New Zealand.

[Bethel Nathan]

Wow, Marie! You are a wonderful writer! Like "mom" above, I was so traveling with you, as you described each of those places. How wonderful! And absolutely inspiring for me to use it to revisit the various places I've lived or traveled in my 39 years. Thank you for sharing!

[Healthoptionone]

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