It was his second day in first grade and his first time walking home from school. Maple Street was a half-mile long, one of several streets in Morrisville beautifully canopied with elms. There were twenty-three houses on the left side and nineteen on the right and, try as he might, he could not count both sides as he walked home from school. He would lose track as his eyes darted from left to right and the sums vanished. Just below the hospital, Maple Street merged into Washington Highway which led east out of town towards the hill farms in the shadow of Elmore Mountain. The street’s lofty named belied its rutted gravel surface. His house lay just beyond the hospital …
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When I was ten, just after my mother had buried my grandfather, Uncle Benoit died in a spectacular late night car wreck. Uncle Ben, as he was called by us kids or “Mon Onc’” as he was called by his own generation, was my father’s uncle on his father’s side. My father’s mother Eugénie had married Gaston Delaire, acquiring Benoit as a “beau-frère.” Gaston had died several years earlier of pneumonia. Another brother, Arnaud, took holy orders and became an Edmundite missionary in South America among the rainforest people. Uncle Ben and his wife Colette had a pristine farm off Route 100 in North Hyde Park. A hundred and fifty acres and as many Holsteins and Guernseys produced thousands of …
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I was walking home from first grade on Maple Street in Morrisville trying to count the houses between the elementary school and my home. Ahead on the maple-lined street, I noticed an elderly woman walking purposefully towards me swinging a purse as if it were a plumber’s bag full of tools. As she came more into view, it was clear she was a lady. Her gray hair was gathered in a bun. She wore a pillbox hat thought it was slightly askew. Her black dress came to below her knees. She wore black laced shoes with a half-heel. I tried not to stare, but something was amiss. Having lost my housing count several trees back, I pretended to look uninterested …
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