Submitted by Patty Ciripompa
(Dedicated to Patti Berry Robinson, who introduced the path to me…)
Mostly, I remember the path in autumn. The season I used it most on my daily treks to Woodsdale, fall brought every bit of its splendor to this little plot of woods. A mystery to me, the beaten path covered in glorious color and sprinkled with sunlight smelled of hope and anticipation. I often wondered how it got there, about those who had walked through its beautiful woods before me, and why it was formed. A welcome change from the broken sidewalks and steep inclines of East Wheeling, the path felt like home the first time I crossed the tiny bridge over the brook on Elm Street. Though I loved, and shall always love, the neighborhood of my earlier years, the path somehow fit who I, at the age of 14, was becoming.
Having moved to America Avenue from East Wheeling in the summer prior to 9th grade, I was introduced to the path by a friend who lived on Elm Street and had known about it forever. Most who walked the path likely remember it as a shortcut. To Colonel’s for a vanilla coke at the counter, to the glorious plot of green field where we played touch (and sometimes tackle) football on Saturdays in the fall, to home through the snow in winter.
The stuff of poems crafted later from tucked-away memories, the scent of wet autumn leaves, or a glimpse of sun-dappled trees always bring me back to the path. It can’t have been a long path – the geography of the area between Elm Street and Heiskell Avenue dictates the brevity of it. Nevertheless, it was long enough for me.
Long enough to afford time alone in contemplation, or with a close friend sharing secrets and laughs. Long enough to give free rein to our imaginings of what we would someday become or accomplish in life, or do next to entertain ourselves on hot summer days stretching endlessly before us.
Though it wasn’t narrow by any means – two or three of us could walk side by side – the path left no room for fear. When I go there in my memory, I am always guided by light shimmering down through the tall trees, although each and every day, by the laws of nature, could not have been sunny. Yet there it is – the light. From its beginning at the bridge over the brook on Elm, to its ending off Heiskell, the path held no darkness.
Thank goodness those of us who walked it were not privy to all that awaited us on different paths in times to come. Had we known, had we been told the details of future joys and losses, how different the path may have become for us. For me, the path was a beginning. Always walking to, not away from, things to come, following beams of light that bounced joyfully ahead, like promises just beyond my grasp.
I wonder now if the path is still there, and if its light would still warm me if I walked it now. Sometimes, to find my way again, I need to go back there. To retrace those steps again and again – not to remember who I was, but to recognize who I am.
Thank you for this! It is beautifully written. Brought me right back to the days of my youth growing up on upper Maple Ave.
ReplyDeleteThe path was a short cut to Jakes where I could purchase a tiny Disney character (to add to my collection!) for 10 cents! I would get the pennies from my mother's glass bear jar w/ a slit in the lid for coins - a "gift" from some local bank (I still have that jar, 'though the bear's missing a glass ear Mom covered over w/ a band aid years ago and I can't bring myself to replace).
Sometimes I'd stuff as many pennies as I could in my front pants's pockets and buy 2 or 3 tiny figurines. If I was lucky I'd have enough pennies left over for a cherry Wizzard @ Colonel's.
When fall rolls around this time every year, I am reminded of my youth. And I am homesick for my old neighborhood...
Deb,
ReplyDeleteFirst of all, thank you. But mostly, what you have written as a comment could be the beginning of a lovely blog post! I want to hear more about your treks to Jakes and the glass bear with the bandaid on his ear.
~ Patty
Patty,
ReplyDeleteI don't know how to make a "blog" post - just comments! But I love reminiscing about my Wheeling childhood! Will write more when I figure that out!
Deb
Deb,
ReplyDeleteTo post on the WK Blogjust send me your story. I will do the rest....
H
The "Path" was the original site of the trolley tracks that ran thru Woodsdale. It is now covered in weeks and only one person wide, but still pretty.
ReplyDeleteThe "Path" was like a "wormhole" between the two sections of Woodsdale.
ReplyDeleteI agree with Deb that the piece about the path was beautifully crafted and brought me back to that special time. In my pre-teen years the path was a short-cut to all the aforementioned places and friends' houses. Even traveling at night as darkness approached, I never felt even one tingle of fear. Nothing harmful lurked in the darkness. Later, the path became, among other things, a place to stroll with hand-in-hand with boyfriends. Not far from home but out of range... Today the path has a light, I think, and the foliage on either side seems less dense. It's still fun to walk through that "wormhole," wishing that a vanilla wizard was waiting at the other end.
ReplyDeleteThis last path comment was posted by Lee Frizzell. I chose 'anonymous' because I couldn't find another profile to fit.... I used to be listed.
ReplyDeleteMy family used to refer to the path as "the Pines" because of the large pine trees at the Heiskell end. I actually can remember walking there with my mother and grandmother when the old wooden bridge was still over the creek. My guess is that the concrete bridge was probably built about 1952 or so.
ReplyDeleteMost of my memories were of flying through the path and over the bridge on bicycles rather than walking.
One day at the end of the path by the creek a few of us that included Bill and Tom Doepken, probably Andy Bates and a few others decided it would really be cool to hunker down like we were in fox holes and toss stones like grenades at each other. This was fun for awhile until Bill tossed a large rock that landed on my head leaving as nice bloody cut.
This, of course, caused much commotion among the parents. They suggested that what we were doing did not meet their expectations.
One summer my aunt, my grandmother and my mother filled in at Jake's so Jake and his wife could take a rare vacation. My sister and I got to "help". We demonstrated the toys and made some sales. Pretty good first job.
I too have walked the path recently and it is still very much the same. Indeed a very special place.
George Doughty