Cars at Dusk
Swirling, swishing, Leave no trace in moonlit air, Fading as they cross my window.
Sounds of twilight linger on In passing as the cars whoosh by, Slowly creeping to their homes.
Darkness thickens, Gone is daylight. Night becomes The place where silence beckons, Dwelling in my mind, the thoughts Of day and school and Memories of what might have been.
I sat at my desk, looking from my window into the night air, trying to do my homework, but only listening to the infrequent sounds of cars gliding by down Linden Lane. There was a growing hush in the air, some fullness, pregnant, deep, as with the last remnants and traces of the day fading and disappearing into nothing, the real mystery is revealed, and all I had to do was listen and forget about my homework, school, everything of this world.
Night reveals the other world, the world of unseen possibilities, the underlying whispers of the day. The pause where all is still, peaceful, and at rest. This I found in Davis at my window, in the space where day turns into night, the last moment of the cars, before the night completely falls. It was the hesitation, the opening, the place where we might enter a world behind the ordinary, a world where voices have no place and all things dwell in perfect balance.
It was the day at close, at rest. It was for me the essence of the meaning of belonging and at home. There is no other place I’d like to be than Davis in those times at nightfall. No words can capture the absolute rightness of the world in those lost moments.
Marching Band
We’re waiting for the band teacher to arrive, late as usual. Eight a.m., a foggy morning, tule fog. No one else here, just the band. I get my saxophone and off we go on the dead end streets by the new high school, marching in the thick fog, the reed sticking to my lips, trying to get it wet, squeaking and squealing out into the misty cold air. Band formations, lift your legs, the boy playing trombone. Drum majorette prancing in front of us. The sax section, my friend Mary and I and a few stragglers. We rode in the school bus to the games I never watched, just distant bodies on the field. The band leader signaled us to play when we scored a touchdown. That’s how I knew. We had those little lyres attached to our instruments with the music. We played for the town next door, where the slaughter house was, and nearby village Esparto, smaller than Davis. Everyone’s eyes were on the players and the cheerleaders, but our eyes were on the band leader and our wobbly music. We were the unsung heroes of the playing field. We played at football games, basketball games, school dances, graduation, and the Picnic Day parade. I don’t care how strange we looked in our spats and worn out uniforms, when we played the Blue Devil fight song, we were the school, its spirit and its soul.
The “Y”
Fork in the road Two lanes east and west North and south Steak house Monthly outings Stark, pristine T-bone.
How odd to mention something as mundane as the steakhouse at the northwest corner of the intersection of two-lane highways, one to Woodland, one to Winters. There were not many places to eat out in my town, and the steakhouse, commonly known as the “Y” for the intersection, was almost like going out of town, it was out of town. It was a special treat, at the crossroads of two highways—big, empty, simple. When all we pretty much had as an alternative was the Fosters Freeze and the restaurant below the hotel where we weren’t allowed (as they sold liquor), the lunch counter on G Street, and the college cafeteria. Some landmarks stay, converted into museums or businesses. Some go with progress.
They widened the road to the county seat and made it into a freeway, having to make an overpass from Davis to Winters. That country crossroads is gone and with it the Y is no more, remnant of a simpler time, where I could ride my bicycle out into the country, past the Y and the farmhouses, into the orchard filled twilight.
What sacrifice we with progress. I still look in my mind’s eye, for the steak house and the few occasions our whole family did something together outside our home. Now there is every kind of restaurant—Italian, Chinese, California Cuisine, but none of them can match the Y.
Ah, Summer
Ah, summer Heat along Anderson Road Rising, can we really fry an egg on concrete? Get me a Fosters Freeze Ride your bicycle to the store Baking, suffocating Waiting for nightfall Breezes from the Delta Move into our yard. Patio dinners with the neighbors Fried chicken and lemonade Bike rides into the moonlight No motion, only the sound Of my hair flying behind me And the breeze in the spokes. Look up, the mistletoe is on The oaks on Russell Blvd and the Town twinkles in the evening air.
Summers, of course, were endless, no school, no homework, only my few chores, piano practice and rides on my bicycle. I spent my summers reading and doing puzzles. Escaping into the nineteenth century every chance I got, imagining I was Mark Twain on the Mississippi or Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn with their fishing poles. The living room was the only room with air conditioning and we kept it closed. It was my room, the room of books and music.
Anderson road led into the country from the college and the hot summer wind would blow in and out without impediment. There were destinations, the State Market on the right and endless fields on the left. My destination was always the market, but the other road beckoned. Anderson Road, filled with houses now, both ends the same.
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