Have you ever taken half an hour out of your life to explore a place that's nearly been your backyard for decades, to discover the length and breadth and color of the place? Last August, when the Eastern United States' power outage forced me outside for a few hours, I explored a road traveled only a handful of times in a quarter century — and what a world unto itself it was.
Evenings this week, beginning tomorrow, are booked solid with work to do and places to be. Friday, my buddy Paul and I leave for yet another celebrated Albany Excursion. I intend to photo-document as much of the trip as I can, from start to finish, so that ought to be both a chore and a joy wrapped into one. So tonight, with a little free time, I topped off the tank, deposited my paycheck and turned down Coe Avenue.
Over twenty years ago — twenty years! — one of my sister's friends lived there. Heather Z., I believe. I have a distinct memory of driving down the suburban Coe in the passenger seat of my parents' emerald green 1970 Chevy Caprice, my mother driving; dropping my sister off at a house on the west side of the north-south street. It was evening, early summer. The sun was drawing lengthening shadows from the trees, yellow-orange flare peeking though their leaves. I remembered children, girls, playing; my sister joining them. And a hill.
It was dusk by the time I turned onto Coe and took it slowly south, looking west. No hill, nor a clear recollection. But I kept driving south out of curiosity — I don't think I'd driven down the street since that remembered day. I began to roam the adjacent streets, not certain to what Coe connected.
It's a fascinating sport, street-trolling. More practical than a pure timewaster, too: it's how short cuts are made. A high school clique of fellows two years older than I — an eccentric band of brothers, really — set out a good number of years ago to drive down every street in North Olmsted. Not as easy as it sounds, our city labryinthine for only 37,000. And most of the guys left after school for the corners of the earth, one to each. But last I heard, they were nearly complete.
South from Coe, here was Oak; and Georgette; and Lucille, then Grace, vein from Brookpark, whose apron I've passed many a time at high speed. Then, moving northwest and circling south, as I realized exactly where I was, Birch; then Palm. And then of course Elm: the home of a family whose children I knew well, who held many a party in their enormous, rugged backyard, the eldest himself once a part of the aforementioned clique.
To the east Michael Avenue, Brendan Lane; Saint Brendan's Parish to the north. Homes on these roads are newer, larger, more expensive than the modest houses to the west; lining narrow, green-canopied streets. Is this all a subdivision? I ought to know that at a moment's notice but I don't. If not, how did the western tangle of roads connect to the more stately east? I'll have to find out. Another question for the zoning board.
By the time I west on Elm one last time for home, twenty-five minutes had passed. Never was I more than five minutes from my current residence. All that is nearby is not unremarkable.