CREEK ROAD GANG
Your Subtitle text
Thoughts from the Editor:
Spring 2011
copyright 2011
You can take the girl out of New England, but you can’t take the New England out of the girl.
Or so I thought.
I grew up outside Boston, and went to college in snowy Worcester, Massachusetts. We weren’t fussy about snow plowing, which was done to one degree or another. Everyone was accustomed to driving through snow, the tires making ruts in the streets, which then turned to ice, and seemed to remain until spring brought thawing. Woe to the drivers of small cars, who were forced to drive with one tire in a rut, the other coasting along on the ice.
You’d think those ruts would create an indelible memory in a New Englander’s mind, even if she later moved to the warm climes of Pennsylvania.
But when I flew up to New Hampshire in early March for my aunt’s surprise birthday party, I neglected to bring boots. That might be okay for Pennsylvania (not this year, though); but New Hampshire? For a sample of what I encountered up north, check the photo at the bottom of this page. What was I thinking?
Not about the weather, clearly.
All right; I have a great excuse: I was thinking about a wonderful aunt.
When I was a kid, every time my father and his younger sister got together, there would be some talk of the old neighborhood. There were lots of variations, but it usually started something like this:
You know who I ran into last week? Harry Murphy!
Harry Murphy? His sister Judy was in my class! Didn’t they live on Irving Street?
No, Harry lived over near Glendale Park. You must be thinking of his cousin Bobby. Bobby lived on Irving Street.
I could swear Bobby Murphy lived on Ferry Street!
No, Bobby lived on Irving Street, third house from the corner.
The green one?
No, the brown one.
So what’s Bobby doing now?
I don’t know. Harry didn’t say.
Well, how’s Harry doing?
You’ll never guess who he married!
Who?
He married Gloria D’Amico!
Gloria D’Amico! Everyone thought she’d marry Al Ferraro!
No, she married Harry. They have six kids. But, you know, I haven’t thought of Al Ferraro in years! I wonder what happened to him.
Didn’t he live on Vine Street?
We kids used to think it was hysterical! Imagine sitting around talking about all those old people and where they had lived before we, the kids, were even born! All that silly reminiscing! On occasion, as a smart-alecky teenager, I’d try to join the conversation. As soon as my father or my aunt mentioned seeing a long-lost friend, I’d ask, “Didn’t he (or she) used to live on Union Street?” Sometimes it took them a minute or two of discussing the friend’s former address before they realized that I was just teasing them.
Dad died in 1995. When his little sister celebrated a big birthday this year, it was her kids and their families, her niece and nephews and their families and her sister-in-law who came. No more discussion of who lived on Irving, who on Ferry, who by Glendale Park.
The boot’s on another foot now.
Now it’s my generation’s turn to discuss all those boring old matters that no one cares about anymore. How many cupcakes was it that Kevin ate at that birthday party before someone finally told on him? Who was it who told? And whose birthday was that anyway? Remember the time Jerry squirted Disappearo all over his mother’s fancy guest towels, and then ran out of the bathroom shouting, “Guess what! Disappearo doesn’t disappear!” Who was it who stepped out of his boots without saying a thing about it while walking with Dad in the snow? Who’s the know-it-all who always thinks she knows all the right answers to these questions?
That would be me.
Isn’t it funny how all those old things from my younger days are so interesting to me now?
And isn’t it great that some things don’t change? That the laughing from when we were kids sounds pretty much like the laughing we still do. So thanks to my family for a wonderful time.
And thanks also to the girl who sat behind me in reading in sixth grade, who graciously drove up to New Hampshire on that Saturday to have lunch with me; and to the kind waitress, who graciously tolerated our three-hour luncheon stay, long after all the other patrons had left the restaurant.
I finally understand why my father and my aunt could carry on so about the details of where old friends had lived, who they married, what sports they’d played: because those relationships were engraved into their beings; because those connections mattered. And some things don’t change.
................................................................................................................
But some things do.
Change happens.
After over a year and a half of publication, I’ve realized that Creek Road Gang is too small to be able to hire staff, and too big to publish monthly without doing so; at least, if I hope to retain any scrap of sanity. (Those who know me well may quibble that they’ve never seen so much as a scrap of my sanity, but I shall ignore such comments.) As of this issue, Creek Road Gang moves to quarterly status. We’ll put out new issues each January, April, July and October. Also, as of this issue, we will publish occasional fiction. Our first fictional short story is “Life, Leopold, and the Pursuit of Vegetables” by Virginia Strong Newlin.
I would also love to have more book reviews. If you’re reading something great, consider doing even a thumbnail review and sending it along to us. We’re readers, and a suggestion of a great read is always appreciated.
And please let your friends know about Creek Road Gang. Some things are meant to be shared!
Have a great spring, and look for our next issue in July! But feel free to hang around and investigate the whole site in the meantime. There’s a lot to go around.
Or so I thought.
I grew up outside Boston, and went to college in snowy Worcester, Massachusetts. We weren’t fussy about snow plowing, which was done to one degree or another. Everyone was accustomed to driving through snow, the tires making ruts in the streets, which then turned to ice, and seemed to remain until spring brought thawing. Woe to the drivers of small cars, who were forced to drive with one tire in a rut, the other coasting along on the ice.
You’d think those ruts would create an indelible memory in a New Englander’s mind, even if she later moved to the warm climes of Pennsylvania.
But when I flew up to New Hampshire in early March for my aunt’s surprise birthday party, I neglected to bring boots. That might be okay for Pennsylvania (not this year, though); but New Hampshire? For a sample of what I encountered up north, check the photo at the bottom of this page. What was I thinking?
Not about the weather, clearly.
All right; I have a great excuse: I was thinking about a wonderful aunt.
When I was a kid, every time my father and his younger sister got together, there would be some talk of the old neighborhood. There were lots of variations, but it usually started something like this:
You know who I ran into last week? Harry Murphy!
Harry Murphy? His sister Judy was in my class! Didn’t they live on Irving Street?
No, Harry lived over near Glendale Park. You must be thinking of his cousin Bobby. Bobby lived on Irving Street.
I could swear Bobby Murphy lived on Ferry Street!
No, Bobby lived on Irving Street, third house from the corner.
The green one?
No, the brown one.
So what’s Bobby doing now?
I don’t know. Harry didn’t say.
Well, how’s Harry doing?
You’ll never guess who he married!
Who?
He married Gloria D’Amico!
Gloria D’Amico! Everyone thought she’d marry Al Ferraro!
No, she married Harry. They have six kids. But, you know, I haven’t thought of Al Ferraro in years! I wonder what happened to him.
Didn’t he live on Vine Street?
We kids used to think it was hysterical! Imagine sitting around talking about all those old people and where they had lived before we, the kids, were even born! All that silly reminiscing! On occasion, as a smart-alecky teenager, I’d try to join the conversation. As soon as my father or my aunt mentioned seeing a long-lost friend, I’d ask, “Didn’t he (or she) used to live on Union Street?” Sometimes it took them a minute or two of discussing the friend’s former address before they realized that I was just teasing them.
Dad died in 1995. When his little sister celebrated a big birthday this year, it was her kids and their families, her niece and nephews and their families and her sister-in-law who came. No more discussion of who lived on Irving, who on Ferry, who by Glendale Park.
The boot’s on another foot now.
Now it’s my generation’s turn to discuss all those boring old matters that no one cares about anymore. How many cupcakes was it that Kevin ate at that birthday party before someone finally told on him? Who was it who told? And whose birthday was that anyway? Remember the time Jerry squirted Disappearo all over his mother’s fancy guest towels, and then ran out of the bathroom shouting, “Guess what! Disappearo doesn’t disappear!” Who was it who stepped out of his boots without saying a thing about it while walking with Dad in the snow? Who’s the know-it-all who always thinks she knows all the right answers to these questions?
That would be me.
Isn’t it funny how all those old things from my younger days are so interesting to me now?
And isn’t it great that some things don’t change? That the laughing from when we were kids sounds pretty much like the laughing we still do. So thanks to my family for a wonderful time.
And thanks also to the girl who sat behind me in reading in sixth grade, who graciously drove up to New Hampshire on that Saturday to have lunch with me; and to the kind waitress, who graciously tolerated our three-hour luncheon stay, long after all the other patrons had left the restaurant.
I finally understand why my father and my aunt could carry on so about the details of where old friends had lived, who they married, what sports they’d played: because those relationships were engraved into their beings; because those connections mattered. And some things don’t change.
................................................................................................................
But some things do.
Change happens.
After over a year and a half of publication, I’ve realized that Creek Road Gang is too small to be able to hire staff, and too big to publish monthly without doing so; at least, if I hope to retain any scrap of sanity. (Those who know me well may quibble that they’ve never seen so much as a scrap of my sanity, but I shall ignore such comments.) As of this issue, Creek Road Gang moves to quarterly status. We’ll put out new issues each January, April, July and October. Also, as of this issue, we will publish occasional fiction. Our first fictional short story is “Life, Leopold, and the Pursuit of Vegetables” by Virginia Strong Newlin.
I would also love to have more book reviews. If you’re reading something great, consider doing even a thumbnail review and sending it along to us. We’re readers, and a suggestion of a great read is always appreciated.
And please let your friends know about Creek Road Gang. Some things are meant to be shared!
Have a great spring, and look for our next issue in July! But feel free to hang around and investigate the whole site in the meantime. There’s a lot to go around.
~Kate Lydon
