Revisiting First Street

In my dreams last night, I sat at the kitchen table of my childhood. It was covered in lemon-yellow oilcloth, and I was eating a bowl of vanilla ice cream. When I awoke, I thought I might write a blog post about the simple joy of ice cream, partly inspired by my grandson, who shares my fondness for ice cream at any time of day.

Mostly, I wanted not to write about the awful-ness that is happening, other than to tell you that I participated in a “good trouble” rally on Thursday in the little town of Solvang, and it was well-attended and encouraging.

But the kids have been visiting from England, and I am finding it very hard to carve out writing time. Also, we are going through the process of preparing for our (gulp) move, and every moment assumes significance and poignancy, and the too-muchness of it is frankly hard to write about. Our friends and neighbors are being so kind and loving to us, and the hills and trees are filling with sighs of good-bye, and I know I will never truly leave, but I can’t seem to talk about it yet. I need some time.  

So I’m going to cheat and re-post a version of something I wrote a few years ago. It is based upon the photograph above, which recently resurfaced as I pack and sort in anticipation of the (gulp) move.

I described a strange, unshakeable dream I’d had the previous night. The situation: I was on a narrow path through tangled brush in an unfamiliar land, and I must walk fifty-eight miles. There were a few other people nearby, all strangers, and all tasked with the same challenge, but better prepared, and carrying supplies, and not particularly inclined to help me out. But I found two peaches, or somehow they appeared, and I wrapped them in a napkin, and these would be my sustenance.

And I tell myself that I can do it, one step at a time, because I have no choice.

Why fifty-eight miles? I have no idea. I woke in the night and tried to unlock some kind of meaning in all this, to no avail. One aspect of it pleases me, though: my resolve to complete the hike somehow, step by step.

And as I revisit it now, several years later, that dream feels oddly applicable to the present. I like the resolve the dreamer-me exhibits, and it is serving me well these days. I am full of grief and fear, but nonetheless determined. Maybe it’s a form of lunacy, or denial, but I refuse to simply yield. Death will find us. We might as well be in the midst of living when it does, and striving, and believing. My ancestors dreamed this message into me before I was born.

Fires were raging throughout California when I wrote the first version of this post. Here at the ranch, the air was hazy and hot, and the beauty was muted, except at certain moments when there was something stark and exquisite about all of it, in the way that bleakness contrasts with beauty, thus enhancing it, and terror underscores wonder, and fragility renders everything more precious.

And the political situation was ugly, even then. I talked about how much we were missing decency and humanity and fervent commitment to the ideals of democracy. Oh, my God. I could not have imagined how much worse it would become!

But we’re not going to dwell on that right now.

Anyway, the picture above had turned up as I was looking for something else, and yesterday it turned up again, and maybe it is telling me something.

I stared into it with fascination, savoring the stories that it tells. In the complex construction of my history, these stories are molecules, and my own life continues them. That’s my father to the left, along with Joe Gullo and Ray Elardo, his two best friends, and I would estimate the date to have been the late 1920s. It was a hot summer day, and they had fled the Brooklyn streets–First Street, to be precise–for a day at the beach. (I looked at a map once to try to figure out which beach it might have been. Coney Island? Brighton? It looks like they could have taken the MTA straight through, but someone with more Brooklyn savvy would have to confirm.)

And there they are, gazing into the future, paused, but poised for whatever comes next. Their mutual alliance gives them strength and solace; the affection among them is palpable. (Even when I was a little girl, I remember my father speaking of Ray and Joe with fondness.) It’s a very faded photo, but it still conveys the ambiance of that urban seashore, ghost-like figures in the background close together, getting sandy and sweaty. It doesn’t seem like a refreshing experience, but it was clearly an escape, and the boys were feeling their oats. The caption, written by my father, is what charms me most: “First Street is a street made by God for us to lick it.”

That’s my father for you. He rose to every challenge, and despite the relentless struggles and burdens that awaited him, he never lost his sense of dignity and purpose. He conquered many adversaries, kept on learning, and led a life of love and sacrifice. I am older now than he was when he died, but he is teaching me still. This difficult, pivotal moment in history is my fifty-eight miles to traverse; this very day is my First Street, and I guess I better lick it. Our story doesn’t end this way, and it doesn’t end now.