The streets of my childhood are there—narrower, shabbier, smaller, but still there—and in a way, I’m still there too—trying to make sense of the day I saw my ghost.
It began with rain, the slow, drizzling kind that lasts all day and gets inside your mind.
I can still hear the mournful dirge of the foghorn and see the mist rising from the sidewalks
It was a dark day when the yellow globes of the schoolroom stood like pale moons in the darkened windows. Everything felt huddled and close.
The smell of wool mittens steaming on radiators nauseated me along with the chanting of prayers and whispered responses.
Catholic school...
Mother Viola in her nun's veil and black garb morphed into a black and white blur—a misshapen, elongated piano keyboard melting into the lectern like a Salvador Dali clock.
She was teaching music, but there was no magic.
The metronome ticked back and forth. The rubber tipped pointer danced over bars and staves and treble clefs—it was dizzying and maddening and suffocating.
Recess came and went—it was too wet to go outside.
By eleven, we were spelling and at half-past started to read a story about a boy living in a river valley.
At two minutes to Noon, books were put away and we stood again and prayed and then lined up in rows waiting for the bell to sound our release.
I walked home morosely. I knew I couldn’t go back—at least, not that day, but I had no plan. For lunch, I had tomato soup and salmon paddies—I remembered it was Friday. On the holy calendar, the fish marked today’s square.
The afternoons were shorter—only two hours, but an eternity on such a day as this. I decided to take my raincoat and boots, though the walk was short.
I already had made up my mind that my feet would take me in a different direction and I had need to protect them.
Once outside, I turned the corner and headed in the opposite direction, past the park toward Salem Avenue. Once out of sight of the house, my pace slowed. I stopped to watch the rainwater coursing down the gutters.
I made a dam of leaves to hold back the flow and then broke it with the toe of my boot and watched the tidal wave sweep down toward the sewer.
“Don’t play in the gutters,” my mother would warn,” you might catch Diphtheria.”
I decided I'd chance the possibility and made a Popsicle boat and watched it navigate the narrow rapids before plunging into the Niagara Falls of the sewer.
I walked on. My eyes cast downward took note of the ancient sidewalks.
Each section had an impress of the Paving Company’s name and the date the walk was laid. I saw 1928, then turned the corner and saw 1918.
Ahead an older section of darkened stone promised an earlier date—1910.
I was in awe. Whether it was the rain or the unhurried atmosphere of the afternoon, I couldn’t be sure, but somehow I could almost sense the era engraved in that walk.
I imagined men in top hats and capes and women in long dresses.
It was then I saw him—a hazy wraith, a curling swirl of mist, gradually taking form. He emerged from the park gaining substance with each passing second. I saw he was dressed in baggy pants, with a matching jacket and peaked cap.
He reminded me vaguely of Andy Capp from the cartoon pages.
I watched as he was bent performing a task. I was afraid to move or even breathe. He turned slightly and I could see he had a half-broom and was sweeping debris from the walk into a burlap bag fitted with a metal dustpan edge.
I watched him meticulously sweep from one end of the walk to the corner and then go around. I never saw him disappear, but I knew or sensed that if I walked down the block and peered along the Avenue, he’d be gone.
I never told anyone about what I saw that hazy day—some things are better left unsaid, kept to oneself or pondered over only when the mood overtakes.
I'm not sure what makes these images persist—recurring emblems of pain, that become most noticeable in rain.
I merely accept them as part of the mystery of life. Sometimes we have to live with certain anomalies that may never be explained.
But ironically, a few years later, I got some insight when my father and I were sitting on our old wooden porch watching the rain when he mentioned the local legend of a street cleaner.
“Whenever it rains, they say he appears. Seems back at the end of the First World War, he was working hard to bring his wife over from Italy. Poor devil caught the Spanish Flu, but kept on working—died right in the street, they say.”
Now I don’t know if there are such things, but I know what I saw.
And I know whenever it’s rainy and a little hazy, I get the urge to back and revisit those streets again and perhaps catch a glimpse of that old street cleaner.
I never do though—some things are better left unsaid and kept to oneself or pondered over only when the mood overtakes.
And so it is with ghosts and all misty things, dark mornings filled with drizzly rain and memories dampened with water stains.
