Walk This Way Again

Sometimes you can achieve different results by going over the same ground. Last Saturday I was walking down the sidewalk of Church Street in Belle Plaine with Tim, an old friend of mine. We had just left the St. Patrick’s Day festival in downtown and were heading to my truck, where we would once again leave the town that had raised us.

I knew the cracks, the dips and the rises of the sidewalk we were on. I knew the houses (now smaller) and the trees ( now larger). Just four blocks from the house I grew up in, we passed our friend, Cindy’s, childhood home. Cindy graduated from high school with us, and now she is quickly losing her memory, as Alzheimer’s takes a little more from this sweet woman every day.

As a child I had walked this street many times on the way to one of the hardware stores, the grocery stores, the drug stores and the bakery. They’re just a memory now, as none of them can be found downtown anymore.

In the next block we were in front of the church, the church of our youth. The truck was parked with the convent on one side and the church on the other.  

I had spent much of my childhood in that building. For several years I attended school there. I learned to roller skate in the basement of the church with kids from the Catholic school. I also played bingo and ate dinners there, including the two after the funeral services of both my parents. In addition to Sunday mass, I went to church five mornings a week. The nuns would march us outside from the school building to the front of the church. When the weather was bad we entered the back of church through a small door that led down to the basement, where we walk would to the other side and ascend an ancient set of wooden stairs up to church.

When I got older I would walk past the church and through the downtown to attend the public school on the other side of town.

Often times I walked with Tom and Andy, classmates and friends. We braved all kinds of weather; sometimes a sharp wind coerced us to turn our backs and walk backwards for a stretch.

Church Street, which ran in front of my house, was usually my preferred path. I knew the street and most everyone who lived on it. I was comfortable in walking it, even when it was past the old cemetery on a moonlit night. There were other routes to take, but they took me on busier streets and away from the quiet comfort of walking in the shadow of the church steeple.

Biking was often an attractive option, but walking provided a sure means of transportation that could not be stolen or mislaid. Plus, when mischief presented itself, walking could easily become running, as I made my way through the backyards of the well-known neighborhood.

I’ve since grown past the need to run from authority, or perhaps it’s because I am no longer looking for trouble. Having reached multiple destinations long ago using this same route, I now walk the street again with an old friend.

“You’ve walked this way before, haven’t you Jer?” Tim said.

“Yeah, but only about five thousand times,” I replied.