Eyes and Memory

Today I wrote my writer friend who grew up here about my big walk through town and he replied.

Nothing says East Woonsocket like the words "Cass Ave." My grandfather lived off Cass Ave when I was born and throughout most of my life. Campeau Street, to be exact. Hook a left on Beacon, go up the hill and Campeau is on the right. If you walk straight down the road, you cross Nursery Ave (where my uncle once lived) onto Blvd LeFrancois which will take you all the way up to Mendon Road (it parallels Cass Ave).

My grandfather had a cottage red house. It must have left an impression on me because when I bought a house of my own, I wanted a red one most of all. And, in a rare stroke of luck, the house I bought was indeed cottage red -- and still is.

He kept his yard painfully neat. I know, because as soon as I was old enough to push a lawnmower he had me mowing and weeding his split-level two-acre yard. The bushes were always manicured, petunias lined the driveway (I remember droplets of water glistening on the velvety petals because he always had the sprinkler running). A rail ranch fence enclosed the yard. The obligatory cement bird bath coated with flat white paint sat in front of the house.

My grandfather was a gruff, rather self-absorbed man, but he did the right things when I was little, so I am fortunate to have memories of sitting on the front stairs of his house with him, drinking Coke out of green glass bottles or eating Milky Ways from his refrigerator. It really is the little things we remember.

He died in the 90s (and in his nineties). He hadn't lived in the house for some time. I drove by there for old times sake the last time I was in Woonsocket. The house is a shambles now. Slathered in ugly blue paint, run down, the grass overgrown, broken-down cars in the driveway, an above-ground pool full of mossy water ...

But that's what I think about when I hear "Cass Ave."