Let Me Go

I have a streak of independence that is a source of both adventure and trouble in my life. I'm not sure if the cause of this streak is nature or nurture, but I do know that too much independence can make relationships difficult when you are older. When you are younger, it just gets you into trouble. I had a fair amount of trouble and close calls growing up, mainly because I loved the freedom of just going, without a lot of discussion.

I grew up in a town called Winthrop until I was twelve, and being a latch-key kid gave me early freedom to roam our town. East of Boston, Winthrop is about a square mile of peninsula that sticks out into the Atlantic and is packed tight with people. Not many of us had yards to speak of. Our “back yard” was a fenced-in cement lot, walled high on the back side. There was a steep slope of weeds above that back wall, and a bit of grass and some trees in the neighbor's yard. But if you knew where to look, a jungle lurked just across the main drag. On the other side of Revere St., or route 145, that snakes through town, was a body shop for boats owned by friends of ours. Across from this body shop, was a large vacant lot in which “urban bamboo” grew thick and undisturbed. In that dense underbrush, we kids escaped to Vietnam and China, without telling our parents a thing. Crossing that busy street on my own was apparently not even worth discussing. I don't remember asking, just yelling as I ran out the door, “Going out to play!”

From third grade on, I was allowed to walk home from school alone. But instead of heading directly to my house, only two blocks down, I went in the opposite direction to spend more time with my friends. This meant we ambled through the highlands of town, where Ann and Shannon lived. Sometimes I would stay with one of them, for Ring Dings and General Hospital, or homework if Ann's mother was home. Sometimes I would head home after taking my lengthy detour, down stone public stairs that run here and there over Winthrop's steep hills. Dart across the busy intersection, up the back stairs of our triple-decker to the second floor. Fish the blue house key out of the clothes pin bag hanging on the wall, and let myself in.

But if I was spending time with my Shirley St. friend, Krystal, we tended to end up by the beach. Winthrop Beach gets battered by storms regularly, as do the houses lining Shore Drive. To break some of the ocean's force, banks of huge boulders were brought in and placed in strategic sections of beach. Above one of these sections is a tiny catwalk built into the towering beach wall. The catwalk is not even a foot wide and looms about 30 fifty above the boulders and crashing sea water. And where else would a couple of ten-year-old girls go when their parents think they are both jumping rope in the other's yard? Krystal and I would inch along the catwalk in our white Keds, chomping Hubba Bubba gum and discussing who was cuter—Jay or Eddie?--while injury and death danced invisibly around us. We were oblivious. Once, when were 10 or 11, Krystal and I made it all the way into Boston's Downtown Crossing by ourselves, to go to some fancy candy store. That time we got caught though, lingering too long and slowed by rush hour subway traffic on the way back; we were late. We were grounded. But it didn't matter. We went, and we made it across the border to taste freedom. We were ten years old and we would own the world—just as soon as we were let outside again.

We didn't spend the summers in Winthrop. My parents rented a spot for our big RV at a campground in East Bridgewater. We started camping there when I was very young, three or four. At Square Acres Campground, there was Robins Pond to swim in, a big grassy field to run around, tall pine trees to climb. There was enough dirt to make plenty of mud pies. My parents still worked in Boston most of the summer, commuting during the day. My brother and I were left in someone's care, I assume, but I only vaguely remember reporting to anyone else's trailer. The campground was called Square Acres because it was home to local square dancing events. The main hall on the grounds woke up with music and dancers every weekend night.

I remember the first time we went to watch one of the weekend dances. I sat on a built-in wooden bench against a back wall, my feet dangling. All the dancing couples were decked out in matching outfits, the women in frilly poofed-out skirts or dresses. The men wore bolo ties or scarves around their necks, their shirts almost as frilly as the ladies'. Oh, all those layers of lacey crinoline that showed when the ladies spun! It looked like whipped cream to my four-year-old eyes. Topped with a bone-colored ten gallon hat, like a country music crooner, the caller shouted,“Allemande Left with yer left hand! Back to yer partner fer a Right 'n Left Grand! Ace of Diamonds, Jack of Spades....Meet yer partner & all Promenade.”

My eyes were glued to the colors swirling, legs and arms gliding, couples inches from bumping into each other, but managing not to. The caller's directions were lilting gibberish to me, but the dancers responded on cue, twirled in circles, in groups, mysteriously doing the same things. Everyone was smiling. The caller's deep voice rolled out: “Aaaaaaand Do Sa Do and Circle Right, come back to the square, yes that's right, now hold them tight. Bow, bow to your partner, bow to your corner!”  I was hooked.

Maybe it was the next weekend. We were sitting around the campfire with another family. There was a lot of grown-up talk. The marshmallows were done, but it was too early to go to bed. I was picking up sticks to throw into the fire, kicking dirt around. Then I heard the music from the hall. I heard the caller's voice rising up and down, like a wave of caramel. I could see the colors and the lacey whip cream in my head already. I knew just where I'd sit. It was just dusk, but dark enough. I turned toward the hall and just went. The hall was only a stone's throw away, but through some tall pines. I tripped over big tree roots and peeled pine needles off my palms. I slipped through the first door I saw and climbed up on the bench. There they were, a rainbow of whip cream dancers.

I'm not sure how long I got to sit there, how long it took an adult around the campfire to notice that I was missing. Maybe twenty minutes, a half hour if I was lucky. I think I remember my mother telling me she knew right where to look for me.

I've been escaping ever since, resenting the obligation to tell anyone where I'm headed. I'm not sure why this is, or what caused my independent streak--nature or nurture. Like everything else, it's probably a bit of both. I was not born an overly cautious child, and I was given a lot of freedom in those impressionable years. I gained confidence in my ability to look after myself, and find ways to entertain myself.  I also like my own company.

This would make anyone walk the ocean catwalk and leave the campfire alone, wouldn't it?