The
adventures of my youth and growing up in the little town of Ashland,
Massachusetts. Ashland is about 27 miles west, as the crow flies, from Boston.
Much of my childhood was spent being shuttled between both. Running in the
woods of Ashland, and visiting relatives in the inner city of Boston. I have
fond memories of both. I have not so fond memories of both as well. Like a long
-time friend that you know everything about and have seen them at their best
and at their worst but still regard them as friend. For me, it is better not to
revisit, not to renew, in the hopes that these childhood impressions and
memories will stay preserved, unaltered, since I hold them so precious.
I
grew up in the days when there were such names to towns along Route 9 to
Ashland as, Natick, Framingham, Newton, Norumbega, Sherborn, Dover, and
Waltham. Today those names are relegated to the footnotes of historical records
buried away in the archives of courthouse basements or on obsolete maps long
ago replaced on library walls. Today whole handfuls of communities have been
rechristen by some city planners and architects who only know Boston as a place
to draw a paycheck, a place that means little to them except employment, as
"Metro-West", as if it is part of some poorly scripted Batman movie
sequel. I can hardly take it, going back, seeing and hearing what has been done
to the places I once loved. The population and spirit of that place has changed
too, in my opinion, not for the better. Every thing changes, nothing remains
the same. "You can never go home again." If I may misquote Thomas
Wolfe; and for the same reason he said it.
Back
to the painting. The house I was raised in was located near the border of
Holliston and Ashland.
In those
days I attended the Fruit Street School that was so named for obvious reason
and is located a short walk from our house. On hot summer days I could walk
with my German Shepherd to the end of Elliot Street into Waseca Farm orchard to
the rocky shores of a deep watered lake called the Ashland Reservoir. My dog
and I were so free back then. There were no no-trespassing signs or fences and
gates with locks. The shoreline was wooded and had free access by a well
trodden path. I would set my towel down on a large rock and my dog and I would
jump in and swim. Then after an afternoon of swimming we would walk home but
not before gorging on peaches and pears from the orchard. I was free and
without a care in those days and little mattered outside of my world.
It
was often during these swims I would grab ahold of my dog's tail and he would
tow me around the lake in the deep open water. My dog was a much stronger
swimmer than I. From the open water looking due north one could see only the
earthed dam causeway and pumphouse against the blue horizon. From the causeway,
far below was the Greek revival Ashland square and downtown if you could call
it such, with its white pillared townhall, andwhite
peaked church steeple of the Federated church, for we had too small a
population for the individual protestant denominations. Also there was a very
old red bricked hotel which housed a news stand. There was also a small stone
building masquerading as a public library, various banks, an old train station
for the railroad tracks bisected the town and would hold up frustrated car
commuters for sometimes fifteen minutes. These images are indelibly set in my
brain and I will take them to wherever I travel and whenever I am put to rest.
They will always forever be a part of me.
Many
years later, after having returned home from college, I decided it would be
nice to walk to that lake, not for a swim, but just a hike on that path leading
around the lake to the causeway. It was on that path that I encountered a state
park ranger who informed me that I was to turn back for the rocky shore was too
dangerous, and that swimming was definitely not allowed there. It occurred to
me that I had more rights as a grade school kid in Massachusetts than I had as
an adult. No, Thomas Wolfe was right, you can't go home again.
