A Walking Tour of Park Street in Montclair

Walked over an hour on this venerable old Montclair street, from its start near the YMCA almost to its end, when I turned left on Macopin to zigzag up to our block. It was hot, so hot, but I was trying to find myself, to find inner peace, perspective, on an afternoon journey after restorative yoga. So I walked and I walked, past Montclair High; a Quaker meeting place [established 1928]; rose gardens; homes worn and worse for the wear, like tattered housedresses; beautiful estates and the accompanying signs announcing kitchen renovations or carpentry under way; and one of my favorite dwellings, the big saltbox with blue shutters and matching two-story birdhouse. It was near 7 p.m. and sweltering, so no one was out except an older and younger lady having drinks on one doorstep and a dad with two young boys biking along the sidewalk. I let my thoughts carry me home, faced painful memories and embraced happy ones. I am not the sum of my memories. I had to walk carefully on the patches of pathway that have been jacked up over the years by tree roots--and be equally watchful on the blue-gray slate sidewalks, which cost more to lay down but can send you flying if you don't watch out. That was another Sunday memory--and not a good one. During secretive teen years, Fig was rushing ahead and I was trying to keep up, to connect, to reach out, to make sense of the silence, but my Tory Burch sandal got caught under the sharp slate, which sliced my toe and left my golden birthday sandal, and my mommy heart, broken--but not beyond  repair. I am not the sum of my memories. I can stretch toward the sun like the Knock Out Rosebushes I saw on my way home, and extend beauty to the world. And when I faced our front door, I walked up our pathway, flanked by the two Knock Out Rosebushes--one crimson, one hot pink--that Dan planted for me a couple years back. I was home again, for better or for worse.