On the Circularity of a Boston Square
The cycle of days spent in a one-bedroom, largely rectangular rental at the triangular corner of Commonwealth and Beacon, conveniently positioned in the middle of Kenmore Square, were Happy Days (on re-run). Full of Seinfeld-inspired laughs and nights with Friends (in thirty-minute segments). Simple times woven of simple fare. Turkey links and butternut squash. Both boxed. Two-percent milk and Milky Ways. Both refrigerated. Tubs of Breyers. Tubes of mayonnaise. Canned tuna a solid and a staple. Frozen corn as friendly as fresh cucumbers. The local farmers market was as easy to access as the big-box ATM. I paid rent on time. Served my loans and befriended my neighbors. Water pressure and winter ice properly situated and appropriately salted. The nearby hospitals and the sirens that sought them as a destination were a constant chorus. I took care of my corner of the tower.
I never minded the 1960s parquet floors. The geometric designs were both durable and reliable. The smooth surface both a slick landing pad and an opportunity to (re)imagine hardcourt shots as well as clean swishes (and NBA championship wishes). The Celtics were a fan (and tower) favorite. Boston Garden souvenirs not yet on the market. I didn’t mind the outdoor artwork, either. The nearby CITGO sign and its 360-degree reflection of navy-blue letters and red triangle reminders were as much a landmark as a layer. In the shadows of the square (and its shape).
Even then I knew that memories linger in small pockets of air between Here and There. The double-sided sign was both layered and large. Such was the neighborhood way. I stayed out of trouble. Owned a bike with two working wheels. Spent days reading (mostly case law while I prepped for exams) and writing (office memos were my jam). Wore my Nikes at night. All laces tied. Crunched asphalt during the week. Traced a regular loop carefully aligned with choreographed streetlights and out of the way of hard to contain mites (and mosquito bites). Took to gravel on weekends. Trails both paved and less fully razed. I was always running. To and from shadows. Downtown skyscrapers. Suburban rails. Time was neither feared nor jeered. Souls in rubber soles shared shoulders. Both in and of city limits. We slept by the light of the CITGO sign. Neon red. All triangle points and sheet corners tucked. Cozy and quaint. Dreamt along with the fans of the Fenway stands. Grand slams often of the hometown menu.
All conveniences (coffee in to-go, stay-warm cups, lottery shops, and trolley stops) were stocked and stacked in carefully choreographed plots. Off the clock, I’d read sci-fi fan fiction (and consume Boston diction) on the banks of the Charles River. Swan boats and double decker floats were a favored form of attraction. Pop-up concerts and pick-up frisbee games an equally welcome form of distraction. Book stores and libraries in equidistant lots. I’d gaggle at tots and consume soft serve (vanilla with jimmies) while listening to concerts at carefully selected grass slots. I recall rotating lyrics of Boston pops and homegrown chords. The Esplanade another nearby destination, along with the rest of the Boston nation. I discovered then drank a new first with every rising new sun. Drunk on love of people, place, and purpose. Both past and present. Ultimately, the town became the birthplace of my first son.
Days and nights tangled. Time became as unpredictable as testimony. Within six weeks we moved for a variety of reasons. Of which there were many. Some better than others. A blend of many fibers. Threads both pulled and pushed. I quickly packed boxes. Stacked and stocked sentimental stuff. Make Way for the Ducklings, a favored book. Hand-picked and packed from a colleague’s old nook.
With time and travel, testimony to being “Boston-bred” bled then dried. Even the days (and ways) I’d track geese (crossing both pond and street) then count – three, two, one – at the BU Bridge waiting for the light to turn from red to green soon lingered as nothing more than a subtle ridge.
Limbs lengthened along with years. Many threads unraveled. Phone numbers were disconnected. Attempts to retrace old steps faltered. Holiday cards were eventually discarded. The stacks (and contacts) grew shorter with passing years. Email not yet a given. New trails, both closer and less congested, called. Even so, days and nights spent dreaming in (and of) a Boston square lingered in shapes of shadows formed of moments turned memories. Never could I guess there were some tricks that might relight the deep glow and warmth of a Boston candle wick.
Decades danced with destiny. Babies and birthdays stacked. When it came the day to send my oldest off for college, studies up north emerged as worth a look. He ultimately chose Cambridge for his studies. Hundreds of miles from where we eventually landed. His new home away from home just one town over from where he was born. The bridge(s) as welcoming as ever. Pedestrians paved the way. I crossed the Massachusetts Avenue to Back Bay walkway alone -- in between move-in activities on family welcome day. I visited my old haunts. Imagined Big Papi might once again flaunt his skills while others would taunt. I inhaled and counted to ten. The neighborhood simultaneously different and the same. Brownstones and brick pavers led the way.
Six months later he joined a fraternity. Another unlikely (though ultimately lucky) turn of events. Their house turned home happened to be on the border of Kenmore Square. A stroke of luck. A knock of fate. Another opportunity to consume the scents and sounds of a Fenway home plate. A summer later, my oldest daughter took a room in the same three-story brownstone. Both slept within shouting distance of the one bedroom in which he was born. They slept in the warm glow of the CITGO sign. Fell asleep to Red Sox cheers and off color, post-game jeers. They could see the landmark (turned birthmark) any time they wished. Their residence a stone’s throw from the towers in which he was born.
We share many similar tastes. Sustained by all day music and late-night munches. Everything from Beatles to Bruce. Collins to Rush. Singalongs around bonfires surrounded by trees. Marshmallows on sticks. Milk chocolate and Boston-style tater tots. Boston cream pie and Yankee pot roast also favored flavors. As we’ve consumed both time and transitions up and down coasts, I’ve learned lyrics sometimes retreat then linger amidst ripples and river-side plants. Side-street gardens both under grown and overthrown. Seeds often sprout in the most unexpected of places.
These days, I once again consume the familiar (and flavorful) tunes of a Boston mile. Some say life runs in cycles. Squares morph. Geometric shapes and shadows often as much a matter of perspective as physics. Others look to lyrics for sense and sensibility. Notes of varying tones promise circles. Life in essence a cycle of peculiarity and circularity. Paths with points of varying degrees. I’ve never been an expert at geometry, but I know I’ve relished the opportunity to revisit old circles (and squares).
I found an old note last time we visited. Handwritten and wrinkled (likely planned). Tucked at the base of a duffel last packed twenty years prior. A luggage tag, too. Destinations tangled and twisted with time. The ink long dried. The message still wired. Till we meet again, I had written. From the other side of a duckling moat.
I visit Beantown somewhat regularly these days. Where’s there’s destiny or fate, there’s a way
I’ve learned that memories linger in layers and paths often cross. We packed the car again this afternoon. Now, the time to return always to soon. Still, I always look forward to sleeping under the Boston moon.
-Jen Schneider
Jen Schneider is an educator who lives, works, and writes in small spaces throughout Pennsylvania.