Rangely Avenue…

It’s a mystery really, how we live our lives. So many people, places and events inform us from the moment we’re born… even before we’re born. Naturally there are familial, social and cultural currents, which sweep us along in their streams, painting narratives onto our experience. Our perceptions and the opinions we form are continually swayed and stained with the context of established precedents and settled beliefs. Religions, philosophies, science, literature, even sports & entertainment offer structures and parameters as to how to live a good and satisfactory life. If we’re fortunate, we have careers, raise families of our own, grow old with some dignity and in the fullness of time we pass away from the earth. I suppose if one thinks too much about these things one could go quite mad.

Something most people have is the memory of certain defining moments from their childhood. Sadly for many, those moments are of loss or trauma, and many individuals go on haltingly throughout their lives, never quite emerging from shadows cast by misfortune. Yet there are those who also possess the memories of occasions and moments that belong uniquely and only to themselves, experiences that ever after define and empower the core of their intentions, assumptions and purposes as they live out their lives. Moreover, these “epiphanies” often eclipse the pain and grief that is everyone’s portion. 

One such occasion occurred for me on a summer day when I was three years old. At that time I was allowed to ride my tricycle, only within my mother’s view, on the sidewalk of Dorrington Avenue, from the house our family lived in to the end of the block and back. However, one sunny day, as I reached the turnaround point at the corner, I looked back down our street but I could not see my mother in the front yard. I must have figured she had gone back in the house, maybe to answer a phone call. Something I already knew about my mother was that when she got on the phone she liked to chat for a long time. I looked to my left down the sidewalk of Almont Drive, and gazed at the next corner. I had gazed down that sidewalk many times. Many times I had longed to ride to the next corner and the mysteries that lay beyond.

Once again, I looked back down Dorrington. No Mom. I went for it. First haltingly, then with some purpose, I pedaled on this new sidewalk, this untravelled path towards the next corner. By the time I reached that corner, I had a good lope going and my confidence was strong. Without even slowing, I rounded on to Rangely Avenue and into the unexpected.

Now there was no past, now there was no future. Riding down Rangely Avenue, I was ageless, I was eternal. Like a Centaur, my tricycle and I were one. Without effort, I was gliding through a tableau of discovery. So many impressions. The faces of the different homes, each house a symbol of mystery as to the life it might contain. The huge trees that shaded my path allowed dappling sunlight to accent the palettes of color that each passing garden offered up. This was a ride through Elysium. I made my way without interference from anyone. Actually, I don’t recall seeing another living soul on the street that day. But I felt a gathering of celestial hosts cheering me on as I found my passage through this paradise.

All too soon I came to the next corner at Robertson Boulevard. Now I rounded onto a wider sidewalk with storefronts to my right and on my left, noisy automobiles hurrying up and down the crowded street. This sudden austerity keened my senses. Something wasn’t right. I made my way to the bottom of Dorrington Avenue and turned the corner for home. I could see our front yard, maybe 50 feet away. My mother was still in the house, I wouldn’t be in trouble. But I began to have an awful feeling. I was returning to all things safe and familiar yet I felt an overwhelming sense of loss. I had experienced something far beyond the world I knew and now it was gone. Irretrievably gone.

And so life went on. I grew up to have a full, rich life right here on earth. But now I’m old, soon to be a great-grandfather. Yet there’s been a theme, a pattern that has characterized much of my life. I’ve experienced a series of long, wandering adventures. Over many years I’ve roamed across five continents in more than forty countries. My journeys have taken me to many of the great cities of the world. I’ve tramped through verdant jungles and primal wilderness, coursed down wild rivers and trekked across vast deserts. I’ve sailed over stormy seas, hiked up great mountains and pulsing volcanos. I have slept on sidewalks in Third World countries, passed unscathed through war zones, and shared campfires with countless other wanderers in the far corners of the earth. Yet I know and must confess that nothing will ever equal those sovereign moments I experienced on my tricycle, riding down Rangely Avenue on that sunny day when I was three years old.