"You can't go home again."
--Thomas Wolfe
Inevitably, I had to take a walk down Memory Lane while in Boston. I spent a good chunk of my life in this city and I needed to see how it had changed. I was amazed by the development in the Washington Street area of the South End where I lived 15 years ago. It was sort of a forgotten area, near the City Hospital, not yet affected by the development that was going on in the Tremont Street area and closer to Back Bay. The South End was a trendy and expensive neighborhood back then, but now the gentrification has simply transformed the area. And what's more--the building I lived in was gone! And of course, there it was: the quintessential symbol of commercialization, the 21st century's "golden arches": Starbucks. The only constant is change. This picture is of Lawrence Street, one of those lovely old narrow South End streets lined with townhouses. I lived here right after college, thanks to the generosity of two friends who owned one of these townhouses.
Back Bay is still it's dear old self. With the exception of some new businesses and additions to Newbury Street and environs, it is still the genteel, swanky neighborhood it always was. And one of my favorite swanky spots is Louis Boston. A very high end fashion boutique with a restaurant and salon, it also has the finest lines of menswear anywhere in Boston. To me, this store is Bostonian chic at it's best. Clean, classic, with a European edge. Love this store. When I was in acting school at Boston University, I would go into this place just to drool over the fine suits, cashmere sweaters and luscious leathers. Things I couldn't possibly afford but which were just such a pleasure to admire. Louis still maintains that standard and I enjoyed drooling again during my visit here. Still can't afford it! Walking around Boston, I was reminded of just what a nice city it is, with its own particular charm and feel.
Because we are in Boston for two weeks, we have a few days off here, and this week I spent mine up in Beverly, on the North Shore, with my Mom. I grew up in this small coastal town, which is technically on Cape Ann, along with better known towns like Salem (think witches) and Gloucester (think fish sticks). I took the train up and my Mom met me at the depot and shuttled me off to the even smaller town of Essex, where we had lunch at Woodman's.
Woodman's is one of those quintessentially Yankee spots, the original clam shack, and it was always a summer destination when we were kids. On a balmy summer evening, we would drive over to Essex to sit on picnic tables and feast on fried seafood and boiled lobster.
Of course, when I was a kid, this was a cheap place to eat for the whole family--now a lobster roll costs $17.95. Have we really polluted the ocean and over-fished these waters such that seafood has to come at such a premium? Very sad. To me, to be on the Massachusetts or Maine coast and pay these prices for seafood would be like being in Ireland and paying $20 for a plate of boiled potatoes. Ah well. At least Woodman's itself is still the same. It was started in 1916 by "Chubby" and Bessie Woodman, who ran a roadside stand and were known for their homemade chips (french fries). An historic experiment with shucked clams, batter and a deep fryer yielded the first fried clams in America. In fact, Woodman started a sensation, and even taught his techniques to Howard Johnson, whose namesake restaurants to this day offer a clam roll on the menu. I had a steaming bowl of chowder (I have a prejudice about chowder and refuse to eat it anywhere outside of New England) and we shared clam cakes as I looked at the folks around me, old Yankees who look like the harsh winters and salt breezes have faded and weathered them like the sides of the clapboard houses along the coast.
We drove further up to Newburyport, one of my favorite towns in this part of the world, a picturesque place of brick houses that still retains the charm of its early 18th and 19th century life.
Mom and I strolled around the chilly streets clutching hot cups of Starbucks coffee (yes, it is indeed everywhere) and poking in the stores and galleries. At the Churchill Gallery, we saw magnificent oils by talented New England painters and I fantasized about one day being able to collect fine art by living artists. One artist, C.C. Barton, has done a series of etchings accompanied by original poetry called "The Sketchbook Series" and one of her poems jumped out at me and really spoke to me in light of this grand adventure I am on with the tour:
It was the road itself
that made me walk it.
A cut of smooth earth,
a corridor ~ opening
to the tall green rhythm of trees.
Walking into the alchemy
of the hot morning sun
and the cold crisp air,
I round the bend and disappear
into the very breath of God.
-- C.C. Barton
All journeys are inner as well as outer. And I believe that the more we move through different surroundings and discover differing places and people, the deeper access we have to our inner landscape. Travel and time are great teachers. Being back in the places of my childhood with the perspective of time and experience has given me a new appreciation for the area that I so desperately wanted to get out of as a teenager. And of course, there is nothing like spending time with my Mom, who is my very best friend and a fine artist herself. We can talk about anything, and the times when we can share a meal or sit around in our pajamas listening to music, or drive around taking in the scenery and sharing memories--these are precious times which of course I will miss very much over the upcoming months when I am traveling around the country and in Canada.
So was Thomas Wolfe right? Is it impossible to go back home? I guess the answer for me right now is that it isn't possible to go BACK, period. Our memories, imperfect as they may be, shaped by time and distance, and perhaps brightened by nostalgia or darkened by blame, are ours to keep. The places themselves do change and if we are lucky some of them stay somewhat the same, weathered perhaps by time--but then age is inevitable and we can forgive that, can't we? But where does "home" really reside? Certainly for me, my Mom will always represent home and I will always feel that sense of homecoming whenever we are reunited. I feel a certain pride in having grown up in this area of the world which is steeped in history and colored by the seasons and the sea. I feel myself a proud New Yorker, having elbowed my way around that city of all cities for 15 years. But where is "home?" My Mom said something to me after my opening night here in Boston that to me may be an answer. We were discussing my trepidation about roaming through unfamiliar places with this collection of strangers I have been thrown in with on this tour. And she took her index finger and pointed to my heart, looked at me and said, "Home is here." If we can all find that home within us, I think we could prove Thomas Wolfe wrong after all.
If you are lucky enough to be able to do so, give your Mom a call today.
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