Under the Tall and Ancient Trees

[thisnewday]

It's been a long time since I last sat on this bench, under the tall and ancient trees at Allen Park. It's been even longer since the last time I saw my friend Bob Curley and his energetic and friendly sidekick Major, the golden retriever who used to run ahead of him as he rode here on his bicycle, from the second house up the block on Broad Street.

Years ago, before his retirement, Bob had been bureau chief for the Syracuse Newspapers in Rome, New York. He was a hometown kid, born and raised, who'd graduated from the local high school, left home for service in the Second World War, and then returned to live his life and build his career among family and friends.

Often, when he arrived at the park, he'd be greeted by three or four of them that he'd known his whole life, all of them in their mid-seventies, all of them notably grudging in their concessions to old age. They were, after all, there to play tennis on the asphalt courts which were bordered on two sides by the towering trees.

Apparently, there'd been a time when he'd regularly played with them, a time before problems with his knees had relegated him to following Major to the park on his beaten-up bicycle. Even now, they would try to entice him to play a game or two, but he would always beg off before riding away to find Major who had run off to harass a squirrel or place his mark on the visitor's list of a distant tree.

I was in my mid-fifties when I first met them, unemployed because the place where I thought I would work until retirement had first been sold, then closed, and between careers because I wasn't sure of what came next. In the interim, it was my job to drive my wife to the nearby casino after her overnight shift at a Syracuse hospital. 

Since I had no interest in gambling, let alone the funds to do it, I would drive to Allen Park to wait for her and, while waiting, write. And that was where Major found me, one afternoon, followed by Bob on his bike. "Nice dog," was probably the first thing I said, as Major busily read the scent of our two dogs on my shoes and pant legs.

"Yeah, he's a good old boy," said Bob, eyeing my ring binder, Bukowski paperback, and coffee-stained steno pad. "You a writer?"

"Unemployed school teacher, mechanic, carpenter, who also tries to write," I said.

"How long you been trying?" he asked.

"Thirty-some years," I replied.

"Me too," he said. "Then I retired. What do you write?"

"Poetry, creative nonfiction, memoirs," I said.

"Got something I can read?" he asked.

I opened the binder and pulled out a couple of poems. One of them was about a senior citizen, who came to the park on a beaten-up bike, and his big, energetic dog.

He laughed and said, "Pretty good stuff."

"Glad you liked it," I said.

A week or so later, I was sitting there again when Major arrived. Over by the tennis courts, Bob was talking with a fit-looking, silver-haired guy who'd just arrived on a mountain bike. They walked over to me and I was introduced to Bob Heller, high school friend, Civil War buff, and retiree from Troop D of the New York State Police.

After that, I met the stylish and athletic Mary, who would arrive by car in her short, white tennis skirt, and Marie and Bill who lived across the street. Bill, retired ex-miltary, ex-air traffic controller, would sometimes walk across the street to talk but never, as far as I knew, to play tennis. For her part, Marie was once asked by Bob how she was doing. She replied, ruefully, "I'd be doing fine if they'd just give me a new body." Bob nodded in agreement. Regarding that, I think she spoke for all of them.

A few months later, just before winter, I found a job at a Syracuse hotel. I still drove my wife to the casino occasionally but, even when spring came, found myself going to the park less and less frequently. By that time, there was a new grandson at home and life had re-centered itself around other places and priorities.

I still thought of Bob and his friends at Allen Park but seldom saw any of them. On one occasion, I spoke briefly with Bob Heller about a Civil War project that he'd been involved in. But I think old Major was actually the last of them that I saw, Major and a girl that I took to be Bob Curley's daughter.

They were walking briskly across the hillside on the upper edge of the park. A short time later, they returned along the side street that borders its lower end. Then they turned down the main street, toward Bob's house, and disappeared.

I sat and watched them from my bench as they came and went. And I'm not quite sure why I didn't just jump up and say, "Hey, you must be Bob's daughter. How's your dad?" Instead, I sat rooted to the bench like one of those giant trees that spans the sky overhead and barely moves in the strongest wind.

And there were times, after that, when I drove by the house, looking for his car, looking for some sign, and found myself thinking, "You know, I could just park over on the side street and walk up to the door and knock. I could just ask whoever comes to the door about my friend Bob, his whereabouts, his health."

Maybe I haven't done that because I'm not really sure that I want to know. Because I'd rather believe that, any day, he might come riding towards me, following Major on his battered bike, beneath the tall and ancient trees in Allen Park...

L.P. Knickerbocker