When I was eleven, I had a paper route. Where I grew up on the outskirts of Akron, Ohio, a paper route was a license to slave for money. I inherited the route from my best friend and next door neighbor, Marc Ciriello. Seven days a week, I walked a paper route that stretched a quarter mile in one direction, plus empty return, equaling a half mile walk. An additional, fifty houses throughout the only subdivision built on my parent’s partitioned-off farmland were included in my route to bring a total customer count of approximately seventy-five deliveries.
There stood at the end of Revere Rd, at the corner of West Market St, a mansion from a by-gone era. Built sometime in the early 1900’s it was the epitome of the exquisite Tudor facade found at the edge of a gentleman’s only, ladies forbidden course. The driveway, composed of perfectly laid interlocking brick, led to a multi-car garage at the rear base of the four-story lavishment. The white, windowed garage doors opened by hand, one to right, one to left, allowing the 1956 solid black Cadillac to emerge. It was the first heated garage I had ever experienced.
Mrs. Camp owned the home, and her driver, Mr. Clean, would be described as the inspiration for the movie, “Driving Ms. Daisy”. They were both so kind to a young lad. Because it was the last house on my route, I often spent time enjoying the time with older, wiser folk.
Mrs. Camp had an outdoor pond with live goldfish in it. I spent many, wonderful times mesmerized, just watching them swim. The pond was so deep that the fish would over-winter outside – amazing.
There were no sidewalks; I simply walked from one yard to the next, no fences or gates to separate neighbors. I would reach a slight decline toward the edge of the Camp property, just above the fish pond, which in spring would be ripe with water lily flowers. At that level, I could see the kitchen window at the back of the house facing large wooded grounds where the tree canopy shaded and cooled the entire area. The house was cloaked in ivy which shook so rhythmically when rain drip, drip, dripped from one leaf to another. It was so peaceful there.
From that vantage point, Mrs. Camp could see me as I began my decline. Because there were no steps, she habitually worried about me falling. Every day, like clockwork, I would see her face in the kitchen window, and as she would wave to me and I returned the shake of a childhood hand, I would feel the existence of commonality to the human spirit. Two observers of life, and seventy years apart spending moments together, for no other sake that to experience the now in each other’s company.
If she was in the window, I would take the paper to the side door to the kitchen pantry, which she would open slightly so I could let myself in. From there she would always invite me into the living room for milk and cookies. Cookies, which were savagely consumed by an eleven-year-old, especially after having walked an hour and a half, with a half hour walk yet to go to get back home. Yes, and it was uphill both ways because there were several large gullies that had to be travailed!
Mrs. Camp also had an enormous parrot that she would let me feed, to my great enjoyment. Please imagine this wonderful home with what seemed like twenty-foot ceilings, paneled walls, dark curtains stretched from ceiling to floor to accent the tall windows. Imagine large opulent chandeliers and over-sized furniture. And in the middle of a huge living room space, was a large circular pedestal with a large green and multi-colored parrot wobbling back and forth in anticipation of my treat. I want to believe that it knew me and spoke to me.
I can say I felt great joy when Mrs. Camp was available to invite me in. I guess in return, I provided the listening ear of wonderment, complete with questions that a grandmotherly type would enjoy answering. She told stories and I would listen. I always felt close to wisdom.