The city where I was born is inaccessible to me now, a complete mystery, a mosaic. I no longer know how anything connects, how to get from Point A to Point B. I recognize pieces and I know some places, but the way the city fits together was wiped from my mind long ago.
My hotel was opposite Lenox Square, where my grandfather walked every day. My grandfather had three heart attacks before I was born and he made the recommended lifestyle changes with a disciplined zeal I’ve yet to see in the rest of us. (Although my sister comes close in one aspect of her life.) No smoking. No shellfish. And he walked daily at a very rapid pace.
The Lenox of my youth was memorable for the decor of its parking lot — towering stands with arrays of balls, like abacuses on their sides. The colors were supposed to help you remember where you parked. My grandfather’s rule was that you always tried to get a space near the front door — people come and go all the time, after all.
Today’s Atlanta is literally four times larger than the place I knew as a child, coming back to visit my two sets of grandparents. Last night, a car came to pick me up to take me to a library. The journey was eight miles and the driver figured we would make it in 30 minutes, easy. It took an hour and 10, putting me just 10 minutes late for the talk.
And there in the audience were my Uncle Speer and Aunt Judy, my cousin Amelia (that’s my mother’s first cousin) and my parents’ oldest friends, Doodle and Janet, along with their daughter Janny and her partner, Sue. It was a little hard to get through a talk in front of people who remember me in diapers, or capering down the beach in Fernadina, or, well, being a cranky brat. I told one story just because I knew it would make Doodle laugh, in response to a question about whether I had been influenced by any television shows: “As a child I watched ‘Perry Mason’ with my grandfather, who always found it satisfying as he never remembered who did it, no matter how many times he saw it. Now I watch ‘Law & Order’ with my father, and he experiences that show in the same way.”
I meant to write about lost cities, lost places. Where is the Colonnade, where my grandparents ate lunch almost every day? Where are the landmarks I remember from the drive between the two sets of grandparents — the rib joint, Arthur Treacher’s fish and chips, a beautiful house on a steeply banked curve?
But I find myself remembering my grandfather’s funeral, more than 20 years ago. The other walkers came, the men who could keep my grandfather’s 15-minute mile pace through Lenox Square.
And although I had never met them before that day, they knew everything, simply everything, about me.
So, Lost Cities. Or Invisible Cities, if you will. I know Keith will get that reference.
I live about 40 minutes south of the ATL and I love it, if you need any help, let me know.
The open air Lenox Square that I remember is buried somewhere inside the Lenox Square that you recall. The Atlanta airport that I first knew (couldn’t go in any direction to or from the south without changing planes there) was about the size of today’s gift shops. One was also likely to see someone you knew because it was easy to spot others who were also changing planes.
I get lost in the town of 60,000 where we lived during my upper school years and the one in which my parents remained long after I left — and I’m usually back there once a year to visit my sister! A friend who has never left tells me that it is from her friends who come back to visit that she is reminded of how the town used to look. The natives forget.
Laura, think of how Baltimore City and County have changed over the past 20 years.
Although this Memory Project is not in the same context, it brings to mind something I have quoted to you which came from an article you wrote about the rabbi’s wife who knew Elvis when he was a child. It went something to the effect that she was now the keeper of the memories.
Everybody, get Laura to tell that story. J
We went back to Los Angeles last week so the babies could meet their great-grandfather. All my friends and immediate family moved away a few years ago, so I no longer feel rooted there.
Two of my oldest friends have now moved back, so now there are a couple of root fragments again, and I was invited–out of the blue–to a Foo Fighters music video shoot that turned out to be 3 blocks from my old house in North Hollywood, the one that got painted with swastikas when I was 15. The neighborhood’s about the same–maybe a little seedier. We drove by the house with the babies. The paint’s all stripped and there are tubs and instant concrete sacks on the porch, and a Mercedes in the driveway. The saggy wooden gate my father built is finally gone, along with the red dot in the window that was supposed to tell firemen to rescue children in those rooms first. Those things were still there last time I went by, which was 2002 or so. Twenty years after we moved to the better house in Sherman Oaks.
I said after 9-11 that I couldn’t deny being a New Yorker anymore. Having children here seals it.
Though I don’t love the idea of their growing up with the accent.
I remember Atlantic City before the casinos. And the Steel Pier which went on all day. And the pure white beach sand. And the Miss America contest. And the many hotels that kissed the boardwalk. And the Heinz Pier. And the movie theaters long gone…… Should I go on?
Tis sad to remember Bit it was nice!
El Syd
I frequently visited my folks in the small city in the California Bay Area where I grew up. Because of stringent growth and zoning ordinances, both the old neighborhood and the majority of the little city itself remain very similar to the naked eye to the way they were when I was a kid. But somewhere along the line the saplings that the city government planted around the neighborhood grew into trees; the fake-wooden-sided station wagons and VW bugs gave way to Volvos, BMW’s, and Mercedes Benzes, and traffic increased beyond all recognition (as orchards were replaced by corporate headquarters tastefully screened behind carefully planned landscaping).
Downtown, the old B. Dalton bookstore and See’s candy stores are the same, but the Woolworth is gone, replaced by Laura Ashley. No more Capwell’s; it’s all Nordstrom’s, The Pottery Barn, Banana Republic, and other upscale stores. I don’t know who lives there any more — certainly not the “starter families” (working Dad, stay-home Mom, 2.5 kids, and a dog) of my childhood.
So — the same city, but a lost city at the same time. My folks moved away a couple of years ago, so I don’t know how often I’ll see what remain my favorite views of all time (looking up into the rolling hills around Mount Diablo). I miss it all . . .
Hi, John. I wondered if anyone would get the Mount Diablo reference
I’m actually talking about Walnut Creek, but my remarks could apply equally well to Pleasant Hill, Concord, Dublin, Alamo . . .
I had a similar bond with my father over Matlock, like your grandfather and Perry Mason. good times, those shows.
thanks for your birthday wishes, Laura – and yes, I believe we WILL meet face-to-face at Bouchercon – I will be there Saturday and Sunday, it looks like. I think with everyone being in the same place at once, this will signify Armageddon or we will all be sucked into a big black hole or something. Personally, I can’t wait…
Kerry, are you talking about Pleasant Hill?
Hi Kerry, I just had my teammate at work read your post, and he said straightaway that it was Walnut Creek. He said Nordstroms and Pottery Barn gave it away.
I took a guess. I’ve been to Pleasant Hill, and my college girlfriend lived in Concord. I went to Sacramento State. Never did get to Walnut creek, though.
Where do you live now?
What good sleuths!
Hey, John:
I’m in the Tidewater region of Virginia now, I’m sorry to say. I miss the Bay Area terribly, although I now wonder how anyone can afford to live there (I certainly couldn’t!).
And your teammate and you *are* good sleuths