Einstein is said to have made the imaginative leap when he based his Theory of General Relativity on the notion that time (t) is just another dimension to go along with the three spatial dimensions (x, y, z). Space-time. When we talk about the where of a particle (or a person) we must also specify the when.
So yesterday when I travelled back to the place where I was born, I would have to travel back in time to reach my place of origin (x, y, z, t = 0, 0, 0, 0). But Einstein also said that for matter time can only travel forward. But maybe the mind (or the soul) isn’t composed of protons and electrons; leptons and hadrons. Because I had an uncanny feeling I had stepped back into an earlier era.
After battling New York City traffic that defied belief, to attend a family funeral, I walked into the little Roman Catholic Church that I attended as a child and was transported into my past. Sure, a few little things had changed. They had freshened up the paint on the ceiling over the altar and on the bas relief stations of the cross but the stained-glass windows, the icons around the altar and the pews we sat in triggered memories that perfectly mirrored my surroundings. And then there were my cousins and their children and their children’s children surrounding me with proof that the world I left behind decades ago still existed in a very human, very tenacious way. God said be fruitful and multiply. And we have. From a tiny family that set foot on this continent less than 150 years ago there are now a whole town’s worth of descendants.
And some of the latest additions were unknown to me by name. But just looking at their faces I could see the kinship. And in the middle of the Mass one of the youngest made such a noisy nuisance of himself that he forced his mother to retreat to the annex to return the ceremony to dignified order. But this outburst was of the very nature of the family. We are noisy, somewhat spoiled, sometimes rude but genuinely good natured and extremely funny people. And we do enjoy each other’s company. Being surrounded by this small army of family felt so right.
One of my cousins remarked that it was a pity that only such occasions rounded us all up together again. He spoke nostalgically about when we were all living within blocks of each other within the Italian ghetto that we all were now flocking to for this solemn occasion. He reminisced about the parties and get togethers we used to have on a regular basis; holidays, birthdays, weddings, graduations, births. But I reminded him that no one’s grandchildren could hope to afford the multi-million-dollar price tags that now attached to the buildings in this once humble neighborhood. What young people could afford to buy houses here now? I kidded that we would have to buy a whole town somewhere in the middle of nowhere if we wanted to live together in this modern and expensive age. He ruefully nodded his head in agreement.
Quickly the ceremony ended and we said our goodbyes. I wasn’t headed out east to the Long Island cemetery. I was headed north toward New England through the grid-lock of the outer boroughs and onto the highways beyond. But we made one stop before we headed home. There was an old time Italian Bakery that specialized in Italian pastries. They had sfogliatella riccia (seashell), coda d’aragosta (lobster tail) and various other pastries stuffed with cream that we would eat on Sunday nights when we were kids. The only problem with this wonderful store was the old woman who had run the counter. She was a sharp-tongued shrew who carped at everyone who entered the store.
I entered the store today and found the shelves still lined with all those Italian delicacies. But now the store was run by a Chinese family that had bought the recipes for the pastries when they purchased the business. And thankfully the pastries were just the same! And even better, the young lady running the counter was entirely friendly and polite. A miracle!
After too many hours I returned home with my small cache of desserts and told Camera Girl of my epic journey. We’ll eat the cakes with our coffee this week. And that will remind me of what I learned. Einstein was wrong about not being able to go back in time. You can. What you can’t do is go back to the same place. It’s always different. But it can be worth the trip.
The place where I grew up, at least from age 5, doesn’t exist any more. The name, Sandy Springs, exists as does the geographical location, north Atlanta metro, both exist. But the reality is long gone, torn down and the replacement torn down and the replacement of the replacement—- You get the idea. Nothing, absolutely nothing physical from my childhood survives. Dust and dead. The neighborhood BBQ parties where everyone’s Dad was a WWII vet. The neighborhood gone, the street gone. Highrise buildings where the woods with the abandoned POW camp were. An 8 lane road where the old rock… Read more »
You really can’t go home again. The memories remain but the scene has changed. Virginia Beach in the late 60s and early 70s was fun. A boardwalk, a pally where they had rollerskating one night and a dance another night. On the boardwalk were carnival games. I was banned from the rifle arcade shoot for winning too many prizes. South of town along the coast were beaches and especially dunes. We’d go down at night, dig a pit in the sand, gather driftwood and cook hot dogs and brats over the fire, followed by roasting marshmallows and some made s’mores.… Read more »