a run down memory lane

I went for a run yesterday evening. The sun was on the verge of setting which made the snow ice glisten even more so than usual. I ran in the middle of the road, a perk of a small town, so as to avoid the black ice and a bruised tailbone. The route I took was one that I had walked a million times before. The sounds of Riley’s techno music keeping my feet moving, and the places I passed flashing scenes from my life across the screen in my mind…like I was watching a movie in fast forward.

About two blocks into my run, I came to a beautiful three-story gray house. I remembered when the owner’s built the porch that ran the entire length of two sides of the house and came to a close at a gazebo. I remembered playing with one family that lived there, and baby-sitting for the next. It towered over the tiny white house next door; the house where I spent almost every Saturday afternoon in elementary school. I couldn’t wait to finish my chores so that I could call Amber. We spent hours and hours playing school, house, and Guess Who in her grandma’s basement.

At the next corner was Mrs. Schmidt’s house. She was the most elegant high school teacher I had ever met. Her love of literature was so contagious that it almost forced a desire to understand Shakespeare upon her students. She had an immaculate backyard…with a path that wound through the flowers, past the perfect climbing tree, and along the shoulder-high picket fence.

Later in the run, I came to Coach Palmero’s house. He was one of the greatest coaches in the history of my high school. He retired shortly after I made the transition to high school which limited my time with him. However, one day as I was getting ready for practice, my coach was nowhere to be found and my knee needed to be wrapped. I didn’t want to suffer the consequences of being late so Palmero in his New York accent said, “Hop up on the table. I’ll wrap your knee, dwall (doll).”

Around the corner was what used to be my Great Aunt Joan’s house. She was my grandmother’s sister. There was evidence of some major rehabbing left in the yard; the new owner’s attempts to make it fit their needs. The final leg of my run included the Cooper’s house. Mrs. Cooper was my elementary music teacher, my piano teacher, the woman who cheered me on and helped me along as I sang all through high school. I spent hours at the piano in her living room, and watering the plants in her yard.
Her house sits across from track and football field. I could see the lights on, the crowd yelling as Buddha intercepted and ran for a touchdown. The laughter of my new friends, our athletic “enemies”, as we sat on a blanket by the gym building watching our friends run the 400m echoed in my ears. Whether football, band, or track, I spent many hours with the gates of that field.

As I finished my run, one of Riley’s songs on – ironically. I'm missing a couple of the lyrics and have a request in to my friend who is also Riley's bro and music partner to fill in the blacks. What I know of the lyrics follows:

There once was a runner in days of old
Wasn’t this with words so bold
Set your eyes straight down this road
Leave your past, your friends, your gold

Sankofa – a Swahili word that means looking back to move forward. It was a Sankofa run today.