I drove to Locust St. today. It is so close to our condo but so far from what is familiar. True to form, I found myself nervously checking for muggers or armed assailants. I found only 141 Locust street, the last house in the row of row houses that formerly stretched to where the cars roar by on 93. My mom didn't live at 141. But one that looked just like it. The house is red brick. The trim has architectural flourisheds that look unchanged. The back is a white concrete scar, like the rest of the of the houses were sheared off by a giant hand. It's freezing. I open the gate, mount the stairs, and knock on the door. Fresh snow has been undisturbed before I stepped in it. Nobody answers. I ring the bell. Nobody. What would I ask if someone did? Probably: what did this street look like 50 years ago? Did you know my mother? My grandparents? The house does look quite old, like next to it is H and H Builders, Inc., General Contractors. I called a few times to see if they own 141 Locust, or know any history of Locust, but nobody answered. I called today and a confused woman said she was new (she didn't seem to know that Locust Street exists). I asked her who I should speak with and who the owner of the co. is and she said to call tomorrow and talk to the company owner, Rich.
The cross street is Buttonwood. The word has an intriguingly old-timey feel and I learn that it's another name for a sycamore tree that grows in the northeast. I love that every street has a name for a reason. I love picturing the street, now covered in dirty gray ice, sheltered by tall green buttonwoods, their spiky seed balls rolling and crunching under your shoes. Locust needs no definition. It's 100% Old Testament wrath, as in a plague of insects that devours everything. I wonder what my mom's life was like on Locust. Was it happy? Or did the association of the word cast shadows? They were Catholic, after all. To get to Locust, I took a left on Theodore Glynn Way. Of course I'll need to find out who he was. I take a few pictures of the house from a few angles and I'm surprised someone doesn't come out with an attack dog or even just to ask why I'm taking photos. I could be a bad guy--a tax man, a real estate lady. But I'm not. I'm just someone looking for more clues to who I am.
Mostly now Locust seems to be a place to turn your car around. I watch the trajectory of a plane taking off at not-too-distant Logan Airport. Driving off I ask two women smoking in the cold if they know who owns 141 Locust, or if they've ever seen anyone going in or out. They say they don't know who lives there.
Next stop: The Strand Theatre in Dorchester. Someplace my mum and aunt went.
