Fever Dreams

                Do you remember being sick when you were little—sick enough to stay home from school, but not sick enough for your mother, who had no car and lived in the country, to re-organize a planned shopping trip? I am hovering in that same state this weekend, occasionally lying on the couch in the sun with the cat, with low fever dreams floating through my mind.

                Haverhill, Massachusetts was a dying mill town when we lived in Hampstead. The shoe and fabric industries were all moving south for cheaper labor, into the Appalachian mountains and then even further south, out of the country.  Nothing was really moving in. The downtown was shabby, despite some remodeling in the late 1950s and some urban renewal brutilist apartment building from about 1965. Some storefronts were empty. Others had floors blocked off, merchandise spread a little thin to make it look fuller. The air was dusty; the linoleum was worn; the stores empty of people. The Christmas decorations were dated and battered. I loved to wander away from my mother and aunt, down the stairs to the book rack, where they sold first, second, and third grader readers, math textbooks, and workbooks for the Catholic school near-by. One day, my aunt, who had money, bought me one to the readers and workbooks. I was thrilled and taught school out of it for years.

                There is a beauty in these old mill towns, the old mills themselves, so tall, and orderly, and simple against a grey sky. Once bustling, now empty or re-purposed. There are huge Catholic churches made of brick, small, smelly bars, corner groceries that sell sub sandwiches that are not replicated outside of New England (trust me, I have looked). There are neighborhoods full of nineteenth century houses built as, or long ago converted to, apartments that create walkable communities. 

I am seeing them all this afternoon, along with the candlepin bowling alley where I learned to bowl, despite a cold, one winter afternoon. Memories of views from the back seat of my aunt’ station wagon, squished in with the groceries, feeling a little guilty for not being in school and a little delighted with being with adults in the middle of the day.