Rush Hour

The harbor was bright with sun and sailboats as I made the drive home. It was late September, just a few steps away from fall and it had been a long and wearying day. Traffic snarled at the bridge and I looked toward the skyline, imagining what it would be like to live in one of the glistening towers, far above the fray - a modern, open spaced apartment with a patio and a fireplace and a crisply uniformed doorman. I'd go dancing at night and shop at the newly opened Saks, have fresh bagels and orange juice for breakfast, carry a perfectly groomed toy dog to the Commons for a daily walk and always wear high heels and a suede jacket with just the exact amount of fringe to suggest a wild side.

None of it would ever happen, nor did I really want it, but it was a pleasant enough distraction for the city's rush hour and it helped pass the time.

I was working for the telephone company at the time - handling U.S. Government accounts, not subject to being in a union, newly married. We had moved from a two room, roach infested apartment to a two bedroom 4th floor walk up with windows that looked out onto the street. We had actual furniture - second hand when we were feeling ritzy, cinder blocks when we weren't. There were just the two of us and a grey striped cat called Tiffany who liked to sit on the window sills and coo at the pigeons. We'd given up on dogs by then and were more than content with a single cat - we spoiled her shamelessly and loved her silly.

It was a down and out neighborhood populated with students from Northeastern, hungry musicians and starving artists. There was a war on in those days and protests and police marches were common in our part of the city.

The boy I had married hawked copies of The Boston Phoenix, a then almost underground newspaper, on the streets and shops, regularly being moved on by the police. We traveled mainly by subway and bus, except for our weekly trudge to the laundromat and an occasional foray to the suburbs to visit a regular grocery store for provisions. I don't think I ever appreciated the simplicity or the freedom of that life until it was gone. We first moved to a small apartment in Somerville, living over a dentist's office close to Tufts and able to walk pretty much anywhere, then to a two story duplex in Norwood where we had to drive everywhere. By then, we were five, having added a tabby called Sassafrass and my first tuxedo cat, called Amanda. We were on the path of upward mobility and there was no turning back.

Sometimes, usually at night, I missed the city and its noise and its lights. There were no more harbors to sit by,

no skyscrapers to dream about, and no more sailboats to watch. We were growing up and away.