I went to Parkview Elementary just like the generation before me. I walked the same wooded path between Anita Park and the field where many gym classes were spent playing kickball. Riding my bike from my house past the small post office and over the bridge to that dirt road was a freedom only an 8 year old can appreciate, but it lasts a lifetime – a feeling many chase for the rest of their adult lives. The dirt road seems like it can on forever, and just when I think it feels too lonely, and I start to get scared, I hear the voices of people laughing and see the turn off to the right. I veer off and ride past the place where bricks were removed that were once the bottom of the public pool, the same pool my grandparents ran the concession stand for.
Still pedaling toward the pavilion, I can’t help myself but ride up and down the beaten dirt that was mounted into a BMX style ramp. Some older boys have showed up, so I decided to ride away toward the playground to see if I know anyone from the laughing I heard earlier. I hear yelling in the distance and think it could be coming from the Valley, and I head over to the bell. I ring it 4 times just in case it wasn’t heard the first time.
I ride past the creek and stop for a moment to feel the cool water on this hot summer day. I look over the small, wooden bridge toward the baseball field then I remember I might have family waiting for me so, I ride back toward the bike ramps. There’s a path in between ferns and dead leaves that’s been beaten in from generations of Jarbeck kids going between the Valley and the park, to Parkview school and back. It’s not a path you can see at first, you must feel for it with your soul and feel certain in your bones you are going the right way.
I stash my bike for later and walk up through the woods. I know I’m halfway when I get to the old train track road that leads down to the old lumber yard. I keep going but now I’m running. I finally get to the edge of the woods where it meets the yard for the Valley house. I get a feeling of sadness because I don’t see or hear anyone, which means it wasn’t my family yelling for me from the park and maybe no one heard the bells that knows what it means.
I walked up past the porch. I looked at the pond and hear the bullfrogs. Are continue to the front, screened in porch where I sense the faint smell of cigar smoke lingering in the air. It seems no one is home, but the old radio is still on playing polka music. I walk in the front door and smell bread in the oven and finally hear people talking in the dining room. I run in to see my parents, siblings, grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. Each making a plate of food saying “We were waiting for you!”
Anita Park is not just a park to so many people who went to Parkview Elementary School and grew up in Anita. To me it is synonymous with spending afternoons with my family, learning the freedom that comes with riding my bike all alone, and is the place that feels like home when you don’t feel like you can go home again.
I ride past the creek and stop for a moment to feel the cool water on this hot summer day. I look over the small, wooden bridge toward the baseball field then I remember I might have family waiting for me so, I ride back toward the bike ramps. There’s a path in between ferns and dead leaves that’s been beaten in from generations of Jarbeck kids going between the Valley and the park, to Parkview school and back. It’s not a path you can see at first, you must feel for it with your soul and feel certain in your bones you are going the right way.
I stash my bike for later and walk up through the woods. I know I’m halfway when I get to the old train track road that leads down to the old lumber yard. I keep going but now I’m running. I finally get to the edge of the woods where it meets the yard for the Valley house. I get a feeling of sadness because I don’t see or hear anyone, which means it wasn’t my family yelling for me from the park and maybe no one heard the bells that knows what it means.
I walked up past the porch. I looked at the pond and hear the bullfrogs. Are continue to the front, screened in porch where I sense the faint smell of cigar smoke lingering in the air. It seems no one is home, but the old radio is still on playing polka music. I walk in the front door and smell bread in the oven and finally hear people talking in the dining room. I run in to see my parents, siblings, grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. Each making a plate of food saying “We were waiting for you!”
Anita Park is not just a park to so many people who went to Parkview Elementary School and grew up in Anita. To me it is synonymous with spending afternoons with my family, learning the freedom that comes with riding my bike all alone, and is the place that feels like home when you don’t feel like you can go home again.
I stash my bike for later and walk up through the woods. I know I’m halfway when I get to the old train track road that leads down to the old lumber yard. I keep going but now I’m running. I finally get to the edge of the woods where it meets the yard for the Valley house. I get a feeling of sadness because I don’t see or hear anyone, which means it wasn’t my family yelling for me from the park and maybe no one heard the bells that knows what it means.
I walked up past the porch. I looked at the pond and hear the bullfrogs. Are continue to the front, screened in porch where I sense the faint smell of cigar smoke lingering in the air. It seems no one is home, but the old radio is still on playing polka music. I walk in the front door and smell bread in the oven and finally hear people talking in the dining room. I run in to see my parents, siblings, grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. Each making a plate of food saying “We were waiting for you!”
Anita Park is not just a park to so many people who went to Parkview Elementary School and grew up in Anita. To me it is synonymous with spending afternoons with my family, learning the freedom that comes with riding my bike all alone, and is the place that feels like home when you don’t feel like you can go home again.
Stephanie Godinez | Spoken Mementos 