Lesson 8 prompt 36

 A city street—

Main Street, the one every American town, of any standards, compliments itself with. This one intersects with High Street on one side and slide downhill on the other, until it touches the river and cross over it. Burned completely in the ‘fire’ of 1933 The Street was rebuild and is now lined with post 1933 buildings. Red brick fronts, wide pane windows and even an old street clock at the corner, complete the picture of a traditional small town USA.  At dusk the lights come up and lit the tall white steeple of the church on State Street, and the colorful façade of the town hall. Dirigo, I direct, it declares in big letters surrounded by ornate golden reliefs. The river, at the bottom of the street, is muddy looking and slow. It is hard to imagine that once it was a home to a busy shipyard. Now it is hosting mostly small powerboats and sail boats. When the tide is out and the many rocks exposed, it creates an almost picture perfect scene of shimmering blues, dark browns, and slightly rocking boats.

Between the town hall and the church, on a small incline, is the Old Burying Ground Cemetery. An iron gate, closed at winter, face the street. The graves, many of which are tilted, broken or lying on the ground carry the names of those who were “the first founders.”The proximity to the towns' Main Street and daily activities seems right. Every so often I step aside from my daily  routine and walk up and down the narrow stone path, read the names, and dates, and let the feel of a bygone era engulf me.