On Pluto by Greg O'Brien

Author:Greg O'Brien [O’Brien, Greg;]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780991340118
Publisher: Good Night Books

10

FORGET-ME-NOTS

IN THE SPRING ON BROOKDALE PLACE, THE FORGET-ME-NOTS bloomed like a botanical garden, a sea of soothing pastels that kindle the memory. The Greeks called the flower Myosotis, translated “mouse’s ear,” an allusion to the shape of its leaf. Who could ever forget a patch of ensuring Forget-Me-Nots, delicate five-lobed blue, pink or white flowers with yellow centers? German folklore says the Almighty once overlooked the petite plant in naming all the other flowers. Legend suggests that one of the tiny lobes cried out, “Forget-me-not, Oh Lord.” To which God replied, “That shall be your name.”

Often in life, we remember the diminutive. Henry David Thoreau wrote of Forget-Me-Nots, “It is the more beautiful for being small and unpretending; even flowers must be modest.”

I grew up in a modest neighborhood where memories last forever. Forever is a long time, yet in a long-term memory, it’s a place of persistent peace, a steadfast mooring when the swift high tides of life pull one to treacherous waters where memory implores the brain: forget me not.

****

It took forever in Rye for our stickball games to end on Brookdale Place. Used to drive my mother nuts, as she tried diligently to prepare dinner in two shifts for ten. Most of the time was taken up trying to find the errant ball in Phil Clancy’s shrubs or Mr. Androtti’s ivy, or secure another broom handle for a bat when we had exhausted our stash. I used to sneak broom handles out of the rectory at Resurrection Church, telling Bridie, the matronly Irish woman who cared for the priests, that I needed another broom to sweep the sidewalks for Monsignor McGowan.

Bridie was a tough Gaelic doyenne; it was difficult to discern her age from the deep crevices in her face and her youthful voice. She was always accommodating, but she intuitively knew that I was up to something, yet seemed to enjoy the repartee. After securing another boom, I always tried to do something helpful on my way out of the rectory, like putting a plate away in the kitchen or a glass back on another shelf, usually a spot where Bridie had just baked a stack of chocolate chip cookies.

“Anything else I can do for you?” I would ask with a handful of plunder in one palm, the prospective stickball bat in the other.

“Yeah,” she always replied, “stick that broom up your ass and sweep the floor!”

When Bridie’s stock ran out, we looked to Jim O’Rourke, the guy from Killarney that looked two decades beyond his age; the priests had hired him to cut the lawn. Jim loved to drink, and usually began about 10 am, walking down to McGuire’s Market, owned by Jerry’s dad, for a morning Bud, while most in the store were looking for the cream. By noon, O’Rourke was usually sleeping it off in the janitor’s room; so we’d sneak in and steal a broom. He lost a lot of brooms on the job.

But we never lost the bases on Brookdale Place. We didn’t need to take them home at night.

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