Summer 1937
It was a hot summer
It was a lonely summer.
In many ways it was
Really a sad summer.
Mother with a new baby,
Dad without a job,
First summer in Connecticut,
Far away from family,
Far away from friends,
Far away from the familiar.
Nine years old and in a
Strange new town with
No friends, no context.
Our big old gray-shingled
Three-story rental was
Beside an alley behind
Stores on the main street,
High hedge of lilacs between.
Firehouse on the other side,
Bar across the street.
I learned the main street.
The little kosher market with the
Wonderful generous owner
Who gave my mother credit
When there was no money.
The candy store where
I watched candy being made.
The flower shop, the bakery,
And, best of all, just beyond,
The Brock-Hall Dairy.
Even though we were in town,
Behind the retail dairy store
Was the dairy farm itself,
The tall barns with the cows,
The sweet-smelling hay,
The smell of country.
I could spend hours there
Petting the big, gentle cows
Watching the milking.
Other times I’d walk down
Putnam Street from Whitney Avenue,
From our house past blocks
Of houses, then the fenced and
Wooded water department land.
A half mile or more and
I would come to the farms with
Summer farm stands where
We bought strawberries
And fresh vegetables.
I wasn’t always lonely
Just because I was alone.
I was more lonely when I
Was left out of things at school
Because I was shy and different.
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