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.