There is a road, as straight as a runway, which is perched on top of “holy hill”. It had that moniker because along this street was a Catholic seminary, a residence for nuns, and a Catholic high school. It included a few houses. The mayor lived there. It would eventually include some townhouses. This was East Grandview Boulevard.
As the eldest of 4 children, I was often given the task of walking the dog after Christmas midnight mass – around 2 a.m. I didn’t mind. In Erie it seemed like every Christmas was a white Christmas. Even if there had been no snow in the last month, flurries would start while we were at midnight mass. I walked the dog up the hill, up to East Grandview. I could see the entirety of the road. Walking down the road for a couple of blocks I could see the entire city. If it was clear I could see a red light on a transmission tower in Canada.
It actually was a grand view, a snowy silence. The thin blanket of snow made everything seem clean except where the dog did his business.
The bells of the nearby college added an accompaniment of sound that fit the occasion. I remember feeling alone and I didn’t mind that feeling at all. Actually, I wanted to be alone with someone. Wouldn’t it be nice to be out here at this time with a woman who likes me? Instead it is just me and the dog. I wonder if the dog senses that I’m not paying any attention to him except to keep hold of the leash.
This is not a religious experience. Another encounter with total silence, the response I got from prayers, convinces me that there is no god. The Christmas morning feeling was just as strong without religion.
If I could stand the cold, I could walk to the far end of the road – less than a mile. Near the end of the road was the high school. One day in front of this high school I was trying to teach my brother how to drive. At one point he panicked and drove the car through the grass within the paved circle in front of the school. A nun saw us. We drove back to our house and were met by the police who wanted to know why we were vandalizing the landscape. We explained what happened. The scary thing is that my brother taught our next younger brother how to drive.
The end of East Grandview was the start of Parade Street. This boulevard from about 44th street down to 38th street was a severe downhill. I would ride on my bicycle. Naturally, I had no helmet or pads and only had coaster brakes. (For the very young, your first bicycle wouldn’t have hand-actuated brakes. Instead you peddled backward a bit and that would stop you – eventually.)
I didn’t have much of a reason to go there except for one thing. The proverbial cute little red-haired girl lived on Parade Street. Specifically she was around 40th street which means I was going downhill like a maniac for at least four blocks and had quite a bit of speed as I passed her house. I think I was going about 20 mph but I felt I was closer to 50.
The idea was that I would impress this girl, sitting on her front stoop, by zooming past her house without using my hands. That’s right, I was Evel freakin’ Knievel. “Look! No hands!” And 9 times out of ten she wasn’t around to see me. Ah, but what about that 1 in 10 chance?
Nothing! At this point in time, this was all the game that I had. And it obviously was not great. It was sad, and dangerous, and I’m lucky to still be alive.
