TOMAREE ROAD

About a week ago, I spent the morning alone and walked along the street where I spent my childhood growing up on. It hasn’t changed at all. The street was wide and had just been washed by fresh winter’s rain. I took in the texture of the air; it was cool but far from being unpleasantly cold. Even behind the stubborn clouds I could still see the sapphire blue sky waiting to greet me. This kind of day reminds me of a peculiar memory of when I was younger; one that stands responsible for a permanent scar on my right knee and a life lesson worth learned. 

On this particular day, for some reason or the other, I believed I was ready to ride my bike without my training wheels. I wondered; if the other kids that lived on my street can do it, then why can’t I? I pedaled fast down my graveled street with all the confidence in the world gripped in my hands, but it wasn’t long until I crashed into my neighbor’s garden that belonged in their pristine front yard. I recall dozens of worried eyes all locked on me, not only was I terrified that I had ruined someones property, I was embarrassed, bruised and completely disappointed in myself. It took me a while to realise that it just wasn’t my time to shine. And how the important thing wasn’t that I miserably failed, rather that I needed to get up, wipe the dirt of my bruised knees and whack a band-aid to cover my embarrassment whilst I continue to practice with a courageous smile on my face. Once I had realised this, not only was I riding without my training wheels, but I gained the ability to ride down my winding street with no hands. Victory was truly mine.

As I persisted to walk, I became more and more aware of just how much this charming street has shaped me. I glanced at a brand new brick home that once was a nursery where my father and I used to visit often. I remember whenever he would suggest a trip here; it would liven up a dull afternoon. I would eagerly carry loose change in my hand excited to exchange it with miraculous seeds that would turn into a beautiful vegetable patch that I would ultimately call my own. I would hurry home and dig away wishing and hoping magic would swiftly appear in front of me day by day. 

Though time and time again, nothing would grow, as I would stand there confused wondering exactly what it was I was doing wrong. Slowly but surely my father taught me the significant ingredient of them all - patience. He told me how if I didn't know the answer to something, I should ask. How the most beautiful things in life will not particularly just pop up in front of me one sunny day, that often I will need to work hard and be patient to attain it. Ultimately my vegetable patch flourished as I began to experience the satisfaction of having wonderful things in my life that I accomplished with my own two hands. And although all these memories were some time ago, I remember impeccably what it was like to live here; the grass on peoples lawns would always be crisply mowed, the neighbors held weekly BBQ’s with one another and I would often come home with mulberry stains on my hands and shirt from climbing trees all afternoon with my friends. I am no doubt a little wiser because of these things and I have Tomaree Road to thank for that.