During my first year in pre-school I was sure to make myself very clear on a couple of issues. One was that picking your nose was A-OK. Another was that I would never grow up. I envisioned myself as Peter-Pan; forever young and forever fun.
When I was in the eighth grade I had the chance to live out my pre-school dream. During English class I was required to make a presentation as a Greek god of my invention. Because I was a year younger than my peers, a constant source of teasing, I decided to present as "Youngus- God of Youth." Clad in a large cloth diaper, Youngus was a glorified Peter who ruled over the youth of the world, holding a special connection to the territory of Never-Never Land. Despite his control over Never-Never Land (me being the avid fan that I was) Youngus resided in Jacob's Field, home of the Cleveland Indians, and the greatest (young) fans in the MLB.
Last Wednesday, for the first time in eight years, I went back to the Jake to see my Indians play the Texas Rangers. Only the Jake is no longer the Jake, it's Progressive Field, and the Indians are not the same team. The once perennially sold-out stadium is half empty (not to be confused with half full). Neither Mike Hargrove, nor Charlie Manuel manage the team. Numbers 24 and 25, once the hallowed numbers of Manny Ramirez and Jim Thome, now belong to Grady Sizemore and Andy Marte.
The game was part of a week-long road trip that I spent with my father. Early Sunday morning we set out Northbound for Toronto to pick up my grandfather. With him in tow we traveled to the fabeled Sarnia, Ontario.
Sarnia is a little known, small town in Southwestern Ontario. It gained slight fame during a cameo in Michael Moore's film Bowling for Columbine, where Moore portayed it as a safe town whose doors are left unlocked while at home. In my family though, Sarnia has held celebrity status since long before Moore discovered it. Both my father and his father grew up there, after my grandfather Abraham Zierler moved there from Galicia at the beginning of the century. For any Zierler, the name Sarnia evokes images of a family furniture store nestled in the heart a quaint 35 Jewish family town. For as long as I can remember, my grandfather and father regaled me with countless stories of their small town life; leaving shul early on Shabbat to walk to work at the store, the comedies of my father and his mythological friend Richard Campbell, and the sacrifices made to ensure a Jewish future for future generation. Until last week though, it remained an unseen legend.
Our main stops in Sarnia were the shul, my father's childhood home, my grandfather's childhood home, and the location of the fabled A. Zierler Furniture. My father and grandfather navigated the streets as if they had just returned from a short vacation, but the town had clearly changed. Though my father's childhood home was not only still standing, but in great condition, the house that my great grandfather raised my grandfather in was in shambles. The shul is no longer a daily or even a weekly fixture, scraping together services once a month, combining men and women to make a minyan and reading off of non-kosher sifrei torah. As for the store, the property was sold years ago to the city, and an all but defunct shopping mall marks its grave.
It is hard for me to believe that he expected it all to remain the way that it was, but my grandfather was incredibly shocked to see the house on 233 Davis Street in such a dilapidated state. A house is where you rest your identity. You decorate a house the way you see fit, and every corner is filled with the musty smell of your life and way of living. Even more so, a childhood home is the cornerstone of youth. It is the nest that you are raised in until old enough to fly the coop. The sights and smells are your nourishment and critical building blocks in the identity that you later forge for yourself. At some point, you move out to build your own house, but it is fashioned in a style that is both yours and your significant others, while also containing the flavor that you were raised on in your parents' home. In that vein, I understand my grandfather's shock and mourning. The death of this house was the death of his youth; a tangible reminder that he has aged well past the age of independence and responsibility- and even further past that blissful time in life where parents made all of the hard decisions.
In Cleveland I experienced an emotion similar to that of my Zaidie. True, my childhood home stood almost exactly as we left it, the streets were as familiar as yesterday, and the people were exactly as I would have expected them to be.. But as we drove past the building that housed my pre-school, after-school programs, and camps I began to cry. To see the Mayfield JCC replaced by condominiums was to see the golden years of my innocence, the birthplace of my imagination and earliest inspirations, forsaken for the "fitter, better, happier, more productive" reality that mature life can be eclipsed by.
But I left my tears in the car.
Even during the game, as Omar Vizquel, the greatest shortstop to have played for the Cleveland Indians, barehanded an out for the Texas Rangers, I left my tears in the car.
While the seven year old sitting in front of me with his father (as I, thank G-d did, at his age and continued to do at that particular game) wearing the Sizemore version of the number 24 jersey, and asking his father who Omar Vizquel was, I left my tears in the car.
Even when my once five time consecutive Central Division champion Cleveland Indians lost 5-0 to the Rangers, I left my tears in the car.
It was in the JCC that I re-birthed myself Peter Pan, and it was at Jacob's Field that I fashioned my Never-Never Land. I have returned to the land of pixie dust, of pirates, and of course, of Indians, and I have seen her dead. The great equalizer that is baseball still allows me to fly, cheer, and jump for foul balls as if I was under five feet again. But my Neverland has faded, her Indians weakened, her pirates turned businessmen, and her pixie dust fading. Yet still... I leave my tears in the car.
Thanks for the memories Cleveland! Thank you for years of comfort and confusion, to relationships that I still treasure today, for bringing out the skills and talents that I had to offer, and for a few years of great baseball. My greatest happiness on this trip though, was being able to look around at the people still in Cleveland and to know that I had seen something else that they had not; that I took all that I gained from Cleveland, ran with it, and continue to run with it.
There is no eternal Neverland. Eventually you have to grow up, but though the pixie dust may have faded from sight, it remains in the very core of my identity, sparkling and inspiring my newer, fitter, and truly happier self. My past ignites my present and generates my future. For my Zaidie, 233 Davis Street in Sarnia might be a wreck, but the life that he built for himself and for his children by leaving so that his children could have a proper Jewish education shines today in nine grandchildren and one great grandchild. "Know where you came from..." our Sages teach, but they continue, "And where you are destined to go." Life is too good to spend stagnant in the shallow pools of the past.
I only hope that Peter is enjoying retirement......
