small towns – Scott Loftesness

A musing after Roger Rosenblatt’s “I Want to Hold Her Hand“

It is a Tuesday in early fall, the kind of afternoon that doesn’t announce itself as anything special, and Roger Rosenblatt and his wife, Ginny, are walking somewhere they’ve probably walked a thousand times before. Their hands are together. Nobody watching them would think twice about it, because two old people holding hands on a sidewalk is one of the least remarkable sights in America. That’s the whole point. It isn’t remarkable. It’s just true.

Here’s what you’d need to know about them, if you were the kind of person who noticed. They held hands in high school, decades before either of them had a name for what that meant. They’ve held hands through the ordinary accumulation of a life — the mortgage, the kids, the funerals, the doctor’s appointments, the small emergencies that never make it into any story anyone tells at a dinner party.

And now they’re old, and the hands doing the holding aren’t the hands that started this.

Rosenblatt writes about the veins, the discoloration, the wrinkles like roads on a map nobody drew on purpose, and you get the sense he’s spent a lot of quiet time looking down at his own hand, trying to place when exactly it stopped belonging to the boy who first reached for a girl’s hand in some hallway sixty-some years ago.

There’s a version of this story in every small town in the country, if you know where to look. The couple at the diner counter splitting a slice of pie — not out of economy anymore, just habit. The man in the church parking lot with his hand under his wife’s elbow instead of around her fingers, because her balance isn’t what it was, and calling it the same thing anyway. Because it is the same thing.

Love, at this age, isn’t the version you see in the movies. It’s structural. Load-bearing. It’s what keeps two people upright once the friends have started dying off and the noise of the world has gone quiet around them.

Rosenblatt calls himself and Ginny a shaky Hansel and Gretel, lost in the woods. But read it again. They’re not lost. They’ve been down this path before, more times than either of them could count, and they know it by feel now, the way you know a staircase in the dark — not because you can see it, but because your hand remembers where the rail is.

Take my hand. Not to find the way. Because you already know it, and I want to walk it with you anyway.

The Closing of the Pool

The pool in Kettering closed on Labor Day. Not gradually — the way a door closes, on a schedule posted near the snack bar that nobody read until the week it mattered. There was a cookout. Hot dogs, cooked by somebody’s father on a grill that had done nothing all June and July, lighter fluid competing with the smell that actually defined those afternoons: chlorine, always a little too much of it, eyes stinging on the walk home, your suit smelling like a chemistry set for two more days. That smell is the whole memory, if I’m honest. The last cannonball, the lifeguard’s whistle going quiet, somebody’s mother folding a towel like a flag — scaffolding around the smell.

Then school started. Not the next day, but soon. Labor Day was the hinge the year turned on. Summer didn’t fade in the Midwest. It ended, on a Monday, with hot dogs.

I live near Stanford now, close enough to walk the campus most weekends, and I’ve noticed something it took me years to actually notice. The campus is empty for most of September — not weekend-empty, but empty the way a place is empty when the people who belong there haven’t arrived yet. The quad sits there doing nothing. There’s a stillness that has nothing to do with the calendar most people keep and everything to do with a school year that doesn’t start moving in until the middle of the month, classes later still, while thirty miles away the local public school kids have already been at their desks for three or four weeks — in what by Kettering standards would still count as deep, unambiguous summer.

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