This series of personal sketches was drawn from the ‘hometown memories’ of students in response to watching Lowell Blues, a short film by Henry Ferrini based on readings from Jack Kerouac’s written recollections of growing up in Lowell, MA.
– Fred Bouchard, Associate Professor of Liberal Arts
It was just before Valentine’s Day, sun rising up over the San Bernardino Mountains, begging to reach the Pacific Shore. Weather was steady, nothing new, static, boring, nothing to look back on, look forward to, seventy degrees at dawn, dusk, everywhere in between. California gave me life, but I never wanted it, it wanted me. I was moving on to Boston, where every day was new with possibilities, not lonely like the west coast pleading with human souls to dig their toes into the sand, to cover up with blue blankets, wear diamonds like shoes, toast to the sexy, hip, drooling models that bleed for attention. I was free, free to follow my love to the rocky side of the island, change the weather when we want to, change our fate faster than the tide rushing in, leave the old place behind, ebb and flow, flow as far as we can go, go gently in that haunted dream that is leaving home, home is where we are going. Not where we are from, from dirty hills and muddy skies, to clean eastern moons and white mornings fresh with dew.
We were passing the southern coast, headed to Texas for a fancy time with Frankie and Annie Morris, two of the finest people we ever met. They knew the drill, we can’t stay long, but Houston will be just the place to have a rest and maybe a night of drinks and dreams. Frankie was the son of a hard-nosed old man with the best of intentions and selfish motives. He never did get to make his own decisions, even though he believed he could think for himself, the inception of his freethinking was really implanted in his brain by his father at birth. His mother a tiny woman, Tinkerbelle-sized beauty, never had her say in the matter, couldn’t save her boy from unwanted happiness. Sad, really. Annie, his sweetheart, the opposite of his father, his true savior. One thousand, three hundred miles in 25 hours, through Nevada, Arizona, where some crazy old Navajo tried to drive us off the road for no reason, something about those California plates. On through New Mexico and Oklahoma, into Texas for the first time, a long time it would be though. Three days of Houston drinks, pool halls, and late winter nights, and we were off for the second leg, and straight to Boston.
You will never know a drive like a drive across that great big state, never ending, drive all day, ten hours, still here, like driving on a treadmill, seen that sign before, already passed that hitchhiker, saw that train a while back. Still here, still in Texas, stuck, stuck forever. We reached for New Orleans, we knew it was out there but where, who knows, swallowed up by Texas no doubt.
Finally, the south had come at last, the real south, the deep south, we stopped at a small little bar, re-tied the supplies on the roof, had a few drinks, heaven only knew what time it was, our concept of time had left us days ago, 45 hours of driving now. She was my home, I was her home, and we made it this far. It was a sad state, the day after Fat Tuesday, streets hung-over, lonely, like a love affair ended before it was over. On through Jacksonville and up the old coast, the Atlantic guiding our way now, a few stops in the night, we couldn’t hold our eyes open, slept in a rest stop, too tight to fit, with our whole lives packed in the backseat and tied to the roof, wasn’t much of a rest, but at least the sun would keep us company when it woke up again.
Blink our eyes. Blink again. Tears.
We had arrived, slept in a Wal-Mart parking lot until we could move in to our new apartment up on Centre St., but we didn’t care, no more cares, we made it. In one piece, starving, tired, scared, happy, rested, full. It was our time now, let’s make this our city, dig our toes into the sand, give birth to ourselves wrapped in a blue blanket with diamonds in the sand, waiting for us.
