By Rit Carter
As I watch a light fog wash over the lagoon at Rockwell Park, my walk across Bristol begins. It is 7 a.m., and my destination is Camp St. along the Farmington town line.
It is a brisk New England morning, cool and crisp with a bright sun bringing the colorful leaves to life. I am armed with a fleece coat, gloves, boots, a winter hat, backpack with water, food, journals, books, and an iPod.
I appear to be the only one in the park, so I fire up the old iPod, and Pink Floyd is hitting leadoff with “Shine on you Crazy Diamond.” In my book, a masterpiece. Not a note out of place or wasted, but the music does not befit the setting, so I rifle through the playlist looking for the right artist and song: The Beatles? Too artsy. Rush? Too busy. Steve Miller? Too, something. Ozzy Osbourne, at this hour? Jesus, God no.
Frustrated, I put the iPod away and instead enjoy the solitude of my surroundings, both visually and sonically. The older I become, the more I appreciate the hardwoods, pines, and cobblestone structures. The cobblestone gives the park a cinematic theme to my eyes. It is a step back in time but, with modern amenities, a perfect blend.
Leaves await my attention at home, so there is no need to rush this. Instead, I enjoy what Rockwell is offering me: the birds going through their morning routine, the rustle of the leaves, and the gentle and rhythmic flow of the Pequabuck River. Lingering near the lagoon, I don’t want to go, but I can’t stay.
As I make my way to Jacob St., there are plenty of casualties from the previous day’s wind and rainstorm, with leaves and branches scattered over the walking track and sidewalk.
The neighborhood is waking up. In the distance, a dog barks, and the sound of striking metal fills the soundscape. Who strikes metal at this hour? Did I put off listening to Ozzy to hear this? Admittedly it is better than the whirring sound of a lawnmower.
Crossing over West St. and heading to School St., I am coming to my first critical decision. It weighs heavy on my mind, and no use of analytic data will aid in the risk assessment process or my choice: Stop at Café Real or not stop at Café Real? I vowed it was a water-only trip, but it is Café Real. Approaching, I tell myself, “I won’t drink anything. No coffee. No hot chocolate. I’ll go in, observe the vibe and talk with the morning regulars.” In and out, no one gets hurt. Uh-huh.
I feel my strategy and risk management methodology are sound as I approach, but the decision is made for me — they’re closed. Phew. Who was I kidding? No doubt I would have broken and dived into a hot chocolate.
Bracket Park
Feeling confident with my decision-making process, Bracket Park is now on my radar. The plan here is simple: Use it as a cut-through and then figure out what to do about N. Main St.
Entering the park, a man walks a squirrel; at least, it appears that way based on their interaction. By the basketball court, a lone ball sits idle near the fence. I have not shot a basketball in I don’t know how long, so I discard the backpack and begin launching shots. Yes, the first few clank off the back rim, to which squirrel guy starts heckling. Yeah, yeah, yeah, everyone is a critic even at quarter to eight. But as I start knocking down shots, he goes silent. I don’t want to go, but I can’t stay.
Arriving at N. Main, another decision: Head up the Boulevard or go left to the post office.
Centre Square it is to explore its acreage.
Despite the wandering Canadian geese walking through the lot, it is not impossible to imagine what this will become. Something catches my eye in the back of the parking lot, just below the railroad tracks, so I head in that direction. Soon a mural about Bristol comes into focus. It’s a hidden nugget, an Easter Egg. Three panels stretch out along the back wall of the lot, each one better than the last. The photos online do not do it justice. Perhaps this area can become a myriad of public art displays, thus becoming a public art destination. Of course, the politics of politics will get in the way.
From here, it is off to Main St.
Starting the trek up Main, I stop at the train overpass to snag a photo. Over the years, I have seen many images taken from this locale, and now, I have one of my own.
Heading up Main with these stupid boots on and this backpack, it might as well be Kilimanjaro. Who is the idiot that decided to wear boots and go this way? When I reach the summit, psychologically, I have attained the halfway point when two ideas strike simultaneously.
First, a section of an upcoming story that I’ve been working on for over a year is misbehaving. However, because this excursion is therapeutic and inspiring, I discovered a workaround, so I scribbled out a half-page of notes while taking in the scene from the gazebo.
Idea number two: After all the grief Caggiano received about his government appearing like a theocracy based on where he held his inauguration, why not have the next inauguration on the green of Federal Hill? Yes, it would be a logistical nightmare, but imagine the optics in this historical setting?
A quick pit stop at the Fortier abode necessitates music when I resume the walk shortly after 9.
Four Non Blonds? One Non Blond too short. Dylan? Too much Dylan. George Clinton? Too much base. Ozzy? Jesus, God, no, still too early. Bowie? Okay, finally, something. When did I become so high maintenance with my music selections? Young Americans is the winner, and I settle into the pocket of the song.
Soon, I find myself atop Woodland St. and Kelly’s Hill. Looking out, I see a carnival of colors below.
Due to the hill’s grade, my walk, though, becomes a jog due to the momentum. At the bottom, I admit defeat because I cannot find the right sound and put away the iPod. The music does not match what I am seeing and feeling. Right now, and at this moment, I am better off without music.
Page Park
Entering Page Park, I cut through Ingraham Field and look to shave off time. I arrive at the former ski slope using a path swallowed up in a bed of leaves. From this clearing, I can see the finish line in the swarm of trees beyond Bristol Eastern High School. As I descend the old ski slope I take note of the six tow towers still standing from a forgotten time.
The ski slope empties to the basketball court. Here I unexpectedly run into a friend, and after we get caught up and make jokes at each other’s expense, the conversation swings to politics. He’s a dyed-in-the-wool Trumpster. I’m not. He has Trump flags. Trump books. Trump plushies.
He goes on about the divided country and solely lays fault with the liberal media, Barack Obama, and the Democrats. His objective analysis always makes me laugh.
We swap jokes, and I end with one a friend told me recently. A wolf is out on the campaign trail, and he meets two sheep while door-knocking and says, “If you vote for me, I promise to eat you.”
After the wolf leaves, one sheep says to the other, “I like him. He tells it like it is.” Without missing a beat, my friend says, “I don’t get it.” We share a laugh.
BEHS
King St., busy as usual, so I cross and head through Bristol Eastern High School and take in the pregame warmups for JV football.
Next, I took advantage of the cut-through to Stafford School, and because I was not paying attention, I stepped in a heap of mud and water. “Good decision to wear boots,” I say aloud.
At the end of Louisiana Ave., I cross Brook St. to Carol and Westchester drives. Westchester runs parallel to Route 6 and is yet another hill for those unfamiliar with this part of town. This route brings me to Morningside Dr. East, and Roberge Rd., which dumps me on Stafford Ave. The roads in this neighborhood are very tight. It’s nearly suffocating for motorists.
Stafford Ave.
The end is near.
I reflect on my trip while strolling Stafford Ave. and taking advantage of the neighborhood shortcuts to arrive near Camp St. around 10:30.
In less than four hours, I have nearly walked border to border, visited three parks, played basketball, saw friends and an art display while writing, and reflected on the unique privilege to see my hometown intimately. Like most, I have seen many of these neighborhoods from the comfort of a car. But now, I have peeked inside the neighborhoods and seen how simple streets connect distinctly different places but similar places.
As Thanksgiving approaches, I am thankful for what Bristol has but hopeful for what it will become.
