For longer than the span of my years, people have walked unaware on what I hold to be the most significant man-made symbol of endurance anywhere in my town. It is a length of concrete sidewalk 200 feet long. (If you want that in meters, work it out for yourself.)
It was laid down before I was born on the east end of the north side of the thoroughfare envious wags called Millionaire Avenue. The sidewalks elsewhere along the avenue were made from wood, as where all of the other sidewalks on all of the other avenues in what was then an infant village.
Millionaire Avenue was special. I lived there and could walk on a concrete sidewalk to see if the pretty little girl who lived in the biggest house on the avenue was up and about. We were both quite mature at the age of five. We did some kissing. (For this indiscretion, I was hauled up before a family court and castigated so severely that I never became a sex fiend. At least, I think that's why I didn't.)
The short stretch of concrete walk was made as such work was done before I was born, carefully and by hand. Concrete mixed in a mortar box was laid down over a bed of small stone stones. While newer sidewalks crack and crumble, this venerable piece of urban infrastructure has not worn away nor cracked in 90 years. The big house where the pretty little girl later lived was the doctor's home. When the sidewalk in front of it was new, my father and three cronies went late at night through an unlocked door to sing barbershop harmonies until the doctor and his family woke up and joined in the impromptu festivities.
On my first day of school, I walked past the big house and noted the red and gold of the Virginia creepers that had crawled up the front porch. In my last year of school, on my way to write final examinations, I walked past the big house when the porch was ringed by heavy-headed peonies and the scent of lilac blossoms was in the air.
For over 30 years, I walked to my job on that piece of sidewalk at least 24 times a week. Now I walk over it at least twice every weekday. Sometimes when my feet touch the old concrete, it conjures up memories of Millionaire Avenue as it used to be. My mind sees houses long gone and a more distant view of the village sports grounds with its shelterbelts of drought-stunted maples.
There are a few buildings in town older than the sidewalk I treasure, but they have chequered histories. The sidewalk has never been anything other than what it was intended to be. It has felt the passing of thousands upon thousands of feet. If it were not inanimate, I would describe it as steadfast and loyal, as always meeting its obligation. These are qualities that do not fit well in our present society.
What I see as enduring in 2013, is injustice, greed and a compulsive need for tawdry entertainments. It is good to see people working to change the world into a better place, to re-instil old values, including loyalty to community. They are still far from success. If and when it comes, I won't be here, but perhaps the old sidewalk will.
The snow has been cleared from in front of the big house. I will walk on the old sidewalk today - and again and again.
