Raynine
Diamond Member
- Oct 28, 2023
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They are tearing up the pines on Maple Avenue; some kind of disease, Red Pine Scale, they say.
As an octogenarian from the area, I have vivid early recollections of Maple Avenue without the planted red pines that came after the great hurricane of 1938. The long expanse was a bucolic road that passed by a wooded hilly landscape and went north of Barret’s Dairy Farm to Court Street where another dairy farm, McKenzey’s, was located. There was a long wooden white fence with lengthy boards that angled up to one board and then down to the next. If you were a child in a moving vehicle, the boards seemed to move in a wavy fashion. It was an optical illusion that stays on the back roads of living memory.
Maple Avenue in the 1950’s was an enchanting slice of Americana reminiscent of Tommy Rettig's television Lassie moments where cows were a common sight and chickens scratched in yards. Nothing urban was too close, and neighbors knew you and your family by name. But this was not just a time; it was a time between times. Blacksmiths and farriers were disappearing, and gas stations were sprouting like weeds. The sounds and aromas of farms were fading, and the rumbling of trucks through small housing settlements heralded overpasses, traffic lights, and highways. I saw it happen; I lived it. I threw my last snowball at the back of a semi-truck in about 1957.
I remember when those little trees were planted. They were just a few feet high. I would sometimes ride my bike there and play with my friends. In the 1960’s I held my beautiful girlfriend's hand and walked her home through those trees that were now taller than a man. I could smell those pines in her hair and the mix of shadows playing on her smile was magical. I was there and I know that was real.
The experts will hold sway; they always do. They make things better? The town was once called Elm City. Dutch Elm Disease took the shade preventing the Sun’s rays that now blind west-heading drivers. The wonderful green archways that formed the architecture of Court, Washington, and West streets are long gone. Now Red Pine Scale is taking the rural roots of my early recollections.
It’s silly but I want to go back there.
I want to be a milkman.
As an octogenarian from the area, I have vivid early recollections of Maple Avenue without the planted red pines that came after the great hurricane of 1938. The long expanse was a bucolic road that passed by a wooded hilly landscape and went north of Barret’s Dairy Farm to Court Street where another dairy farm, McKenzey’s, was located. There was a long wooden white fence with lengthy boards that angled up to one board and then down to the next. If you were a child in a moving vehicle, the boards seemed to move in a wavy fashion. It was an optical illusion that stays on the back roads of living memory.
Maple Avenue in the 1950’s was an enchanting slice of Americana reminiscent of Tommy Rettig's television Lassie moments where cows were a common sight and chickens scratched in yards. Nothing urban was too close, and neighbors knew you and your family by name. But this was not just a time; it was a time between times. Blacksmiths and farriers were disappearing, and gas stations were sprouting like weeds. The sounds and aromas of farms were fading, and the rumbling of trucks through small housing settlements heralded overpasses, traffic lights, and highways. I saw it happen; I lived it. I threw my last snowball at the back of a semi-truck in about 1957.
I remember when those little trees were planted. They were just a few feet high. I would sometimes ride my bike there and play with my friends. In the 1960’s I held my beautiful girlfriend's hand and walked her home through those trees that were now taller than a man. I could smell those pines in her hair and the mix of shadows playing on her smile was magical. I was there and I know that was real.
The experts will hold sway; they always do. They make things better? The town was once called Elm City. Dutch Elm Disease took the shade preventing the Sun’s rays that now blind west-heading drivers. The wonderful green archways that formed the architecture of Court, Washington, and West streets are long gone. Now Red Pine Scale is taking the rural roots of my early recollections.
It’s silly but I want to go back there.
I want to be a milkman.
