Flawed memories and perfect moments

Returning to places where you were young, free and single is always strange when you are almost old and a parent travelling with your teenage children. that's how Providence, Rhode Island feels. for a few hours yesterday we wandered the once familiar streets lined with pastel coloured, 3 storeyed wooden houses and full of carefree Brown students and trendy RISDI ones.  

And memory is a strange thing. 

Because nothing was quite as I remembered it. 

None of the houses were in quite the same place, none of the cafes where I thought they should be. the park by the river is smarter, the main shopping street smaller and everything seemed more ordinary than it has been in my shadowy dreams.

when I lived there more then 20 years ago, I was working in a home in the community for adults with learning difficulties and behavioural problems. They had spent most of their unfulfilled lives in institutions and were struggling to adapt to lives without structure and rules. their stories were heartbreaking and their confusion often translated into bizarre and sometimes violent behaviour. Our house in Providence became our escape from all the craziness of work and we replaced it, instead, with a craziness of our own. With parties and drunken nights and trips to New York in the middle of the night. 

At least that's how I remember it.

" What did you do here everyday mum?" Asks Joss

And as I stare at the wooden house, standing alone, forlorn and shabby, that was our home for those few yearsf, I'm not sure what to say. and I can't help wondering if my memories have not been blurred with the rose -tintedness of time.

I shrug. 

" Well," I say, " we just sort of lived." Joss rolls his eyes. All teenagers know that their parents have no idea about living and didn't really exist properly until their children were 
born.

And there're is a limit to how long your family can pretend to be interested in reliving your old memories, so our friends Amy and Barry whisked us away to their camp. It is on the banks of what they call a pond, and we would call a pretty big lake, and it is beautiful. We woke this morning to the whir of hummingbird wings and the twang of pond frogs croaking from their lily pads. The tranquility is infectious. 

We have explored every corner of the pond with a pedalo and rowing boat.
 In front of us a blue heron flaps lazily and basking turtles slide silently into the water.
 It is hard to believe that we are only a few hours from New York, that we are not the only people living in a beautifully simple world.

And that is the strangeness and the wonder of America. It seems to be made up of thousands of splintered and disconnected parts. Like a colourful mosaic of states, each one believing that they are part of a slightly different whole.
Relaxed, full of the delicious food that is our friends' trademark and bottle of beer in hand, we sat last night and put the world to rights. the air around us vibrated to the boom of bullfrogs and high pitched buzz of cicadas. In front of us the black mirror of the motionless water reflected the far away stars and it was hard not to feel as though all would always be well. As though, for just a moment we had found our perfect moment.
I said as much to Barry.
He took a thoughtful swig of beer.
" I know," he said, " but I do find it hard. I have always been a much more productive complainer than enjoyer!"
And I can't help feeling that he just described mankind.