It’s part of my mystery writer’s psyche that I love discovering surprising personal plot twists. Luckily for me I’m also blessed with friends who are equally up for spontaneously exploring any new adventure that I can suggest.
With the
splendid fall of 2026 coming to a close, I floated an idea that we track down
and road trip to see any of the eighties bands that we had missed seeing back
in the day – usually due to our grueling overtime work schedules and/or our chronic
lack of funds. One of my dearest friends accepted the challenge.
One
concert was local, The Fixx at Hartwood Acres, an outdoor Pittsburgh venue.
Then we bought tickets to two concerts in Cleveland, Ohio, only a two-hours' drive away. The first concert was Squeeze, Adam Ant, and Haircut 100. Two weeks
later we returned to Cleveland to catch Elvis Costello and Charlie Sexton.
This is
where the story gets weird. On our way to see Adam Ant, we took the Ohio
Turnpike, and I saw an exit sign for State Road 44 to Chagrin Falls. I casually
mentioned that I had gone to middle school in Chagrin Falls during part of my vagabond life, and my friend
Ginger asked: “When was the last time you visited it?”
Holy
moly. 1972. I had to do math. It’s been fifty-five years. My how time does fly!
We took
the exit.
In 1972 I was pre-teen, and I needed to dig deep for those memories. There’s been a lot of water under that bridge. I remembered exploring the ‘falls’ part of Chagrin Falls, which was forbidden to do and that we did anyway. I remembered the Blossom Time Festival in the town’s main park where I won a doomed goldfish in a baggie, and my sister won a big stuffed snake. Then up popped two names from my past: Bell Road, and Lake Louise, the development we had lived in.
Ginger
pulled up MapQuest on her phone. “Take a right at the light.”
I steadied
myself because I knew that since we had moved away when I was little everything had probably changed, and it had. My preschool had been in an open
field next to a large Amish barn. It was now hidden in a stand of mature trees.
The homes of the childhood friends I had known - the Sheffield’s, the Rudolph’s,
and the Streeter’s - were smaller than I remembered. Then we drove down a gentle
sloping curve, and I saw my old house.
Pulling
over, I parked on the shoulder. A man was working in the driveway. “I want to
get a picture,” I explained to Ginger, unfastening my seatbelt. Putting on my
friendliest “I’m not a physical threat or a serial killer” smile, I walked up
the driveway. He looked surprised, and I offered: “Do you mind if I take a
picture of your house? I used to live here fifty years ago.”
“You
did? Really?” Setting aside his broom, he started to get excited. “Great! Let
me get my wife. Maybe you can explain something to us. Don’t go anywhere. Don’t
leave.” And he ran inside the garage.
At this
point Ginger, who as a long-time friend of mine is used to experiencing
this kind of weird universal mystery on our many road trips, left the car to
join me. “What’s going on?”
“I’m
not sure. He went to get his wife. They want to ask me something.”
He came
back out with his wife, a beautiful woman apologetically smoothing her hair and
straightening her T-shirt. “I’m sorry. We weren’t expecting anyone. I was in my
office publishing my new book.”
The light dawned. "Now I get it. This is a writer thing." Pointing her finger at me, Ginger gave me the
look. “She’s a writer too.”
What
can I say? Serendipity is magical. Maybe there was something in the Ohio aquifer.
Maybe there was something in that house that made writers of us all.
So, what did they want to know? Inviting us inside, they gave us a house tour because to their minds there had been so many crazy additions that the floor plan didn’t make sense. My mother’s kitchen had been moved to the rear of the house. My old bedroom was still at the top of the stairs with the alcove where my dad had put my bookcase and my desk. The master bedroom had moved downstairs with another new addition. The craziest reveal came last when he mentioned that Lake Louise had been known “back in the day” as a haven for key club members who had hung welcoming pineapple signs on their front doors as an invitation to come join their swinger parties.
My
parents, Sam and Irene, swingers? Ginger and I are still giggling over the
suggestion. I swear I can’t remember ever seeing anyone hanging a pineapple on
their front door while we lived at Lake Louise, but what a reveal – what a
writer’s prompt!
How
about your last walk down memory lane? Did you get any surprising writer’s
prompts you can use?
