Looking back, growing up on Algonquin Drive was a pretty good thing. Although it came close to never happening. Not because of where we lived, but because of some identification issues Scotch Plains had with the name of the street. The street was initially called Trenton Avenue, in a neighborhood where the streets were Princeton, Jersey, Elizabeth, and Newark-all Garden State cities the locals would be familiar with. But Trenton was the only one with access from Martine Avenue, which didn't go through to our side of Trenton. The colored section-probably dates me pretty well, and a huge woods we referred to as Land of the Jinx because of the sticker bushes keeping us from it were there, and McGinn School wasn't built yet in its place. So they decided to name it Mohawk Lane, only to find that name was already taken by Westfield, which adjoined Scotch Plains. And due to the fact we got our mail from the Westfield post office, our mailing address was Westfield, although we lived in Scotch Plains. Two Mohawk Lanes would be too much for any one post office to handle, even when they made money. So they named it Algonquin Drive, which even worked out well for the real estate agents when they completed the street up to McGinn, naming the development Algonquin Village. Which led to jokes about finding a village and being its idiot, which led to many discussions under the street lamps at night as to who was the latest idiot, mostly based on whose parents had busted them and made them obey. Even at a young age, the word NO had a tremendous impact on social standing. And to this day Algonquin Drive still doesn't go through from Martine. Maybe it was a wise decision after all.
The houses are still there on Algonquin Drive, but the names and faces are different. The last memories of the street for me are 1975, but really are based 10 years earlier, when the neighborhood was as far as I dared go, and at that age there was no reason to go any further. I knew all the kids on the street, and even those who didn't have kids. You knew to stay out of Marie's yard, and could almost forgive her because of her 1963 white Grand Prix. Kickball was always safe to play in the circle by Chris Farley's, who lived next to Kenny Stephens, who was older and had a go cart. Scottie Aldinger's house was a great place to play hide-and-seek, with Kenny Corsi-my mother called him Nutty Kenny living next door. Who always called his parents Henry and Elsa. Sadly he would prove to be the sane one. Knowing where Ricky, Donny, Raymond, the Kelly's, Joey, Eddie, and others lived, you felt safe at all times, even walking home after dark in the summer. It was home, and there was no place like it. And to those of us on Algonquin Drive, it was the only place to be. No matter if the street had an identity problem, we lived on Algonquin Drive and that gave us a common bond. Long before some psych teacher told us about them. Makes you wonder is there nothing that adults and their so-called knowledge can't ruin.
It was on Algonquin Drive that I learned to make decisions. How I learned to tell time, and was able to make it home by 830pm, leaving no time to spare, no matter where I was-not wishing to waste one second of my kid time. I knew all the short cuts, and how to cut through back yards, or not to cut through back yards to make time. How the time was shorter on my bike, and how to slow down enough so I didn't have to stop to cross Hetfield Avenue-a busy street, maintaining speed for the last 100 feet. If nowhere else but my mind, I had a well worn path of where to go, and how to get there. A path that always led to home, after putting my bike away and trying to shut the garage door quietly if my calculations were off due to an extension of fun on that evening. Where if late, I was reminded of it, and promised to never do it again-at least until next time. It was a friendly street, a neighborly street, and looking back it may have been a more important place than I ever gave it credit for.
Now when I visit the street seems so small. It hasn't changed in size, but I have. Where the Farley's at the end of the street were so far away-I had to ride my bike there, now it is a short walk. But a longer walk in my memory. I know Theresa gets tired when we walk and I tell her of who lived where, and what we did. I can see it in my mind's eye like it was yesterday, she only sees it now as today. Without the point of reference I had as a kid. And for a moment in time, I am still that 10 year old kid, remembering being a kid, with dreams of growing up. But now as a grown up, longing for the days of being a kid again. Free from responsibility, free from adult decisions, and with a lifetime of memories still ahead. Maybe it is true you can never go home-but you can go back.
But someday you will also go home. For as Christians, we may now live on earth, but this is a temporary address. We are sojourners-I love that word, travelers here for a short time, and then to our home in heaven. Where all the dreams you have will fall way short of what is awaiting us. Better than imagined, better than told about, it is a perfect neighborhood. But sadly some of your friends from the old neighborhood may not be there. Without Jesus they will never see heaven. So it is important to pray for them. To share with them at reunions. To encourage them in the Lord. You can never go back to the special times, but you can look ahead to the even more special time called heaven. A place where summer nights never end. Where time spent under the streetlights with friends go on forever. Where you are never late getting home, and never have to promise to not be late again. A time where there is no time, and where the joy never ends. An extension of your childhood street, a place you never thought could be improved, a place called heaven. Where Jesus and others who believe are. A place where everyone knows your name, and where even more memories await. Not the end, as death tells us, but the beginning of eternity. A place you don't have to go back to, for you will never leave.
Growing up on Algonquin Drive it seemed all roads led to it. There were many ways to get home in a hurry when late. Only one road leads to heaven-Jesus Christ. That is the only road to follow. Before it is too late. There may be stops along the way, and detours and things that take our minds off the trip-but He will get us there, on time. In His time. For all time. The street you grew up on may have a different name, but the road to heaven is only identified by Jesus. Many roads-only one way.
With only one way it should be as easy as naming a street. It's easier. Trust God. He knows the name of your street, and your name also. Where you live now, and where He has built a home for you in heaven. And some day you will go home-heaven calls. And just like the promise in Psalm 23, He still leads us on paths of righteousness. Make the right decision and follow Him today. Truly there is no place like home.
love with compassion,
Mike
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