Claymont, Part 6 (Final Installment)

This is my last entry in the Claymont series. I have received some wonderful comments, both written and unwritten, so to those people I say thanks. To those who have not shared their thoughts but read the stories anyway, I thank you as well, regardless of your opinions. When I first sat down to write something about Claymont, I honestly did not have a plan. I predicted I would write six installments but honestly had no idea what would comprise those efforts. I suppose I was challenging myself to come up with something off the cuff and creative, and hopefully, I have been able to do that, in some small way.

I hope I have not alienated any denizens of our little town, past and present, by excluding people, places or events that anyone might have hoped or expected to see. But, maybe, just maybe, by not including these items, purposely or not, it has inspired reflection, conversation or debate. Our memories are our own personal scrapbook, and they fill in the gaps between the yellowing photos, diaries and home movies. Life isn't about the big moments, but rather the small ones. I suppose it's the reason why I wrote my first "thing" in the last five minutes of the last class of the last day of my Senior year. I was sitting in Mr. Simpkins's class, waiting for the big hand to hit the finish line when I wrote my first poem, or limerick, if you will, on the desktop with my trusty #2 pencil. It went like this:

Here I sit, slightly jaded;
The days of my youth are almost faded.
Reflecting, I find
In the depths of my mind
Those memories before they have faded.

No, it's not Whitman's "Leaves of Grass," Sylvia Plath's "The Bell Jar' or even Bob Dylan, and I'm ok with that. It was, however, the first foray into an accidental passion, which has enveloped me these past 25 years.

The Claymont I knew was Greentree, Ashbourne Hills, Radnor Green, Knollwood and the acreage around the high school. It was the train tracks running behind Plum Tree Lane, the baseball fields behind Darley Road Elementary School and the fields behind the high school. Yeah, it seems like everything I enjoyed was behind something else I enjoyed. It was Howard Booker, Ron Messer, Scott Carey and I driving down to Ocean City, Maryland, to watch the high school's Flaming Arrow Marching Band compete in a regional competition. It was Tommy Carroll, Geoff Bishop, Scott Frizzell and I having pizza on my birthday. It was "buying" Jimmy Coffey and Gordie Knowles at the "Freshman/Sophomore Sale" and making them race down the hallways of the school pushing a peanut butter cracker with their noses. It was my first kiss with Carol Tenshaw, street hockey with Ray Butler and playing Dungeons & Dragons with Freddie and Donie Lang. It was watching Penn State beat Miami for the National Championship with Wayne Jamison and Rod Reeves, smoking clove cigarettes with "U-Dog" Seth Andrews and sitting in class with Nicole Williams, making each other laugh so much it hurt. It was putting a spider on Susan Coulston's desk just to watch her scream, having my heart skip a beat every time I say Kelly Deardorff and having my first beer with Mike DeBevec and Wayne. It was all the fantastic school plays put on by Alan Ruth, the bubbly effervescence of Ellie Kwick, and the bone crushing handshakes of Darley Road principal Mr. Lipka and Mr. Miller, the Vice-Principal at P.S. duPont. It was a head-ringing collision at first base that started a friendship with Scott Strazzella, the Little League legend of John Lucas and playing bombardment in gym class. It was trading baseball cards with my second grade teacher, Mrs. Jordan, learning how to write a check in Mr. Evans's class and hitting the highway with Mr. DiStefano and Ron Inglis during my first Driver's Ed road test. It was the wild ebullience of Albert Bucci, the comedy stylings of Eddie Finnegan and the sharp, aggressive humor of John McInnes. It was the warmth and intelligence of Lisa Chieffo, the sincere humanity and compassion of Martha Schilling and the sweet darkness of Billie Carroll, who has only improved with age.

It was my family, my friends, my acquaintances and those who only passed through peripherally. Not everything was daisies and sunshine, to be sure. That's a funny thing about memory - we seem to filter our past through nostalgic eyes, weeding out the bad so we can caress the good. For some reason, I remember the arcane, like how "Seasons In the Sun" was Michelle Lenhoff's favorite song, drinking a Big Gulp filled with Rum & Coke while taking my Biology midterm and the words "Wisdom had no market value" spray painted on the Darley Road overpass. I'll never forget driving around with Ron Fagnelli, Scott Waldman and my brother in Ron's bright yellow muscle car, delivering the Evening Bulletin with Ray and not being invited to Barbara Davis's famous parties in elementary school. And finally, about six or seven of us cramming ourselves into Bruce Lane's little car, Bandit, on the way to school, riding the bus on the first day of Desegregation and the cosmic marveling at the high school planetarium.

Well, that's not finally. I could probably dredge up a thousand more memories, but I'm sure you have your own. That's why this last installment is for you. To anyone else out there who remembers the old Claymont, don't hesitate to add your own stories. I am not the only person to chronicle his or her experiences of our little town. We all have a voice, and it doesn't matter if you can write or think you can't. The important thing is to share, in your own way, your memories, good or bad. We are all amalgamations of our past, the events and people who have moved through our lives.

Thanks for letting me move through yours.