 | Connecticut Council of Poets Laureate |
| Connecticut Council of Poets Laureate |
| ALLINGTOWN by Tony Fusco Independent, thickheaded, citizens of Allingtown we never thought of ourselves as part of West Haven. The town trucks and police hardly ever passed our small farm, just plenty of trailer trucks rumbling back and forth on the Boston Post Road, targets for snowballs and local girls sitting on the top of billboards waving to the drivers. We had our own center, triangle green, a hub for buses that could take you somewhere important, New Haven Lighthouse, Savin Rock, Bridgeport. They rolled over routes that once were trolley and train lines The Derby New Haven Railroad, Milford–West Shore, Yale Bowl. We waited in Faters soda shop whose ice cream and wax bottles of syrup made the time between transfers pass quickly. Right next door Rocky’s Barber Shop’s a small horse on a chair in the window lured the less than eager of the Howdy-Doody set, and at Sal’s bar, dads could grab a fast beer. There sat the man everyone called the mayor of Allingtown, Mr. Tamborini, photos on the walls of former boxers, Tony Carlo Joe Harvey, Joey Pep. Where was West Haven? We drove through it on the way to Savin Rock, to Turk’s and the stock car races, Sutcliff and Gambino red Ford number 4 and blue Dodge number 5 waged demolition war for 50 laps in dust and oil on Friday nights. Santa gave out gifts in the firehouse on Admiral Street the same room Aldo took dancing lessons where the firemen might let you climb in a pumper truck and ring the bell. Saturdays with a dollar each in pocket we’d walk down US 1 past the old county home to the Forest Theater for a matinee movie, three cartoons, the dollar covering admission and a box of snowcaps. Forest School waited for Monday across the street, its two entrances, one for boys the other for girls carved in stone lintels. We went to Lincoln up the hill, built in 1925 shortly after residents voted to separate from Orange. Manhole covers still proclaim: Property of the town of Orange, but they are wrong. There are signs you could read from the bus crossing the West River: Welcome to West Haven. But they are wrong too. Anyone that has ever lived here knows, like we knew then, its not on any map, yet within these lines, lies Allingtown. BLACKBERRY PICKING (Written with memories from Connie Sacco -Long time WH Head Librarian) by Tony Fusco We knew at blackberry picking time the berries would be ready for us. Together, we were always together my friends, husband and wife, neighbors. He would lead our way with his walking stick. We with our saved strawberry baskets meandered in the middle of the dirt road whose path followed the West Riverbank. Water polluted now, but not so long ago Pristine, the water hole we called the lagoon full of laughter and joy when the children from the county home marched from the hot summer dormitories’ in neat lines down the old Post Road to relief, to swimming lessons to some natural ground underfoot with chestnut trees to the right, on our left, the bushes. Large branches packed full and tight with berries, huge and black sweet and sour juice that exploded and squirt into dry mouths, that darkened lips and purpled teeth. Plenty for all, a bush for each of us. Intent on our picking, berries drop in chunks, overfill the containers, all others forgotten, all things were lost in the moment. until we met again on the road with smiles and baskets. Pie crusts at home ready on the kitchen counters. Lemon juice or tapioca or both? Fresh berries pie, tasteful with tea. We take turns, tomorrow I will bring them my pies The neighbors are gone now, I no longer go there, the road blocked off, broken glass and trash strewn, once even a body dumped. Still some summer days I imagine some full blackberries still fall to the ground, eaten by birds and carried high to heavens and clouds. I remember the river and the way it was, and smell those baked pies on the kitchen window sill. |
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