The Places We Go—and Those We Take With Us

In Lynda Barry’s strange and brilliant “Ernie Pook’s Comeek,” Marlys’s odd brother, Freddie, had what she called his Saturday places—the destinations on his own private list that he’d go check out once the weekend hit. When I was a kid, I was odd, too, though I guess all kids are.

And I had my places as well, though the day I’d visit them didn’t matter so much. All I needed was the space and time, and you often had plenty of both when you were little.

As I understand it, children don’t really just go out and play these days. The world’s gone too dark. But ’70s kids? That was all we did.

“Go outside!” America’s moms would tell America’s kids when we were watching too much TV or were just underfoot while the moms were trying to get things done. “Go out and play!”

So we did.

The eventual rule was that we were allowed to go as far as we liked, as long as we were within hearing range of Mom’s whistle when she blew it for us to come home for lunch, dinner, sleep, and the like. But the shrill call of a steel coach’s whistle could carry pretty far, so we’d wander way back into the woods or into the park across the street. When I got old enough to figure the game out, I’d go much farther than whistle range, estimating that we could make it back in time to hear the thing when it’d be blown. Which was rather risky, now that I think of it, since none of us wore watches.

Early on, though, my places were pretty close. When I was just a little guy—maybe six or so—the best place was Mrs. Kaneda’s house.

Mrs. Kaneda lived three houses up, in a split-level. In our development, where all the houses were built on spec on what had been farmland, there were two models of house: the split-level and the colonial. We lived in a colonial, so the split-level was a wonder to me because it was laid out differently in pretty much every way possible. And Mrs. Kaneda’s split-level was the best because the Kanedas didn’t have any kids, so it was always like this neat other world, where everything was grown up, and it always smelled vaguely of flowers.

Doing the math now, Mrs. Kaneda was born in 1926, the year before my dad, so she was in her mid-40s when I used to go visit her. But I didn’t think about ages then. She was nice to me. She was ageless. And while I liked Mr. Kaneda, too, he was a grown-up. Mrs. Kaneda wasn’t. She was my friend. One of my closest friends at the time, which was a really big deal when you were a kid.

Mrs. Kaneda was great. I’d tell my mom where I was headed, and I’d wander up there, go around back, and knock politely on the door. It was like going to another kid’s house to see if he or she wanted to play. This was Mrs. Kaneda, and she wasn’t a kid. But the same rules applied, as far as I was concerned. Looking back, I figure my mom had to have asked her more than once if I was bothering her, but it must’ve been fine with her. If she was around, she’d let me in, and she was always happy to see me.

Sometimes she’d give me something to drink. Sometimes a snack. I’d draw her a picture. Or she’d haul out Popsicle sticks, glue, paper, tape, or yarn, and we’d make things. Hers were good. Mine never measured up, but she always swore she liked mine better.

Mr. Kaneda was of Japanese descent. Mrs. Kaneda wasn’t. Given their age, I now realize they must’ve had to put up with some serious garbage from people along the way, but I didn’t know anything about that when I was six or seven. My mom told me Mr. Kaneda had spent a couple of years in an internment camp when he was younger, but I didn’t understand what that was. Anyway, it was the United States. We didn’t do bad things to nice people like Mr. Kaneda. Right?

The Kanedas introduced me to dried lychee, which I made my mom hunt down and buy for me. Mr. Kaneda showed me the kite he was building—a huge, beautiful green caterpillar made of balsa and paper. I was in awe.

I liked Mr. Kaneda. But he was an adult. Mrs. Kaneda was my friend.

When the Kanedas had my family over for dinner one time, it wasn’t the same as adults inviting adults, with us kids tagging along and trying to behave ourselves. No, my friend was having me over for dinner, and my parents and brother were allowed to come, too.

I don’t know how much time I spent with Mrs. Kaneda. When you’re little, hours seem like years in retrospect because they’re a much larger percentage of all of the time you’ve been around. But it seemed like a lot, and it seemed like it went really fast, too.

I remember my brother coming up to tell me the Flintstones were going to have a baby, and I needed to come back home to see. So I did. Because we didn’t know about syndicated TV shows and didn’t realize that episode had already aired years before. It was happening right then and there for us. And only something that momentous would’ve pulled me away from Mrs. Kaneda’s house.

Well, time itself is momentous. The years passed, and I guess I outgrew Mrs. Kaneda. She must’ve known that would happen, but I didn’t. I just moved on.

I’d see her at neighborhood events or parties my parents threw, and I’d say hello. But by then, she was another adult. One I liked, but still. Older.

I thought of her this morning, for some reason. First time in years.

I found his obituary first. He passed in 2016, a year after she did. I’d thought she must’ve been gone by now, but it still felt like it had just happened when I saw it.

On her memorial page, you could pay to have a tree planted by the American Forests Organization. So I bought one for her.

I don’t know where it will be. They say it will go wherever trees are needed next.

I can’t remember what I drew for Mrs. Kaneda. Lots of dogs and people with heads that have limbs jutting directly from them because kids can’t really do necks and shoulders properly at that age, I assume.

But I’m willing to bet one of those drawings had at least one tree in it because all kids’ drawings have trees. They usually look like lollipops, but they’re trees. The kids know that, and everyone else does, too.

So maybe without knowing it, I was drawing the tree I’d plant for her more than 50 years later.

It’s kind of cool to think so, anyway.

I left the message above for her on her tribute page. Maybe somewhere, wherever she went, she knows.

And wherever our tree is planted, whenever it’s big enough, perhaps some kid like me will climb it while a lady like her watches.

Maybe so. Maybe not.

But it’s kind of cool to think so.