A hazy shade of winter

It is Sunday morning, and I still cannot shake the groaning internal dialogue and the shivers that seized my spine less than 48 hours ago.

Maybe it was the photos: those black and white testaments to days of old, when men were men and felt invincible despite all evidence to the contrary.

Maybe it was the fruit punch or the company I was keeping on Friday night.

But whatever the reason, and regardless of the catalyst that triggered it, the ghosts were there and in full-force.

My mind drifted as I walked down Main Street in Biddeford under a cover of darkness sliced by a full-winter moon.

And it did not take long for the taunting to begin.

At first, it was just a collection of whispers; hard to distinguish above the din of passing cars and the music throbbing from an outdoor speaker at the Wonderbar Restaurant.

I tried to ignore the ghosts and their playful taunts, focusing my eyes on the young couple having dinner at a window table in Bebe’s Burritos, nodding to the young men who passed me on their way to the Oak and Axe.

But with each step along the sidewalk, the whispering became more defined and harder to ignore.

I kept my head down low, and took a long drag from my cigarette. I was on my way to meet Laura for dinner. I had neither the time nor the inclination to engage in this foolishness.

But the ghosts would not let go.

“It is a good night,” I heard one of them say. “Our city is back, there is life here.”

“Yas, baby,” another ghost responded between sips of Canadian Club whiskey from his hip flask. “We will not be forgotten or ignored by these punks.”

I pulled up my collar and steadied my course toward my waiting wife and the Chinese restaurant.

I could hear the sound of brawls from the Water Street tenement buildings, where tired mill workers were drinking warm Schmidt beers on a cold February night.

In a forgotten, smoke-filled, back room — in a building that no longer stands — Renald and Gilbert were arguing about Dempsey and playing their card game.

The stench of coal from the gasification plant was stifling. The second shift textile workers were counting the hours, and a line was gathering outside the Lightning Club, where young bucks combed their hair full of grease, and the school girls from St. Andre’s giggled with delight.

Further down the street, Sal Mineo’s name was illuminated on a marquee. The short-order cook from the Puritan — taking a quick cigarette break in an Alfred Street alleyway — nodded at me, before fading into the bricks of today’s reality.

I paused there for a moment — at the intersection of Alfred and Main Street, maybe a quarter-mile from the banks of the Saco River — feeling strangely content, despite my disquieting thoughts.

The ghosts — as many as 12 of them — kept walking, laughing as they continued down the street.

Only a few minutes prior I made an observation to others who also attended the opening of “The Way We Were” photo exhibit at the upper end of Main Street.

“When our economy worsens, our communities seem to become stronger,” I hypothesized. “Just like when the immigrants first came here in search of prosperity in the land of the free and the brave, we celebrate with one another and share common resources when not distracted by the lustre of individual gains.

“We know that we are okay, because we celebrate and commiserate with our neighbors, our friends and our peers.

“We are stronger, when we are together. We are better.”

Now, standing in the foyer of that Chinese restaurant, I could feel the warmth of the city streets.

And I could not help but think of my old friend Bob Dodge, a man I miss almost every day. A man who loved this city, the way a groom loves his bride on their wedding day.

It’s been three years since I’ve had the pleasure of seeing Bob’s infectious smile.

But I knew that Bob Dodge would be smiling tonight on the eve of La Fete d’ Hiver.

This kid who grew up in a Quimby Street triple-decker, left an unmistakable mark on his beloved hometown.

Who could be better to lead this community’s economic and community development efforts than a local boy  inspired by the Kennedy brothers and motivated by sheer passion and will?

I looked down the street, watching those laughing, joyful ghosts as they faded over the diminishing hill just beyond my view. “Hey, Bob,” I whispered . . . wondering if he was there.

Maybe it was my imagination. Maybe it was wishful thinking.

But I swear, he paused and turned back from his group, waving to me in the darkness.

“It’s okay, Randy” he shouted back. “Go have dinner, relax. Me and the boys will be back.”

And with that . . . the ghosts disappeared, fading into the mid-February darkness, and I was left only with the lingering words of French poet Arthur Rimbaud:

“Qu’il vienne, qu’l vienne! Les temps dont s’eprenne.”