C Avenue memories

Driving down C Avenue one day, the familiar surroundings suddenly became unfamiliar to me, for I was seeing the street not as it was at the moment but how the city proposes to change it. Suddenly I felt a moment of nostalgia and a sense of ‘How dare they!’

It didn’t matter that it would turn from an unruly country lane into a neatly defined city street with proper curbing, actual driveways and controlled parking or how neat it would all look. How would it look, I wondered. That’s when it suddenly all changed and why I felt a moment of anger. It would look like a street worthy of being in the city, but I would lose all that I remembered from all these years of traveling this street. Rather juvenile, I told myself.

It was rather like taking away a freedom to Be. The freedom to stretch out your arms and shake off confinement.

Isn’t that funny. I wasn’t considering how the residents along that street might feel about it nor was I giving credit to the advantages it might have to offer. Rather, I seemed to be stuck in some time warp that held me from progressing with the rest of the world.

Maybe I couldn’t remember far enough back, back when there was no paving on that street at all and bad weather turned it into a muddy trespass.

Actually, I could. Back when the sidewalks were sparse and progress brought wooden sidewalks so that folks could avoid the dust and mud. If it hadn’t been for the later pouring of that sidewalk (Was that done by Chris Hildebrandt as were so many other sidewalks?) from Alder Street (Sunset Avenue), we couldn’t have donned our roller skates and rolled all the way down to Grandmother Hofmann’s grocery store at the corner of C Avenue  and Fourth Street. At Alder we would fasten the metal rollers to our shoes by way of a key to tighten the clasp at the front and buckle the leather strap across the ankle, then sail down the street past Rostocks, Montgomerys, the Chinese man’s garden, Mill Canyon Creek, Turnbows, Knapps, Spears Grocery and, finally, across Fourth Street to reach Hofmann’s Grocery where Grandmother would welcome us with her big smile.

Yes, those are the thoughts I had about it as I drove down C Avenue and thinking about Gene’s and my conversation about the “olden days’’ when we were both kids. I remembered his mom so vividly, for she had lived across the street from some of my relatives. We cousins would sit in her house while our mothers would be across the street having their sewing club. It was in Edna’s house that I learned to crochet. But, I’m getting off the subject, for I was talking about C Avenue and not around the corner on Cedar.

I grew up and gradually C Avenue itself grew more defined with the application of substances giving it a base more pleasant for folks to drive upon, but cars could still park willy-nilly along its dirt edges and the street kept its feeling of wideness. One gradual step to another until today it plans to graduate into a real city street with all the amenities offered elsewhere. Why do I decry it?

The changes are bound to make it better, or so they say, and it can’t take away my memory of “the old days.’’ So why should I feel a sense of sadness as though I’m losing another old friend, for in time no one will remember or care how it was?

I just hope that someone takes some good pictures to preserve how it looked as I see it with the area less hemmed in and life felt more casual and relaxed.

This, too, must pass and, possibly, be better off for it.

*  *  * * *

He waved and I waved back. I’m sure he didn’t know me nor I him, but we had something in common. Our 1986 cars were alike.

It’s funny how simple things draw folks together. In that moment, we

were buddies. A warm feeling to start my day.

*  *  * * *

A young man spent the better part of an hour with me in deep discussion.

He was a sensitive soul and I wanted so much to find words of wisdom to pass on from just having observed life, but, when I needed them most, they failed me.

With my ears, I listened. My mouth responded. I’m not sure they were in sync.

*  *  * * *

I was having lunch in town on this day when a young man came in and spoke to me. He looked familiar but his name slipped away as names seem to do with me. I was studying who he could be when he spoke to me. Then I knew,

Yes, we had spoken once before.

He was kind enough to sit with me for a short while and I was enjoying our visit learning about him when he had to leave. I wish him well.

Moments like the above brighten an old woman’s day. Young people have so very much to offer when we take time to listen.

Veteran newspaperwoman Dorothy Swart Fleshman is a La Grande native. Her column runs every Friday. Reach her by e-mail at  This e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it