Travel Guide

The word square was used to describe a public space in early New England towns. The concept originated in European city planning practices: the French place d’arms, the German platz, the Spanish plaza. Courthouses and markets were established there. In every New England town, in every New England square, sits a plain white church that never fails to strike the viewer, no matter how common the architectural style is, no matter their personal level of religiosity. These town squares are some of the oldest continuously used spaces in America. 

My town square has it all: the church, the courthouse, the series of small stores. All of the businesses are compact and independently owned: old family establishments that rely on nonna’s cannoli recipe, newer ventures overflowing with tchotchkes that attract older women and tourists. 

In my opinion, the best time to visit the New England town square is winter. Yes, I know about autumn–about the flurry of color that inspires people to go on leaf peeping trips (that’s what we call looking at fall foliage). 

But when winter creeps in everyone decorates the buildings: fake snow lines windows, real wreaths hang on doors, a huge decorated tree stands in the center of the square. Christmas carols trickle out from the shops nonstop; the smell of hot cocoa and gingerbread is ever-present. Children run and play, slipping and sliding, their laughter leaving streams of steam behind them in the cold air. When the snow falls lightly, hanging on your hair and falling on your tongue–there’s nothing more beautiful. Yes, winter is the best time for the New England square.

One morning last winter, frost crept up under the fake snow on the windows of the cafe I work at. After I got to work my fingers hurt for several minutes as they adjusted to the warmth of the bakery. I tried rubbing my hands, still in their woolen gloves; I tried holding a cup of hot tea even though I wasn’t thirsty. Nothing worked. (Yes, despite the charm of snow, the colder weather comes with its downfalls–be prepared with your own jacket and scarf or the money to buy an expensive designer winter outfit while you’re here. If you go to the church sale on Sunday, someone’s grandma will sell you a thick set of beautifully knit mittens. I guarantee it.) 

Once my morning duties were done, I had time to force the tea down–I would need the caffeine to keep a smile on for the first customers of the day. I sat at one of the tables, allowing the warmth of the liquid to creep down my throat and unfurl into my limbs. It was going to be a good day, a beautiful day. I could feel it.

The street lamps that lined the square were still on and it created a picturesque scene. Snowflakes began to descend slowly and innocently as if they did not have the potential to barricade us in, forcing us to spend hours digging ourselves out. A smile lined my lips as I watched the white flakes fall against the early morning darkness. 

There was a man on his knees outside the gourmet pet store across the street. I could imagine how the cold had reached through his thin pants and worked its way into his bones. Jones. He was an older man that came down to the square looking for money to buy alcohol from the packie (that’s what we call a package store here.) There’s no point in lying about that. But he would always accept a cup of warm soup or a slice of bread with a smile. If nobody was around he would just read a newspaper he scrounged from one of the benches.The local social worker often stopped to engage him and offer him a bed somewhere but he always declined.  He made his home wherever the liquor was. She would decorate him with donations: gloves, Stop & Shop gift cards, a government paid phone. She slowly poured her love into him. He just wasn’t ready to fully accept it. 

When the tourists come in to get a taste of our beautiful New England Christmas they are often shocked and upset by his presence. They don’t leave the city to find more ugliness and poverty–they don’t want to believe these social ills are pervasive and exist in small town America. Jones would ask for their mercy. But Jones recognized that while they wanted to pour their funds into the local economy, they didn’t think he counted as part of it. He rarely collected anything from them except for the remains of meals they couldn’t take back to their rooms because there were no refrigerators in their quaint B&Bs. He would wait until they walked by before throwing these unsolicited things away. Who would want to eat a stranger’s leftovers? He just didn’t want to be rude by outright rejecting them.

Our job as townies is to pick Jones up after these exchanges–to offer him some change or an old magazine and to look him in the eyes instead of just walking by.

I looked at my watch. Eight minutes before opening. I was sure I could make his coffee–he likes it regular (what we call adding cream and sugar–) and run it and a blueberry muffin over to him. My boss wouldn’t mind—in fact, she’d do just the same. Jones wouldn’t mind, either–even if it wasn’t Dunkin Donuts.

_____

Callie S. Blackstone writes both poetry and prose. Her work has been published in Hayden's Ferry Review, Rust + Moth, and elsewhere. Her debut chapbook sing eternal is now out with Bottlecap Press. You can find her online home at calliesblackstone.com.