They’re finally paving the street.

I came home from Mammoth two weeks ago to a note in my mailbox.  With a chart that was almost too much to comprehend.  Detailing the paving schedule for my neighborhood.

They grooved out the street at the end of the alley last week.  You know what it’s like driving on those.  You get the washboard effect and wonder if you’ll get rim damage.  But in front of my house…  The day never arrived.

Then Monday trucks started to appear.  But there wasn’t much grinding, very little grooving.  I was waiting for that routing sound, which presaged laying down a new coat of asphalt.  But I never heard it.  But when I went out to retrieve the "Wall Street JournaL" this morning, I was confronted with smoke and dust, and the sound of heavy equipment.  I leaned into the street and saw a row of fresh asphalt.  Kind of like the lump of dirt construction workers leave behind when they dig a trench.  And when I went out to dispose of some newspapers just now, I was confronted with quietude.  Could they be done?

Then a pickup truck whizzed by.  I decided to take a closer look.

The side he was driving on was still clear, but on my side of the street the asphalt pile had been flattened, into a brand new roadway.  I looked into the distance, a block in either direction I saw workers.  But right in front of me the street was now empty.

And then I smelled it.

I’d forgotten asphalt even had a smell.

I had to get closer.  A foot away I could see the pattern.  Of stones and oil.  I had the impulse to touch it.  The kind that gets little kids writing their names in fresh concrete.  But was it still hot?  How long does asphalt stay hot.

And then it came pouring over me.  Summers growing up.  When they paved streets in my neighborhood.  After school had let out, when you got up early and immediately went outside in the fresh air.  I’d stand there in my shorts and t-shirt, watching the trucks go by.  And then there’d be this fresh layer of roadway.  Which would take a few days to cure.  To the point where we could skateboard on it when we were older.

I thought of my old house.  How my mother doesn’t live there anymore.  And then "Same Old Lang Syne" started playing in my head.

Just for a moment I was back at school
And felt that old familiar pain
And as I turned to make my way back home
The snow turned into rain

I’ll never be that young again.  I’ll never have my whole life in front of me.  But for five minutes today, I felt like little Bobby Lefsetz of Fairfield, Connecticut.  Dazzled by the wonders of everyday life.