DAYS OF EIGHT ****************************** So I spent some time on Charles Street Saturday. The weather was beautiful. I took a couple of picture with my laptop to assist in my writing. Take a look at the faces of these two girls! I wasnt aware of what I was shooting as the camera is on front and I turned it around. Made me laugh. ***************************************************** He felt the rest of his senses clear and he could hear the sounds of Charles Street; to his left, the robust chatter of men drinking in The Sevens, voices that mingled with the sounds of glasses full of golden beer, clanking and banging off the bar top and tables, sounds muted by the frothy head that lined the perfectly poured beer. To his right, the sound of clattering dishes accompanied a gentle symphony of knives and forks bouncing and rat-a-tatting across dishes, ones made of perfectly cast white china, unblemished and so shiny you could see your reflection in them. He could hear the ice filled water glasses as they were replenished from a pitcher so clear, it and the cubes sparkled like a large diamond. He took a deep breath, filling his chest and head with the aroma of meats and sauces and fresh bread, the kind that you could eat all day long; mouthfuls of baguettes that melted under warm pads of butter. The sounds coming from the red-bricked stores, shops, and restaurants overcame those from the procession of cars that toiled down the street. After passing Putnam Avenue, a narrow roadway leading to the cobblestone streets of Beacon Hill, the smells and sounds changed again and again, from building to building. Antique stores, most two or three steps below grade, appeared, each having its own unique smell, a mix of dust and mildew, a suitable environment for priceless collections of art and furniture. He listened to the melodic symphony of shoes, clicking and clacking along the brick sidewalks, cut, chipped, and wedged into place between the low granite curbs and the planters where leafy trees were protected by low, wrought iron fences. Danny walked, taking deep breaths that cleared his head and reminded him how lucky he was. If the knife had gone in a little deeper or a little more to the left or right, things would have been different. He stopped at Revere Street, a former cow path, one so small it should have been abandoned, here in Boston it was a street. He admired the buildings, three and four story brick structures, sprouting from the edge of the brick sidewalks and accessed up wide granite steps, all milled from the Quincy Quarries. On the floors above, small copper framed, three-sided alcoves popped out over the sidewalk, little sitting areas where you could see up and down the elm lined streets and below, where the face of the building intersected the sidewalk, small metal grates lay in front of little windows protected by wrought iron grills that rose, like rigid metallic vines in front of the openings that ventilated the lower floors. The iconic gas lamps that defined Beacon Hill flickered continuously, vigilant sentries of the night. A large Ionic wooden column, as thick as a tree, held the corner of the building to his left up, creating an entryway to the corner store. A number of small iron balconies sat above as did a number of window boxes overflowing with a colorful array of flowers. Wrought iron fire escapes resembling great bird cages, were bolted on the front of several buildings, connected from floor to floor with a set of metal stairs. The ironwork cast crinkled shadows from the light above, mixing with the shadows from the sidewalks in front. To his right, the tallest of the buildings stood erect like a soldier in full dress, a six story brick building with fine white mortar, five floors of which were apartments and all sitting above a glass framed store, the entirety of which was housed behind poured concrete set with intricate plate-like patterns between the first two floors. A series of granite blocks leaped to the ski, over the corner of the building for the remaining floors, the architectural assemblage looking like some kind of prehistoric backbone comprised of large interlocking vertebrae. Busy people, men suited in shirts and ties, and tall, stately women, all with places to go walked by. Young mothers in sockless sneakers pushed colorful baby carriages on their way to the Public Gardens, listing and tilting as they bounced over the uneven bricks, gate valves, water boxes, manholes, and rusted grates that intermittingly popped out below windows in front of the buildings. Two by three feet wide, the grills, level with the sidewalk, sat above a four foot deep, granite lined pit that provided light and ventilation to the windows below. Most of them still functioned while others had been filled in with dirt while others had been concreted over. Many of the buildings were covered with large pieces of grey slate, streaked from the copper nails that anchored them to the wooden roof system below. The pitched rooftops were religiously interrupted with tall dormers that extended from the roof line to the building line below. Intricate gutters, made of curled and hammered sheets of copper ran across the front of the roofs like a long eyebrow. The newer ones flashed in the light, reflecting the red and pink and orange hues seeded from the sun above. The older ones were a dark and green patina, seasoned from their age. Danny weaved down the street, around wooden fruit stands, four rows deep and filled with tomatoes, apples, plums, peaches, and ripe bananas. He passed by several book stores, so full with literature and journals, some were displayed in large wooden boxes that flowed out, onto the sidewalk.
Posted on: Mon, 22 Sep 2014 02:17:39 +0000
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