I think to myself :
“What a strange name, “Belle Isle Blue,” for a story that will end with a burst of bright, neon orange!” But that’s the title I’m sticking with, the title that fits. I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s journey through time, all the way back to 1966 Detroit, Michigan, the sandy beach at Belle Isle.
My chubby 5-year old self was always the last one out of the water. My two older brothers, Roy, 7, and Tino, 6 , were already drying themselves off, laughing and running to the car, racing each other. My brother , Roy, had this toothy , bright smile and dark eyes. Tino’s lips were turning purple and he shivered as he pulled his towel closer around his shoulders. Most of the other family picnics had packed up and gone, trying to avoid the long line of cars waiting to cross the bridge and get home.
I was still in the Detroit River , feeling the sand in my toes and just smiling.
“Ruben! Let’s go ! It’s getting dark! C’mon!,” my mother insisted.
Mom knew how much I loved the water. She knew I could stand there until the stars ,one by one , filled the night sky. But it was dark now and everyone wanted to get going.
I took Mom’s hand as she reached for me, enfolding me in a towel and gently brushing the wet strands of hair from my eyes, her hug drying me and keeping me warm.
“If we hurry, we might catch up with the Good Humor man !” The Good Humor ice cream truck strategically parked itself just a few picnic tables away from the bridge entrance making sure it could snag the stragglers who weren’t ready to give up the day, not yet.
I’m not sure whose smile was brighter and whose satisfaction was deeper, mine with my day-glow orange Push-Up already dripping down my little, brown fingers or Mom’s , carefully holding her Toasted Almond bar, a flavor she said she’s always loved ever since she was a kid in Dearborn Township in the 1940’s and 50’s.
Back to June 2024, present-day reality. Maybe it’s not fair to give a sad name, “Belle Isle Blue,” to such a happy day. I’m not sugar-coating my memory. It really happened. No embellishment. The joy was real.
I’m being selfish, though. I wanted that jubilant orange ice cream to be the symbolic turning point , the catalyst for a happy ending, or at least a happy childhood. But that’s not fair. Or true. An ice cream is, after all, just an ice cream, no matter how sticky, bright, and delicious.
“Belle Isle Blue,” is not a cruel , unfeeling title that dishonors the beauty of a shared ice cream , a shared day of beach fun with the family. Rather, it’s a way of holding onto that memory , preserving it , keeping it vibrant and clear in my mind that my truth, my Detroit is one that I still swoon over and cherish.
“Belle Isle Blue,” is about one by one, my brothers leaving Detroit. Mom too. Dad stayed and sank deeper into his life of frightening choices. Maybe I should’ve left too.
We all must save ourselves in our own way.
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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From The Good Men Project on Medium
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