A detour into long summers past

By Janice Jakubowitcz

My dentist's office in Northeast Philadelphia is across the street from the elementary school I attended in the 1950s. It is also near the house I lived in with my parents and younger sister. Once, after a dental appointment, I had a couple minutes before rushing off to do Saturday errands. I felt a sentimental pull and turned right on my former street instead of taking the 20-minute ride home.

That turn took me to the house that my mother sold when my father died in 1993. A typical modest rowhouse built after World War II, it had a small front lawn and a driveway in the back. It was a big step up for my parents, who grew up in urban Strawberry Mansion. Our block had a small-town feeling.

Our small street ran perpendicular to the neighborhood's shopping corridor. We had a corner grocery store, a butcher, a pharmacy, a delicatessen, a fish store, a hardware store, clothing stores, a gas station and a bank. You could fill most of your needs within a couple blocks.

When I was old enough, I ran errands for my mother to the bakery or grocery stores. I remember hoping that she would let me keep the change from the dollar bills she gave me for her purchases. Now, those businesses are long gone.

Most houses had two parents with a couple of children and one car. We knew almost everyone on the street, and they knew us. On hot summer days, the children splashed in little pools placed in the concrete driveways. Parents sat on the patios on metal chairs and talked after dinner. When we were old enough to walk by ourselves, groups of friends went to the community pool and playground. We stood in long lines waiting to go in, splash, sit on the concrete, and eat a hot dog from the snack bar.

The status quo lasted for most of my childhood. Rarely did anyone move away; I think we had only one or two new homeowners. But eventually every neighborhood changes: Children grow up; people retire, move or die.

Our street changed, too. I found out recently that all of the neighbors I knew had left that street, one way or another.

The day I drove by, no one was outside. Everything looked similar except for a fence installed here, newer doors and windows there.

I approached my house. (I still think of it as mine.) There were no parking spots, so I stopped in the middle of the street. The landscape had changed a little, and the metal patio chairs that I thought so ugly were gone.

I recalled those summer days when we were so bored we whined to our mothers that there was nothing to do. Life seemed so simple, so safe and happy, then.

Since no car came up behind me, I had a few more minutes to daydream. I really wanted to ring the doorbell and have a peak inside.

The woman who bought the house from my mother is the aunt of one of my coworkers. Ironic, isn't it? In the age of fear and suspicion we live in, I doubted that someone would let a stranger inside. Then a car pulled behind me and stopped the reminiscing. I put the car in drive and moved away from my memories.

Someday I'll ask my coworker whether his aunt would let a sentimental baby boomer have one more look at her childhood home. I wonder whether the new owner kept the white tile floor in my bedroom or the ballet bar in the basement.