With friends the other night at Tavern on Camac, somehow the topic of Jell-O and molded desserts became the topic. This brought back childhood memories that I thought I'd like to share...
Growing up in a small town in Delaware County wasn't like growing up in one of the many small towns dotting our country where, viewed from the air, you follow a single road across the land and suddenly are surrounded by houses and mom and pop stores and a town square complete with a white-washed band stand only to find yourself back in the rural farmland once you reach the opposite end. Delaware county is a densely populated make-up of middle and upper-middle class towns stretching southwest of Philadelphia. Big employers had been the Philadelphia airport, Boeing, Septa and an assortment of refineries lining the Delaware River south of the city.
Back when I was a kid, the western edge of Delco was still rich with farmland (once you traveled through the immediate outlying suburbs of Philly), but have since been replaced with large shopping malls, mcmansion developments, apartment complexes and corporate parks. Hotels now dotted the land where cows once grazed, as the route 202 corridor on the westernmost edge of the county developed into a sprawling field of low-rise glass and concrete office buildings and research and development labs.
The town I grew up in, Clifton Heights, had also been farmland and Victorian homes. On the eastern edge of town was Darby Creek, lined with mills creating everything from paper to leather to cotton. The mills kept the town alive, even during the depression. Baltimore Avenue, the main street running through the small downtown section, was like any other storybook small town street complete with a movie theater, bank corner drug store, elementary school and high school, fire house, town hall, all nestled together among the tiny shops and houses lining the 5 block distance.
 |
| (Downtown Clifton Heights, circa early 20th century. Believe it or not, outside of asphalt and alot more signage, this block looks exactly the same) As the years wore on and after having gone through a 2nd world war, growth in Clifton Heights became more and more aggressive. Newly paved streets replaced open fields and farmland. The Delaware County Rowhome, a contemporary take of its Philadelphia counterpart popped up like long strings of dominoes. On the western edge of town, Baltimore Avenue was widened to accommodate the traffic as expansion extended westward into Secane, Springfield, Swarthmore and the county seat of Media. Fast food restaurants, motels, car dealerships and supermarkets grew from the ground like mold spoors. And the icon of them all was the Bazaar of All Nations, the first "indoor shopping mall" in the area. The Bazaar became a mecca for every resident of Delaware County. It was the heart and soul of the area and a place where you not only shopped, but hung out as a kid. It was such an icon that, after its demolition nearly 20 years ago, a local filmmaker decided the legacy needed to live on through memories, photographs and interviews. |
Washington Avenue was a small street lined on both sides with about 60 rowhomes. From as far back as I could remember, the people who had lived on my street had mostly remained there for nearly my entire childhood and well into my teens. Even now, I can mentally walk up one side of my street and down the other and remember every family that lived in each of these homes during my childhood. A few that stand out more than others are the "hippies" who lived at the bottom of the hill. The smell (later in my life recognized as pot) filled the air almost all the time around that house. The crazy old woman who lived up at the top of my street was one of the nastiest bitches I ever knew and would ever know. So nasty was she that in the mornings she would hang out in her bathroom while the kids were on their way to school and, if a one of us touched the waist-high fence that bordered her property, she would fling open the window and dump cold water down on us, all the while yelling and screaming. Her death stared could only be compared to Judge Judy when someone is acting stupid. Somewhere in my neighborhood (although not on my street) was a Korean War vet who was laughingly know as Fingers. Often seen walking the streets, he would not only talk to his fingers (and the wiggling motion kinda gave the clue that they may have been talking back), but he actually argued with them as well.
My friends all lived on my street as well. Summers were spent hanging out along the street playing with matchbox cars or G.I. Joe's (the ones with the fuzz buzz, thankyouverymuch). Sleepovers and Saturday morning cartoons were often the weekend at someone's house. Later on it was hopping on our Schwinn's (the spoiled kids got the Huffy sport bikes) and exploring the neighborhood, venturing further with each passing week. Weekends during the school year and every evening in the summers were spent roaming the corridors of The Bazaar or hanging out at the Putt-Putt mini-golf and arcade. With the teenage years came our own discovery of pot and those trips to the Bazaar and Putt-Putt were teamed up with many runs to the McDonald's or Popeye's across the pike.
Even into our late teens, the circle of life remained the same, only now used cars replaced the used bikes. It was almost like a scene out of American Graffiti, the way cars would continuously pull in and out of the parking lot and circle around the Bazaar only to come back again ten minutes later.
It wasn't until I had seen that show "The Wonder Years" that I realized that growing up on Washington Avenue was like growing up on any other small street in the country, at least back in the 60's & 70's. When a family bought a new car, it was a big deal for everyone on the street. Papas would stand proudly over the new family wagon, bragging about the newfangled power windows and hi-fi stereo while wiping a clean cloth across the faux wood panel running along the body. Mamas would bring out freshly brewed coffee in a steaming percolator and start distributing to the other mothers who could care less about the car and more about who's child did what. And the kids would run around screaming on the street until dusk even if it were a school night because they somehow knew that the parents would be setting a bad example by making the kids go inside while they hung out chatting all night.
When a family went on vacation (only 1 time a year), usually to the mountains or down the shore, they always left on a Saturday morning, but not before another ritual would take place: again, the Papas would gather around the car, making sure it's packed correctly, tugging on ropes, talking about the fastest and easiest route and making sure the the driver remembered to have the car serviced. Again, the Mamas are inside finishing up the last of the coffee, talking about what to visit and agreeing over the frustration of having to clean the house and do all the laundry in time to leave at a designated time that had already passed by. And again, the kids are running around the street, excited for no other reason than being a kid. At least until you reach the rebellious stage (13) and you feel you're too old to be going away with "The Parents", but are forced to anyway. These kids stand against the car, moping and speaking to no one. These are the kids who, when the time finally comes and they are all safely in the car, has his head leaning against the window frame looking like he's on his way back to school instead of the Wildwood beaches. And these are the kids who would have a blast on the boardwalk and on the beach and have the time of his/her life, until it was time to join the family again for the annual all-you-can-eat fish n' chip extravaganza dinner.
These were some good times growing up and, as the novelist, Barbara Kingslover once said:
"It's surprising how much
memory is built
around things unnoticed
at the time..."
Pfffft....Clifton Heights. You grew up Chester, Brown....who're you kidding? LOL!
ReplyDelete