Georgetown Row Houses
Until the age of eleven, I lived in a row house close to neighbors, where friends were easily made and it was safe to roam the streets.
Then and Now
Last Saturday was my birthday. I was born on Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, which ushers in the Days of Awe that last through Yom Kippur. According to the Jewish calendar, fall rituals have been happening for 5779 years. These high holy days are a time for remembrance, contemplation and forgiveness. It is a solemn occasion, yet joyous, for with forgiveness comes healing and joy. Children are blessed, extra charity is dispersed and honey cakes eaten to usher in a sweet year.
While celebrating my birthday and the holiday, I reminisced about my childhood and dead relatives. My first recollection as an infant was of my father waking me in my crib and while half asleep, carrying me downstairs to a house full of friends partying in our living room. I was bewildered by the noise, but the faces that peered in my direction were friendly. Dad held me securely, as he and my mother did throughout the years I lived at home.
This memory brings to mind images of less fortunate families, those fleeing homes because of war or famine. I remember seeing a pictures of a child who drowned at sea while his parents watched helplessly from an overcrowded boat. Courageous men and women live through unimaginable adversity in order to escape the tragic realities of their homeland. At the same time, the images make me grateful, for I was held securely, never dropped or neglected, but always loved, cradled and protected.
Grandpa protected us by roaming the neighborhood during WWII to make sure blackout shades were lowered. Mother watched out for us by carefully clipping rations to insure that we ate balanced meals that included vegetables from my grandparent’s victory garden. When the men left for the front and an aunt and cousins came to live with us, the adults shielded us from the brutality the war, made sure our early years were happy ones.
Later, when the U.S. was embroiled in the Cold War, there were no adults to protect me from fear. Air-raid drills and bomb shelter talk put me in a state of continuous worry. I felt stressed and wanted to move far away from the coast, believing that Boston would be a prime target. Propaganda said we’d be safe ducking under school desks to avoid harm from a blast. We were told to make preparations in case the had to stay in a basement shelter for several days. I became cynical after realizing we were lied to and being fed propaganda. It reinforced a belief that my future was tied to education. I wanted to be able to dig for the truth and make decisions based on fact. But I digress. . .
Until my eleventh birthday I lived in a lower middle-class area of Philadelphia during a time peddlers hawked wares on the streets. I used to run outside the moment the organ grinder stopped to play in front of our house. His music attracted neighborhood kids with nickels to place in the monkey’s cup. Dressed in colorful shorts and red jacket, we were mesmerized as the animal ran back and forth from music box to the organ grinder’s shoulders.
Some families still used ice boxes instead of electric refrigerators, which brought the ice truck to a nearby corner. The iceman’s arrival always attracted a crowd of kids to his tailgate on hot summer days. When finished with deliveries, he took out his long icepick and chipped slivers of ice to put in outstretched hands. Licking icicles was a cooling way to enjoy the heat—and it cost nothing. However, the Howdy Doody truck which jingled later in the day, was also popular. I always tried to be first in line to get a popsicle.
Summer was for leisure and play. Hours were not heavily booked with classes and camps. We had plenty of time to splash in the water gushing from a hydrant that was opened by a friendly fireman and to play Hide and Seek, Jacks or Red Light, Green Light. Stay-at-home-moms watched out for our safety. I could get a band aid or drink of water at anyone’s house.
Today, I rarely see children gathering in the neighborhood for a pick-up game of ball or hopscotch. During vacations, most are away at camps or classes. When home, their parents hover over with worry, fearing that they’ll be hit by a car driving fast down our windy street or even kidnapped. Instead of letting them explore a nearby trail on their own, they accompany them on prescribed walks. No one would be permitted to play Red Rover, Red Rover across the road.
My biggest fear is fire. Last summer, my partner Ray, organized a fire watch for we were afraid of someone accidentally setting off a blaze in the dry canyon edging our property. Fortunately there were no incidents nor was water consumption limited but I fear a warming planet may make it happen one day. I empathize with residents of California who lost everything to fires that whipped through their neighborhoods. I”m grateful to live in the northwest where it is not as hot, and hope we will have enough water and resources in the future to care for thousands of people flowing to Portland to escape unlivable heat.
In my twenties, I lived near Harvard University in Cambridge, MA. In many ways, shopping was easier then than it is now, for vendors still hawked wares up and down our street. The milkman delivered dairy goods, baby diapers arrived and were taken away twice weekly. The Salvation Army’s band entertained us as it marched by our front steps. Trucks piled high with fresh fruits would be followed by one peddling pots and pans. And of course, everywhere we went the ice-cream truck jingled its tune. My favorite vendor, however, was the knife sharpener. For a few coins, scissors and knives were kept dangerously sharp. Now, I depend on Ray to do the job when he has time. I’m too lazy to take them to a hardware store for sharpening. I used to walk to the grocery, meat market, hardware store, and I took sheets and shirts to the laundry where they were washed and ironed for such a reasonable sum that everyone, even college students, could afford to do so.
Today, most of us drive to mega stores, park a block away from the front door. But, I noticed that there is a revival of inbound services. Not only can you get pizza delivered, but groceries and entire cooked or uncooked oven-ready meals can be delivered to your front door. Working adults are happily pampered by tip seeking deliverymen who make their lives easier. They certainly have benefited my wheelchair bound son.
I am, however, still a holdout waiting for the knife sharpener to come around. My scissors are dull.
Art is always for sale. Contact me at marilynne@eichingerfineart.com.
Do share some of your fond memories from childhood and contrast them with how you live today.
Georgetown Row Houses
Until the age of eleven, I lived in a row house close to neighbors, where friends were easily made and it was safe to roam the streets.
Then and Now
Last Saturday was my birthday. I was born on Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, which ushers in the Days of Awe that last through Yom Kippur. According to the Jewish calendar, fall rituals have been happening for 5779 years. These high holy days are a time for remembrance, contemplation and forgiveness. It is a solemn occasion, yet joyous, for with forgiveness comes healing and joy. Children are blessed, extra charity is dispersed and honey cakes eaten to usher in a sweet year.
While celebrating my birthday and the holiday, I reminisced about my childhood and dead relatives. My first recollection as an infant was of my father waking me in my crib and while half asleep, carrying me downstairs to a house full of friends partying in our living room. I was bewildered by the noise, but the faces that peered in my direction were friendly. Dad held me securely, as he and my mother did throughout the years I lived at home.
This memory brings to mind images of less fortunate families, those fleeing homes because of war or famine. I remember seeing a pictures of a child who drowned at sea while his parents watched helplessly from an overcrowded boat. Courageous men and women live through unimaginable adversity in order to escape the tragic realities of their homeland. At the same time, the images make me grateful, for I was held securely, never dropped or neglected, but always loved, cradled and protected.
Grandpa protected us by roaming the neighborhood during WWII to make sure blackout shades were lowered. Mother watched out for us by carefully clipping rations to insure that we ate balanced meals that included vegetables from my grandparent’s victory garden. When the men left for the front and an aunt and cousins came to live with us, the adults shielded us from the brutality the war, made sure our early years were happy ones.
Later, when the U.S. was embroiled in the Cold War, there were no adults to protect me from fear. Air-raid drills and bomb shelter talk put me in a state of continuous worry. I felt stressed and wanted to move far away from the coast, believing that Boston would be a prime target. Propaganda said we’d be safe ducking under school desks to avoid harm from a blast. We were told to make preparations in case the had to stay in a basement shelter for several days. I became cynical after realizing we were lied to and being fed propaganda. It reinforced a belief that my future was tied to education. I wanted to be able to dig for the truth and make decisions based on fact. But I digress. . .
Until my eleventh birthday I lived in a lower middle-class area of Philadelphia during a time peddlers hawked wares on the streets. I used to run outside the moment the organ grinder stopped to play in front of our house. His music attracted neighborhood kids with nickels to place in the monkey’s cup. Dressed in colorful shorts and red jacket, we were mesmerized as the animal ran back and forth from music box to the organ grinder’s shoulders.
Some families still used ice boxes instead of electric refrigerators, which brought the ice truck to a nearby corner. The iceman’s arrival always attracted a crowd of kids to his tailgate on hot summer days. When finished with deliveries, he took out his long icepick and chipped slivers of ice to put in outstretched hands. Licking icicles was a cooling way to enjoy the heat—and it cost nothing. However, the Howdy Doody truck which jingled later in the day, was also popular. I always tried to be first in line to get a popsicle.
Summer was for leisure and play. Hours were not heavily booked with classes and camps. We had plenty of time to splash in the water gushing from a hydrant that was opened by a friendly fireman and to play Hide and Seek, Jacks or Red Light, Green Light. Stay-at-home-moms watched out for our safety. I could get a band aid or drink of water at anyone’s house.
Today, I rarely see children gathering in the neighborhood for a pick-up game of ball or hopscotch. During vacations, most are away at camps or classes. When home, their parents hover over with worry, fearing that they’ll be hit by a car driving fast down our windy street or even kidnapped. Instead of letting them explore a nearby trail on their own, they accompany them on prescribed walks. No one would be permitted to play Red Rover, Red Rover across the road.
My biggest fear is fire. Last summer, my partner Ray, organized a fire watch for we were afraid of someone accidentally setting off a blaze in the dry canyon edging our property. Fortunately there were no incidents nor was water consumption limited but I fear a warming planet may make it happen one day. I empathize with residents of California who lost everything to fires that whipped through their neighborhoods. I”m grateful to live in the northwest where it is not as hot, and hope we will have enough water and resources in the future to care for thousands of people flowing to Portland to escape unlivable heat.
In my twenties, I lived near Harvard University in Cambridge, MA. In many ways, shopping was easier then than it is now, for vendors still hawked wares up and down our street. The milkman delivered dairy goods, baby diapers arrived and were taken away twice weekly. The Salvation Army’s band entertained us as it marched by our front steps. Trucks piled high with fresh fruits would be followed by one peddling pots and pans. And of course, everywhere we went the ice-cream truck jingled its tune. My favorite vendor, however, was the knife sharpener. For a few coins, scissors and knives were kept dangerously sharp. Now, I depend on Ray to do the job when he has time. I’m too lazy to take them to a hardware store for sharpening. I used to walk to the grocery, meat market, hardware store, and I took sheets and shirts to the laundry where they were washed and ironed for such a reasonable sum that everyone, even college students, could afford to do so.
Today, most of us drive to mega stores, park a block away from the front door. But, I noticed that there is a revival of inbound services. Not only can you get pizza delivered, but groceries and entire cooked or uncooked oven-ready meals can be delivered to your front door. Working adults are happily pampered by tip seeking deliverymen who make their lives easier. They certainly have benefited my wheelchair bound son.
I am, however, still a holdout waiting for the knife sharpener to come around. My scissors are dull.
Art is always for sale. Contact me at marilynne@eichingerfineart.com.
Do share some of your fond memories from childhood and contrast them with how you live today.