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Root beer Fizzies, snickerdoodles, Mrs. Moody's petunias, penny
candy, and clothes dancing on the line. “Howdy Doody” time, and “oly,
oly oxen free” echoing in the night as fireflies blinked like tiny stars
within our reach. Ah, the sweet memories of growing up in the 1950s.
It’s more than half a century since my family lived on South Prairie
Street in Bradley, IL. I was only nine when we moved from the “old
neighborhood” in 1959. Since then, I’ve returned many times in heart,
in mind, and in recurring dreams of living in a tree-lined child’s
paradise filled with girls my age – Patty, Lillette, Margie, Mary and
Brenda, and a bunch of other kids a bit younger or older, including my
three siblings. Most recently, I returned in person with Patty, who I
hadn’t seen in 35 years.
They say you can’t go back, because “back” isn’t there anymore. But
in memory,
you can go back, and we did. It was magic! As Patty and I walked
through the old neighborhood, our senses were alive with the raw joys
of childhood.
Through the rosy glow of memories, Prairie Street was like a Norman
Rockwell portrait of quintessential America. Yielding to nostalgia’s
ache, we traced the steps of childhood and embraced its innocence
and simplicity.
Once again, we clenched pennies in our tiny fists as we walked to
Bispings, the neighborhood store where candy lined shelves behind
the counter – root beer barrels, Bazooka gum, flying saucers, candy
buttons, licorice whips; and for a nickel we could buy a popsicle or a
colorful pack of Nik-L-Nip wax bottles filled with sweet juice. On the
way out, we fed the gumball machine, and what a thrill it was to see
trinkets or pop beads roll out with the gum.
Summertime was the best. Mom let me go out to play at 8 a.m., but
Patty wasn’t always up by then. I’d sit on her front doorstep watching
ants build homes in the sidewalk cracks until I heard her mom
puttering in the kitchen. Then I’d stand at the door and sing “Paaaaaa-
ty.” You see, back in the ‘50s, kids didn’t knock on doors. We just
sang the names of our friends, over and over, until someone
answered.
Her mom, one of the prettiest moms on the block, always opened the
door with a warm smile that made kids feel special. If Patty was
sleeping, she’d ask me to come back later. Otherwise, she’d invite me
in for cinnamon toast and Bosco, and we’d chit-chat while Patty got
dressed.
Before long, screen doors slammed up and down the block as our
friends greeted the day, ready to play. We usually gathered at Lillette’
s house because she had the biggest front porch, the smoothest
sidewalk, and a huge paved driveway that was great for skating.
Besides that, her mom grew petunias.
We sat pretzel-legged on Lillette’s porch playing jacks, challenging
each other with “onesies,” “twosies” and scooping “eggs in a basket.”
When the game no longer held our interest, we turned our energies to
hopscotch, the “sky blue” version.
One of us usually had a stub of chalk to draw the game on the
sidewalk. Then we’d all run home to get our “markers.” Broken jewelry
chains worked best, but linked bobby pins, trinkets, or even a rock
would do. Humidity dripped from our sun-kissed cheeks and heat
climbed our skinny legs as we hopped from square to square, all the
while dodging frantic ants.
During our recent visit to the old neighborhood, a wistful smile graced
Patty’s face as we walked past her childhood home. The maple
sapling her dad planted years ago has grown beyond Patty’s “knee-
high” memories and now towers above all other trees on the block.
As we made our way down the street, we noticed that the gnarl-limbed
crab apple tree no longer stands on Mary’s corner. Each spring, we
waited for its glorious pink blossoms to produce fruit so we could sink
our teeth into its tender flesh. By season’s end, our tummies were
tired of those tiny red apples, but oh what fun it was to ride our bikes
around the corner, squish-popping the rotten ones left on the
sidewalk!
There was a sense of peace as we remembered playing on Margie’s
glider swing after lunch, singing kid songs in the sunshine. With the
gentle glide, her little sister Claudia was usually droopy-eyed by the
time our moms called us home for a nap. Well, as Patty reminded me,
my mom never actually called me home -- she whistled me there.
Seems like Mom’s whistling caresses the memories of all my childhood
friends. When it was time for lunch, a nap, supper, or bed, she’d slip
her index fingers between her teeth and whistle a strong, clear tone
that told me and my siblings it was time to come home. There she’d be
waiting for us, whistling a tune with a dishtowel thrown over her
shoulder and the scent of warm snickerdoodles filling the kitchen.
On summer nights, all the neighbor kids played freeze tag or statue in
Patty’s backyard, because she had the softest grass. Sometimes we’d
just be silly; spinning around until we were so dizzy we’d fall to the
grass giggling.
Our favorite game was hide-and-seek, which had a four-yard
boundary beginning at Patty’s house and ending at mine. Nobody’s
parents cared if we accidentally bent limbs of bushes or squished a
few petunias. Some of us had younger siblings in tow as we searched
for a place to hide, swatting dangling bagworms from our faces if we
slid beneath an evergreen.
The intoxicating hum of cicadas diminished the night’s inky blackness
as we silently waited for the kid who was “it” to sing, “ready or not,
here I come.” Later, the lucky ones who couldn’t be found would run
to base, moonlight shining on their faces, as “oly, oly oxen free” rang
in the distance.
As Patty and I walked through the alley behind our homes, she
remembered hanging out in my dad’s garage where he fixed bicycles
in his spare time. For a nickel, he’d patch flat tires, fix broken chains,
straighten bent spokes and fenders, and end up giving kids back a
few pennies to spend at Bispings.
As much as we loved summer, we looked forward to school each fall.
Most of the kids on our block attended nearby St. Joseph’s. One of
the most memorable years was second grade when we prepared to
make our First Holy Communion. Sister Mary Judith lovingly taught us
prayers and The Ten Commandments. She explained that we had
reached “the age of reason” and were now accountable for our sins.
Sister warned us about the devil, who would follow us through life
trying to trip us up in sins, like lying, fighting with siblings, and having
poor penmanship.
When the big day finally arrived, we received beautiful prayer books
edged in gold, rosary beads, and cloth scapulars that would help
keep us from the devil’s grip. That summer, hoping to get a glimpse of
the devil himself, we brushed popsicle sticks back and forth on the
sidewalk, sharpening them to a point. This was the tool we used to dig
a hole so deep it would reach hell. The devil must have been out
tempting kids the days we dug, or we didn’t dig deep enough.
Eventually, we just gave up.
After decades of absence in the old neighborhood, it was quite
surreal for Patty and me to revisit our dandelion days on Prairie
Street. In the ecstasy of those summer days, our greatest challenge
was licking popsicles fast enough so the juice wouldn’t drip down our
wrists. We didn’t face the pressures of kids today, and we were
allowed to be kids until we weren’t anymore.
Times have changed. But it doesn’t matter if kids grow up in the ‘50s
or the new millennium, they still thrive on happy memories of their
childhood home -- a place where they can return with an old friend
and relive the innocence, simplicity, and the warm-fuzzy feeling that all
is right in the world.
candy, and clothes dancing on the line. “Howdy Doody” time, and “oly,
oly oxen free” echoing in the night as fireflies blinked like tiny stars
within our reach. Ah, the sweet memories of growing up in the 1950s.
It’s more than half a century since my family lived on South Prairie
Street in Bradley, IL. I was only nine when we moved from the “old
neighborhood” in 1959. Since then, I’ve returned many times in heart,
in mind, and in recurring dreams of living in a tree-lined child’s
paradise filled with girls my age – Patty, Lillette, Margie, Mary and
Brenda, and a bunch of other kids a bit younger or older, including my
three siblings. Most recently, I returned in person with Patty, who I
hadn’t seen in 35 years.
They say you can’t go back, because “back” isn’t there anymore. But
in memory,
you can go back, and we did. It was magic! As Patty and I walked
through the old neighborhood, our senses were alive with the raw joys
of childhood.
Through the rosy glow of memories, Prairie Street was like a Norman
Rockwell portrait of quintessential America. Yielding to nostalgia’s
ache, we traced the steps of childhood and embraced its innocence
and simplicity.
Once again, we clenched pennies in our tiny fists as we walked to
Bispings, the neighborhood store where candy lined shelves behind
the counter – root beer barrels, Bazooka gum, flying saucers, candy
buttons, licorice whips; and for a nickel we could buy a popsicle or a
colorful pack of Nik-L-Nip wax bottles filled with sweet juice. On the
way out, we fed the gumball machine, and what a thrill it was to see
trinkets or pop beads roll out with the gum.
Summertime was the best. Mom let me go out to play at 8 a.m., but
Patty wasn’t always up by then. I’d sit on her front doorstep watching
ants build homes in the sidewalk cracks until I heard her mom
puttering in the kitchen. Then I’d stand at the door and sing “Paaaaaa-
ty.” You see, back in the ‘50s, kids didn’t knock on doors. We just
sang the names of our friends, over and over, until someone
answered.
Her mom, one of the prettiest moms on the block, always opened the
door with a warm smile that made kids feel special. If Patty was
sleeping, she’d ask me to come back later. Otherwise, she’d invite me
in for cinnamon toast and Bosco, and we’d chit-chat while Patty got
dressed.
Before long, screen doors slammed up and down the block as our
friends greeted the day, ready to play. We usually gathered at Lillette’
s house because she had the biggest front porch, the smoothest
sidewalk, and a huge paved driveway that was great for skating.
Besides that, her mom grew petunias.
We sat pretzel-legged on Lillette’s porch playing jacks, challenging
each other with “onesies,” “twosies” and scooping “eggs in a basket.”
When the game no longer held our interest, we turned our energies to
hopscotch, the “sky blue” version.
One of us usually had a stub of chalk to draw the game on the
sidewalk. Then we’d all run home to get our “markers.” Broken jewelry
chains worked best, but linked bobby pins, trinkets, or even a rock
would do. Humidity dripped from our sun-kissed cheeks and heat
climbed our skinny legs as we hopped from square to square, all the
while dodging frantic ants.
During our recent visit to the old neighborhood, a wistful smile graced
Patty’s face as we walked past her childhood home. The maple
sapling her dad planted years ago has grown beyond Patty’s “knee-
high” memories and now towers above all other trees on the block.
As we made our way down the street, we noticed that the gnarl-limbed
crab apple tree no longer stands on Mary’s corner. Each spring, we
waited for its glorious pink blossoms to produce fruit so we could sink
our teeth into its tender flesh. By season’s end, our tummies were
tired of those tiny red apples, but oh what fun it was to ride our bikes
around the corner, squish-popping the rotten ones left on the
sidewalk!
There was a sense of peace as we remembered playing on Margie’s
glider swing after lunch, singing kid songs in the sunshine. With the
gentle glide, her little sister Claudia was usually droopy-eyed by the
time our moms called us home for a nap. Well, as Patty reminded me,
my mom never actually called me home -- she whistled me there.
Seems like Mom’s whistling caresses the memories of all my childhood
friends. When it was time for lunch, a nap, supper, or bed, she’d slip
her index fingers between her teeth and whistle a strong, clear tone
that told me and my siblings it was time to come home. There she’d be
waiting for us, whistling a tune with a dishtowel thrown over her
shoulder and the scent of warm snickerdoodles filling the kitchen.
On summer nights, all the neighbor kids played freeze tag or statue in
Patty’s backyard, because she had the softest grass. Sometimes we’d
just be silly; spinning around until we were so dizzy we’d fall to the
grass giggling.
Our favorite game was hide-and-seek, which had a four-yard
boundary beginning at Patty’s house and ending at mine. Nobody’s
parents cared if we accidentally bent limbs of bushes or squished a
few petunias. Some of us had younger siblings in tow as we searched
for a place to hide, swatting dangling bagworms from our faces if we
slid beneath an evergreen.
The intoxicating hum of cicadas diminished the night’s inky blackness
as we silently waited for the kid who was “it” to sing, “ready or not,
here I come.” Later, the lucky ones who couldn’t be found would run
to base, moonlight shining on their faces, as “oly, oly oxen free” rang
in the distance.
As Patty and I walked through the alley behind our homes, she
remembered hanging out in my dad’s garage where he fixed bicycles
in his spare time. For a nickel, he’d patch flat tires, fix broken chains,
straighten bent spokes and fenders, and end up giving kids back a
few pennies to spend at Bispings.
As much as we loved summer, we looked forward to school each fall.
Most of the kids on our block attended nearby St. Joseph’s. One of
the most memorable years was second grade when we prepared to
make our First Holy Communion. Sister Mary Judith lovingly taught us
prayers and The Ten Commandments. She explained that we had
reached “the age of reason” and were now accountable for our sins.
Sister warned us about the devil, who would follow us through life
trying to trip us up in sins, like lying, fighting with siblings, and having
poor penmanship.
When the big day finally arrived, we received beautiful prayer books
edged in gold, rosary beads, and cloth scapulars that would help
keep us from the devil’s grip. That summer, hoping to get a glimpse of
the devil himself, we brushed popsicle sticks back and forth on the
sidewalk, sharpening them to a point. This was the tool we used to dig
a hole so deep it would reach hell. The devil must have been out
tempting kids the days we dug, or we didn’t dig deep enough.
Eventually, we just gave up.
After decades of absence in the old neighborhood, it was quite
surreal for Patty and me to revisit our dandelion days on Prairie
Street. In the ecstasy of those summer days, our greatest challenge
was licking popsicles fast enough so the juice wouldn’t drip down our
wrists. We didn’t face the pressures of kids today, and we were
allowed to be kids until we weren’t anymore.
Times have changed. But it doesn’t matter if kids grow up in the ‘50s
or the new millennium, they still thrive on happy memories of their
childhood home -- a place where they can return with an old friend
and relive the innocence, simplicity, and the warm-fuzzy feeling that all
is right in the world.
| Dandelion Days in the Old Neighborhood |
| Carol Martino |
Patty (right) and I traced the steps of our childhood when visiting the
old neighborhood recently. Separated by cities, states and countries,
we hadn’t seen each other in 35 years, but we’ve kept in touch
through letters since I moved from Bradley in 1959.
More of Martino's works appear in Issue I of Writers Write on; also in
the "Places" section.
the "Places" section.