The Old Neighborhood

It's been ten years since we lived in Philadelphia. I still miss family and friends there, but I also feel a longing now and then for other things you can't find anywhere else. A real Italian hoagie, the Morris Arboretum, Philly cheesesteaks, Reading Terminal Market, South Street,...and my old neighborhood.

My old neighborhood is known for its boutique shops, stellar restaurants, and expensive real estate. Somewhere along its 250+ year history, Philadelphia's wealthy, "old-money" families settled there and soon built rowhouses for the Irish hired help and the Italian stone masons. In the 1990's, these rowhouses, where we lived, were occupied by a mix of young families and elderly immigrants.

One neighbor across the street, who was also my next door neighbor's father, had such a heavy Irish brogue that I often wondered how much might be put on. Mr. Coyle would smile at people as they walked past and would actually say, "Top of the morning to ye!" Shortly after our son was born, my husband and I took our baby out in his new stroller. Mr. Coyle peered inside at our son, stared at his tiny face, then grinned and looked at my husband, saying, "Well, there's no denying that one, is there?"

Further down our block was an old, short Italian couple. Every Saturday, we'd see the husband, smiling, carrying a six-pack of beer down the street. Two yards behind him, his wife would be ceaselessly scolding him in angry Italian. Every now and then, the husband would give a slight shrug, but the smile never left his face. Every inch of the backyard of their rowhouse was cultivated to grow copious amounts of tomatoes, peppers, onions, and herbs for sauces. Grapes, to be turned into homemade wine, grew from the vines tangled around the tiny arch that framed their back door. I never knew anyone who knew the couple well. There was a sting of tragedy to them. I'd been told that several decades earlier, the husband had given their young son a bicycle for his birthday. That afternoon, the boy was found drowned in the nearby Wissahickon River, his bicycle tumbled on its side by the bank. It's the kind of story that never goes away. But, it made me somehow grateful that they put such energy into their garden, into their bickering. Life had not passed them by after all.

Every year when we go back to Philadelphia to visit family and friends, we go for a walk through the old neighborhood, past our old house. As expected, things have changed. More and more of the rowhouses seem inhabited by young families. The porches of elderly, former neighbors are now full of strollers and skates and Fisher-Price in general. We see fewer and fewer familiar faces. Metal bars are on several doors and first floor windows, which saddens me.

But, walking another block further, we visit with some favorite friends and their children and wonder how we can live closer again. Another block over and I visit with my old work colleagues, some still there from my 12 year stint. And I know, in another two blocks, there will always be a real Italian hoagie waiting for me at the local pizza place. There are some things that remain the same.