Thursday, September 17, 2015

An old coot remembers a "What's yours is mine" world. (published September 13, 2015)


Woody (Walls) and I walked out the back door of my Chadwick Road house on Binghamton’s south side. We took a path through an abandoned pasture, which, unbeknownst to us, was soon to be replaced with roads and new houses. We stopped at the 2nd house on Overbrook Ave, waved to Mrs. Harris who was watching us through her kitchen window, went into her garage, grabbed two pairs of stilts that belonged to John and Linda Harris, waved again to Mrs. Harris as she finished up her breakfast dishes, hopped on the low rungs of the steel stilts and clanked down the sidewalk, hoping to make it to the playground at Longfellow Elementary School on Penn Ave. The hardest part came when we reached the seventeen stairs from street level down to the playground. That was the quest for the day, the reason for “borrowing” the stilts that had carried us to downtown Binghamton the previous week.

We lived in a “what’s yours is mine” era, a lesson I learned the hard way the day I walked out of Bill Scales’ neighborhood grocery store on Pennsylvania Ave. while unwrapping a 5-cent Baby Ruth candy bar. Buzzy and Chickadee Barton were lazing on the empty fruit and vegetable racks in front of the store sharing a Grape NeHi. Buzzy spotted my candy bar and yelled, “Dibs,” took the Baby Ruth, broke it in two and handed half of it back to me with a grin on his face. He then taught me how to protect myself by yelling, “No dibs,” first.   

The “what’s yours is mine” social structure that I grew up with extended well beyond stilts and candy bars. It included the basketball court and baseball field in the Walls’ side yard, the tree house behind Almy’s, the toboggan run in the field behind the Burtis boys house, the ski slope that ran through my back yard and across the pasture to Kendall Ave, the pool behind the DeAngelo’s garage and the two-story playhouse in the Cook’s yard at the corner of Brookfield and Overbrook. Kids from all over the neighborhood constantly occupied it, even though a 10-foot high stone wall and an 8-foot stockade fence protected it.

Short cuts were another form of “what’s yours is mine.” They dominated our mode of travel. We seldom took a road route to and from each other’s houses; we took short cuts, which today would be called trespassing. My route to Woody’s house had me cutting through Bowen's side yard and across the back yards of Krupa’s, Daley’s and Vining’s. Municipal property was also “appropriated” by kids back then. The walled in creek running along Park Ave was the “unofficial” south side playground, including the huge pipe to the river, the winding tunnel under Ross Park and the side pipes that delivered storm water to the creek. We also assumed ownership of the woods that blanketed South Mountain, the farmland at the top and the Swamp on Vestal Ave. where the MacArthur School now sits. The land, I assume, was sold to the School District by the same guy who went on to make his fortune selling swampland in Florida.

Building sites and building materials were plentiful in the “hood.” New houses were going up all around us. We started the appropriation process by playing in the cellar hole once the work crew left the scene. We then moved up a level, into the framed structure, using it as a giant set of monkey bars. The scrap pile that built up by day, disappeared by night. We transformed it into clubhouses, tree forts, swamp rafts and hot rods. Left over scraps of tarpaper made our tree forts rainproof. We hauled the wood and tarpaper ¾ of a mile from our neighborhood to the creek along Hawthorne Road where we built a two-story tree fort with a view. Equivalent to today’s man caves. Whenever we traveled to the site or any other place on South Mountain, our mothers never failed to warn us to be on the lookout for wandering hobos. They came in on freight trains and wandered through town looking for odd jobs and handouts. Nobody called them homeless people in those days. So, along with my dog Topper, we took the Knox’s Irish Setter, Meg, and any other dog wandering around. Of course, we never asked permission; dogs were free to roam back then and we took advantage of it.


Now that I’m an old coot, I walk through the old neighborhood every once in a while and try to visualize it as it was when Overbrook and Kendall barely jutted past Brookfield. Aldrich didn’t even do that; it ended at Brookfield. When the land between Denton Road and Hawthorne Road was part overgrown field and part cow pasture. South Mountain was without roads or houses. Moore Ave, from Chadwick westward, was a one-lane, dirt farm road and MacArthur Park was half park and half veteran’s housing. But, most of all, as I wander around, I squint in an attempt to bring life back to Longfellow School; it was torn down in the 1970’s while I wasn’t paying attention. It was the most important structure in our young lives. We spent endless hours inside, learning the three R’s and even more time out on the playground, learning how to get along with bullies and acquiring our street smarts. Those “what’s yours is mine” rules that governed our behavior would be ill served today. I’m sure the 911 system would be overloaded with reports of trespass, thievery, home invasion, dognapping and bullying. Social scientists claim the new way is better. I’m not so sure.


 
I don't remember which neighbor this bike belonged to, but Woody and I sure enjoyed it. 



Woody waving the white flag while I sit in a hot rod made from "borrowed" scrap lumber.

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