Put down those tiny roots!
My guess is that my parents moved to the house in the mid fifties. I picture this classic 50’s era billboard in a cornfield with a Donna Reed-ish model touting ‘New Single Family Homes!!” “Quiet community, low traffic area!” “All white faces!!” “Dysfunctional?? We want YOU!!” Well, maybe the last two wouldn’t be advertised that way.
On the corner was a small grocery store–more on this later. Across the street stood the only three story house–family of four, stern father of two, his face appeared fashioned by a sculptor with a chin fetish.
The rest of the street was 3 BD, 1 Bath, 2 stories, attached garages. Clones. Today, they’re starter homes.
Let’s run this down: An ex Korean soldier with two verbose Pomeranian’s–never left his front porch. an old couple where the wife sat on the back porch all day to yell at kids touching her yard, a family where the woman was forcibly committed once or twice a year when she was caught prowling (her neighbor was a dangerous maniac, you see), a dentist with a large black molar on his white garage door (his breath was like dead clams), another woman who would be committed when she was running circles in a nightgown in the pouring rain whilst ranting and foaming at God, a used car salesman who went by the name ‘Wild Bill’ (what? you need more??!), and another family who threw their daughter’s clothes on the front lawn when she announced she was marrying a guy ten years her senior. And lest I forget–the house no one knew anything about. We never saw anyone leave or arrive. No Christmas decorations, no trick or treaters, not even a backyard garden or trees. 20 years, nary a peep. Tom Waits’ “What’s He Building” always makes me smile.
And our neighbors. To the right, a sixty-ish “PA Dutch” couple. She worked, he was retired on disability. She took shit from no one. See where that is heading? And to the left an absolute madman who lived only for himself and his lawn. His actions and words defied any sense, common or otherwise. Gold tooth, and an abhorrent smoldering pipe. My father could have been the meanest guy on the block–but this guy had him beat by a mile. His wife was a tiny ghost, only visible when she swept the curb every week, moving stones and grit onto the neighbors’ sides.
My parents’ little clique (ie, people who met my father’s high standards to be allowed to breathe) were The George’s (other side of the psycho neighbor), the Kehlers (next to “Wild Bill”), and the Bryants (next to our ‘old’ neighbors). They used to meet at each others’ houses or porches on quiet summer evenings. By 1964, the Georges and Kehlers were gone, a few Christmas cards later, they swirled off into the firmament. But in the fifties, the other couples had one thing that my parents didn’t: kids.
Well, that needed to change……gotta fit in, right?
Next time: Born Under a Bad Sign