My little Reflection.....

Here it is, as promised, not perfect, but it is mine.........



Reflections of Patchogue: My Neighborhood.


Patchogue, a small town, located in the middle of Long Island. Roughly the middle. Located on the Great South Bay, across from Davis Park, and Watch Hill, Fire Island. In its heyday, it was home to large populations of "summer people," who rented homes, or hotel rooms in the large hotels located by the bay or along Main Street. Main Street, home of a famous four corners in Suffolk County. Everyone who was anyone came to shop in this town. George Washington visited a tavern on the west end of town. A tavern that no longer exists, but an historic plaque commemorates its location and the fact that Washington was there. The site is where one of the oldest and historic cemetaries stands, nowadays.
This is where I grew up. Although it wasn't in the "village," I did grow up in the location, and became intimate with my surroundings. I knew how to get to the village from where I lived. My bicycle was an easy way to get around. I knew that Phannimiller's served ice cream sodas on "Medford Ave." I knew that there were several lunchonettes where fries and burgers could be purchased. I knew that the Lace Mill was a bustling manufacturing plant. I knew about the playgrounds and the small beaches, not to mention the ferry to take us to the mythical place(as a child anyway) Fire Island! This was my home, this was my place.
We drank well water from the hose on a hot summer day. The town put down tar and bluestone on the road, and the adventure of riding our bikes on it afterward, in the hot summer. Learning to walk barefoot across those roads, ouch ouch ouch! These were part of my constants. Basketball hoops nailed to telephone poles, baseball on the corner, this was where I grew up. Everyone didn't have a pool, one or two dotted back yards, with no fences, we ran through sprinklers when our mothers or fathers turned them on to keep the grass green. We went swimming in the stream at Stirritz. It was over 6 foot at the "pipe." A concrete pipe that had been placed there long ago to help the flow of water to Swan Lake. The water was cold, so cold that your feet went numb if you stayed in too long. Sledding at the hill on Stirritz, walking there when it was dark. Feeling safe and protected in the knowledge that everyone in the neighborhood knew each other. Knowing that fences didn't really matter, that we could walk in and out of each others' yards or houses and just be accepted. Neighbors borrowing each other's lawnmowers, hedge trimmers, snow shovels, garden rakes. Halloween was safe, apples and other fruit were accepted from the houses where our neighbors lived. One house always gave us plastic necklaces, all the girls would wear them to school the next day. Many families never used a key to enter their homes. Our doors were left unlocked, our windows open, our cars in the drieways unlocked and windows rolled down. We left the house in the morning, rode our bicycles all over the place, listened for the whistle for lunch, the fire whistle went off at noon, then would regroup after, and stay out until Johnny's Dad whistled for him to come home for dinner. We ate over each other's houses, called the moms "aunt" and the dads "uncle. This was my place, a street with 32 houses built exactly the same, with the same sized rooms, basements and garages. Cement driveways, on a tree lined, sidewalked street. We learned to ride bikes on those sidewalks. We played hopscotch on them too. We had boundaries, go to the end of the sidewalk, heading north, and to Mr. Reed's house heading south.
We raked leaves, planted flowers, and vegetable gardens. There was a Mulberry tree in the back yard, staining our barefeet if we walked by it. The huge Maple tree on the front lawn and on the back lawn provided cool shade when we needed it.
We walked to school, and home too. One of the neighborhood Moms was the crossing guard in front of the school. She taught us 3rd or 4th grade religion in the den in her basement. It was a big deal if someone in the neighborhood got a new car! Those of us with older brothers and sisters knew what was going on in the high school and the middle school. We saw them go to prom in fancy dresses and in boys' cars. The whole neighborhood watched as they married and moved away. Sometimes whole families were invited to the weddings. The whole neighborhood was invited to my wedding, all the parents of folks that I grew up with, played with, and even babysat.
I always called that Neighborhood, "Home." When my Dad passed away, I started to realize how small my world was, growing up. When my Mom got sick, it got even smaller. When she died, it became a tiny spot. The house, when empty seemed so small to me. A high school friend came by to pick up some furniture and knicknacks that we would have otherwise donated to Goodwill, and he looked around the living room, and said,"Was it always this small?" That made me realize that when we think that things are so big and so wide, we actually see them as our mind pictures them.
There were certainties. There was safety. It was a good place to grow up. I could ride my bicycle anywhere, and get a good bagel on South Ocean Avenue. If I wanted a hot chocolate on a chilly morning, I just had to ride "up" to the diner, or cross the street from the bus stop, The Island Grill Diner was right there. My Dad had a friend who would visit us once or twice a year, they were in the Navy together. He could always find our house because the diner was on the corner of where he needed to turn. When they moved the establishment to Hospital Road, and tore down the old building, Mr. K. got hopelessly lost and Dad had to go out in the car to find him. We had our landmarks, yes indeed. Knowing that the streetlights were going to come on was comforting too. We built snow forts, snowmen and had bad snowball fights. Once, the plow came down the street and had to back up twice to destroy the fort that we had built. It had benches in it and everything, a floor, walls, heck if we could have we would have made a roof! It seated 12 comfortably! What a blast we had with the snow shovels that winter. We had a week off to build the fort, there was that much snow. Playing "ring and run," on a hot summer night, or ball tag, hiding in each other's yards hoping not to get found by the person who was "it." Hearing Mr. Devita opening the upstairs window, sneaking out from the shadow of the shrubs, and getting doused with a bucket of water, while he was giggling like a school boy, that too was magic. I guess what we always knew was that our neighborhood was a magical place, no matter what your circumstances were at home, if your Dad was drunk again, if your mom was sick, if your parents weren't getting along, or even if they were getting divorced, we ran together, and laughed together. We had each other.
The next door neighbor was my "little brother." I was the 6th child of 6, so at times I was lonely. Sean and I were three years apart, so we naturally protected and watched over each other. His parents trusted me, so he was able to play baseball at the corner, and cross the street, and just hang out with the other kids, if I was there. I babysat, for him, and for his sister, on summer mornings when his mom returned to work. They were my extended family. They were my siblings when mine had grown and married and moved away. They were special to me. They were special to my parents. Sean's sister, Heather, said that when my parents died, it was like losing grandparents. We went to every special event and birthday.
This was my world, my little piece of reality. When my mom's house was sold, I told the couple that bought it, "It was a nice place to grow up, to play and to grow." My Patchogue, my "block," my childhood.