A Page A Day-The 1950s When the Electric Trolley service began in 1887, more and more families came to the area, creating a market for row houses, triple deckers and single family homes. But now, even though some of the Victorians and Greek Revival houses remain, there are other additions. Five story tenements, and block upon block of 3 story project apartments. The projects all look the same, the only differences being the names bestowed on each block, names honoring WWII battles, Corregidor Court, Bataan Court, etc.. Those of us who live in the houses are viewed as having achieved some measure of success. Each house a a different color. Each possessing a different garden. When my parents first purchase their home, they plant pale pink roses, that grow to cover their homes front and sides. Often, excited young boys off to a date, stop by pleading for a rose or two, to give to their beloveds. My father always refuses, but when he is not home, my mother and I hastily pluck off a few to give them. Seeing their eager young smiles is payment beyond measure. In our back yard, there is no room for an expansive lawn and fountain. It would be looked upon as a waste of water and space. The yard serves a more practical purpose. It is laden with rows of tomatoes, onions, green vegetables, herbs and fruit trees. In my mind, nothing beats the sensation of feeling the warmth of a fresh tomato in hand. The muskiness of its smell as it is brought to my lips. I am peaceful and content, sitting beside the vine, to let the fruits tart juices carve channels down my thin arms. Even today, I find sanctuary in the garden I lovingly tend, in spite of the gentle teasing of my nieces and nephews, Yep. Youve become just like Grandpa. At our home, grains, poultry, shish kebab and the gardens bounty adorn the table. In addition, my mother has picked up recipes from our multicultural neighbors. Along with the traditional Armenian fare, we eat stuffed squid, corned beef and cabbage, sauces of every kind. Our Jewish neighbors have taught her the one meal I find most distasteful-the dreaded cows tongue. It is fearsome to behold. Massive and thick. Taste buds visible. I cant bear its presence on the table. In turn, I am always intrigued by what our neighbors eat. Fish on Fridays. Lots of starches. I even happily gulp down their powdered milk, mixed cold, thin and gray. At their tables, a happy chaos reigns. I marvel at how my friends can grab their food and move away from the table, in the small project kitchen, to the parlor, where they are allowed to plop down in front of the TV. Unlike at my house, where we are expected to remain at the table. My father leading all discourse and certainly far from the TV, whose viewing is firmly limited to the news each evening, boxing on Saturday nights and Ed Sullivan on Sunday nights. My father insists that otherwise, its content can rot the mind and in addition, that its rays can make us infertile. When he returns from work, he places his palm on its top. Checking to see if the set is warm. Checking to see if we have watched it in his absence.
Posted on: Wed, 24 Sep 2014 15:12:13 +0000
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