Post by Deleted on Dec 8, 2007 23:23:28 GMT -5
To My Old Bronx Street With Love
Mary Ellen Clogston
I remember so many sounds from the old Bronx of the 40's and 50's: the air raid sirens of the 40's; the early morning clank of the milkmans bottles; the mid morning hum and thump of the iceman delivering ice blocks for the older tenements without refrigerators; the groan of garbage trucks and the clatter of cans; the whir of the scissor and knife sharpener; the clip clop of the horses pulling wagons full of fruits and vegetables; the cries of the junk dealer; the rattle of the seltzer man's bottles; the bells of the ice cream truck; and the endless games of stick ball and ring-a-leevio. Of course, I cannot forget the thunder and squeal of the Third Avenue EL as it barreled down between the 180th St and Tremont stations. My father would never forgive me, because he drove one of the trains.
Our block, Washington Avenue between 178th and 179th streets, one block north of Tremont Avenue, was a bustling happy place. Sandwiched between the large Italian neighborhood of Arthur Avenue on the east and the Jewish neighborhood of the Concourse, we were a mini League of Nations. We had Italians, Germans, Jews, Irish, a Greek tailor and a Chinese laundry. In the late 1950's, the sounds of Spanish were heard on our streets as Puerto Ricans began to move in. They were all part and parcel of, and entwined in, the fabric of society that was our "neighborhood". They all just belonged.
Our block had an ebb and flow constant as the tide. Starting around 6AM, men in blue collar uniforms and women in dresses emerged from the houses waking towards the New York Central, the Tremont Avenue trolleys or the Third Avenue EL. Next came the children: public school children headed north to PS 59, uniformed Catholic children headed south to St. Joseph's Grammar School. If the weather was nice, late morning brought out the mothers with infants and toddlers, congregating under trees, comparing notes about babies and trading recipes. Some mothers pushed their baby carriages to Crotona or Echo Park with their knitting, and pots full of peas and potatoes to be shelled or peeled for supper, while children played. Late afternoon brought the homeward trek of the working force, the call of the kids to dinner, and in warm weather, the evening social sessions on the sidewalks. Then the night workers emerged, as the cycle continued.
On the weekends the atmosphere changed. On Saturday, our Jewish neighbors dressed in their best clothes headed for their synagogue. Sunday morning brought crowds of "dressed up" families heading to the various Churches in our little neighborhood. Sunday afternoon was generally quiet and reserved for family activity.
My own family was Irish. My father emigrated from Ireland in 1926 and my mother came from Ireland in 1929. They both lived in Manhattan until they married and moved to the Bronx in 1937. My father was a motorman on the Third Avenue EL for 35 years.
I was born in Saint Ann's Hospital in 1938. I went to Saint Joseph's Grammar School at 1946 Bathgate Avenue. After graduation, I attended Cathedral High School in Manhattan. We lived at 1972 Washington Avenue. My Mother and Father never left the Bronx. My Father is deceased and my Mother lives in Saint
Patrick's Home on Mosholu Parkway. She is 90 years old
My family's Sundays after early morning Church were days of leisure, a complete departure from the work week. They were spent in either Crotona or Bronx Park. One hot humid afternoon, my father, after a strenuous rowing session On Crotona Park's Indian Lake, removed his shirt and picnicked in his tee shirt. He received a summons from an undercover plain clothes Park Man for improper attire. He had to appear in court and pay a $1.00 fine for his transgression.
There were no TV's or air conditioners in those days, so when the hot weather arrived, people in what little spare time they had hung out windows or sat on the stoops or sidewalks watching the panorama on the street. The work ethic was strongly instilled in Bronx kids. They took work wherever they could find it. Underage girls babysat, young boys had paper routes or could be seen working at local fruit and vegetable stands, or grocery stores. When they could get working papers, they headed to Woolworth's, Cushman's Bakeries, MET Life, Safeway, the A&P and the host of other businesses who would hire high school students part time.
No New York story of the 40's or 50's would be complete without the local Ice Cream Parlor where kids and families met after Church on Sunday. It was a time in life when a kid's hardest decision was whether to have the whipped cream or marshmallow topping. Today, you can have both.
As time marched on, the kids grew up, the games stopped, and the sounds changed, as did our street in the face of progress.
You can never really go home.
Mary Ellen Clogston
I remember so many sounds from the old Bronx of the 40's and 50's: the air raid sirens of the 40's; the early morning clank of the milkmans bottles; the mid morning hum and thump of the iceman delivering ice blocks for the older tenements without refrigerators; the groan of garbage trucks and the clatter of cans; the whir of the scissor and knife sharpener; the clip clop of the horses pulling wagons full of fruits and vegetables; the cries of the junk dealer; the rattle of the seltzer man's bottles; the bells of the ice cream truck; and the endless games of stick ball and ring-a-leevio. Of course, I cannot forget the thunder and squeal of the Third Avenue EL as it barreled down between the 180th St and Tremont stations. My father would never forgive me, because he drove one of the trains.
Our block, Washington Avenue between 178th and 179th streets, one block north of Tremont Avenue, was a bustling happy place. Sandwiched between the large Italian neighborhood of Arthur Avenue on the east and the Jewish neighborhood of the Concourse, we were a mini League of Nations. We had Italians, Germans, Jews, Irish, a Greek tailor and a Chinese laundry. In the late 1950's, the sounds of Spanish were heard on our streets as Puerto Ricans began to move in. They were all part and parcel of, and entwined in, the fabric of society that was our "neighborhood". They all just belonged.
Our block had an ebb and flow constant as the tide. Starting around 6AM, men in blue collar uniforms and women in dresses emerged from the houses waking towards the New York Central, the Tremont Avenue trolleys or the Third Avenue EL. Next came the children: public school children headed north to PS 59, uniformed Catholic children headed south to St. Joseph's Grammar School. If the weather was nice, late morning brought out the mothers with infants and toddlers, congregating under trees, comparing notes about babies and trading recipes. Some mothers pushed their baby carriages to Crotona or Echo Park with their knitting, and pots full of peas and potatoes to be shelled or peeled for supper, while children played. Late afternoon brought the homeward trek of the working force, the call of the kids to dinner, and in warm weather, the evening social sessions on the sidewalks. Then the night workers emerged, as the cycle continued.
On the weekends the atmosphere changed. On Saturday, our Jewish neighbors dressed in their best clothes headed for their synagogue. Sunday morning brought crowds of "dressed up" families heading to the various Churches in our little neighborhood. Sunday afternoon was generally quiet and reserved for family activity.
My own family was Irish. My father emigrated from Ireland in 1926 and my mother came from Ireland in 1929. They both lived in Manhattan until they married and moved to the Bronx in 1937. My father was a motorman on the Third Avenue EL for 35 years.
I was born in Saint Ann's Hospital in 1938. I went to Saint Joseph's Grammar School at 1946 Bathgate Avenue. After graduation, I attended Cathedral High School in Manhattan. We lived at 1972 Washington Avenue. My Mother and Father never left the Bronx. My Father is deceased and my Mother lives in Saint
Patrick's Home on Mosholu Parkway. She is 90 years old
My family's Sundays after early morning Church were days of leisure, a complete departure from the work week. They were spent in either Crotona or Bronx Park. One hot humid afternoon, my father, after a strenuous rowing session On Crotona Park's Indian Lake, removed his shirt and picnicked in his tee shirt. He received a summons from an undercover plain clothes Park Man for improper attire. He had to appear in court and pay a $1.00 fine for his transgression.
There were no TV's or air conditioners in those days, so when the hot weather arrived, people in what little spare time they had hung out windows or sat on the stoops or sidewalks watching the panorama on the street. The work ethic was strongly instilled in Bronx kids. They took work wherever they could find it. Underage girls babysat, young boys had paper routes or could be seen working at local fruit and vegetable stands, or grocery stores. When they could get working papers, they headed to Woolworth's, Cushman's Bakeries, MET Life, Safeway, the A&P and the host of other businesses who would hire high school students part time.
No New York story of the 40's or 50's would be complete without the local Ice Cream Parlor where kids and families met after Church on Sunday. It was a time in life when a kid's hardest decision was whether to have the whipped cream or marshmallow topping. Today, you can have both.
As time marched on, the kids grew up, the games stopped, and the sounds changed, as did our street in the face of progress.
You can never really go home.
