What Was the Neighborhood You Grew Up In Like?

I grew up in neighborhoods, if labeled today, classified as middle class. Dad worked for New York State Electric and Gas. Normally, five days a week, although, depending on the weather, traveled upstate. Overtime opportunities because of ice storms, etc. Mom was, what was ‘normal’ for the time, a stay-at-home parent. Two children at home, Keith and Kathy. Average family size in 1955, 3.59. In 1960 3.67. (In 2021 3.13.)

We rented our home, at 1016 Caton Ave. (See photo) First, note this house built in 1945, seventy-six years ago. We lived there, let’s say, the late 1950s, early 1960s. It has been altered. It was white, and along the front, end to end, an enclosed ‘sun porch.’ Two bedrooms, a large kitchen, bathroom, storage room, and a shared cellar with a boiler that heated the entire house. Greenery and mature elm trees also surrounded it. I see a few remain.

Living in 1016 1/2, we have a mom and dad and two children. Upstairs front a studio and upstairs rear a single mom with her son. Across the street, the Holt family, mom and dad and two children. Next door, to the left, is the newest house in the neighbor, a young couple with one child, a dog, and rabbit. Then within walking distance families, many with a child or two. Hung out with most. The only exception was a couple of bullies down the street. From my point of view, a quiet, normal middle class neighborhood. All white.

There was a black family. They moved in and then out within the year. Mom and dad and one child, Terry, maybe a second child. I recall his name because we became good friends, spent time together, then one day unannounced gone.

What else? A plethora of churches, Pennsylvania Avenue Elementary school (within walking distance) and Southside High School (Elmira High School), volunteer fire department two blocks away, corner grocery store, gas station, ice cream parlor, railroad yard, Olthof Funeral Home, bowling alley within bike distance, sidewalks, Seeley Creek, streets lined with elm and maple trees. Lots of green in the summer, colorful in the fall, white in the winter and an ugly brown in the spring.

A neighborhood filled with stories, many written (some posted), and many more to be written and shared.

The Voices In My Head interrupted my sleep much of the night. Every time I closed my eyes, hoping to sleep, the same annoying thought reappeared.

Was I happy? When I look at this house, and consider the years spent in a perfectively normal, middle class neighborhood, could I claim to be happy? Now on my back staring at the ceiling, a quote recently read came to mine: “It’s time to be happy again.” I was healthy, never went to bed hungry, needs met, had a few neighborhood friends, happy?

“No!”

Was I unhappy? I reminisced. It felt like a selfish question. Every time I had liver for dinner or a baloney sandwich for lunch, or Shredded Wheat for breakfast, occasionally reminded by mom that kids around the world were going to bed hungry or had no bed in which to sleep.

“No.”

What was it I felt, sad? Is happiness just an illusion? Happiness is like a bubble toy, dip the bubble wand into bubble solution, remove, and blow gently, and you magically have reflective bubbles floating through the air. For a moment in time. Then they, one-by-one, burst, gone.

For now, let’s say contented, with a side of unhappy.

The neighborhood was quiet, safe, subdued, quintessential for the epoch.