GOING HOME -WHAT AN EXPERIENCE!

My old neighborhood in Boston created an alumni association that has been active for about 40 years. I joined as a lifetime member in 1979 when I sent the association my ten dollars. Periodically they have reunions so that people can reconnect with other people from their school, their street, their club or pool hall. For me, the schools were the Bradford (gone) the Shaw, the Walcott (gone) and the Lewinberg. My street was Marden Avenue but I hung out on Lucerne Street, Willowood Street and Woodrow Avenue and the corners at Morton Street, Woodrow Avenue and Blue Hill Avenue. (There was a feature film entitled Blue Hill Avenue). Mickey’s Pool Hall on Livingstone Street is where I honed my skills with regard to those 15 numbered balls you heard about in the Music Man.

That was my immediate world as I matured into a teenager. Every few years I get to revisit that time and place. Times have changed and so has that place. This last visit was under the guise of attending my neighborhood reunion, but it was more than that. Five years ago I revisited my old neighborhood and my late wife’s neighborhood with my son and grandson.  It was very emotional, especially recounting the times I was in my late wife’s home, walking down her street, the local Howard Johnsons and the Circle Theater. When it came to my neighborhood we were quite cautious except for hot dog stand were we got out of the car had had foot longs.

My son and grandson got a taste of what it was like to grow up on my streets and my neighborhood back in the 50’s and 60’s. But during that visit I missed some things that have been a part of my psyche since I was a child. So, I did what I was told very dangerous – I was told that several years ago and it appeared to be the same after watching “Boston’s Finest” on TV recently. I did it anyway and it was terrific. I got out of the cah and spoke to the people.

The first place that I spoke to people was on Marden Avenue. That was, after getting my hot dog at Simco By The Bridge! I rolled down the street, which is maybe 100 yard long, and stopped by a man that was washing his car. I told him that where he is standing is about 30 feet from where I grew up. We got into a terrific conversation about the neighborhood and the condo he lives in that was the school yard for the Bradford. The layout of the complex followed the exact lines of the schoolyard.

One of the stories I related to the man was how the street was considered a “private way “  and after any snow storm the city would never plow it. The neighbors had to pitch in to get a snow plow on the street. There was always one neighbor that would never contribute and their Nash was not seen until April. The neighborhood was now almost entirely African-American but it was a much calmer place now.

There was one original building standing that was number 19. Numbers 3, 7, 11 and 15 were gone but there were some newer buildings, two family style not six family, were there where the originals stood.

Then I drove the three blocks (seemed longer many years ago) to the big shul on Woodrow Avenue, Within the radius of about two blocks from the big shul there were about five Orthodox synagogues. As I rolled by the big shul a young black man asked me if I needed help. I asked if I could go in and see the synagogue. I was invited in after I found very tight pahkin space!

This big shul  is now the big Seventh Day Adventist church. So being Saturday I wished the congregants I met a Shabbat Shalom. I explained it to them that this is s greeting wishing a peaceful Sabbath and soon many of the people in the church were speaking Hebrew! As I was escorted through the building related stories that were relative the shul. One such story was about the corner of Woodrow Avenue and Lucerne Street was Freddy Bloom square. The plaque is still there. (Remember Bloomie’s produce stand?)

The interior has changed as the sanctuary was built out from where the Torahs were stored and the rabbi gave you your Bar Mitzvah gifts to what would have been about the fifth row. Pews still had mogen dovids on the ends. The center bema was gone but the chandelier was still glowing above there it would have been. I then related the story of Rabbi Strasburg and his first Yom Kippur service as he was about to deliver a fiery sermon as he was sort of auditioning for the job of rabbi. He was standing under the chandelier on the center bema, the lights went out. Then I had to explain what a Shabbos Goy was. A non-Jewish neighborhood volunteer that could do work on the Shabbat or High Holy Days. That person was an essential and appreciated member of the community.

As the rabbi spread his arms punctuating his words in the din of the lightless synagogue, his white robes flowing as open windows provided for some air flow (there was no air conditioning then, and I was told there is still none now) his robes were flowing with the breeze. His head flung back with the big white yarmulke, his voice resonating and as he looked up at the chandelier he implored with a cry, “Let the light be kindled!” The chandelier came to life.

The three hours I spent in the synagogue were cathartic for me and informative for my new Seventh Day Adventist friends. As I walked down the steps out of the shul, I heard my black friend say “Shabbat Shalom.”

That was my experience, I hope you enjoyed it.