The Neighborhood

                                  The Neighborhood

               Living in the beehive like density of our urban neighborhoods in South Buffalo, New York, we had the custom of literally calling on each other vocally when we went to visit a friend. We would stand outside of the side door of the friend’s house and in a musical melody call out the friend’s name. “Jimmmeeeeee” or  “Paddeee.” It was  a phonic signal, to the residents of the house, that one of the friends of the afore-mentioned was here to visit. One of the family members of the home usually heard the musical summons and alerted the requested urchin to answer the door way summons.

I don’t know where or how the practice got its start. Perhaps the tradition emanated from a people with rural roots, where door bells were not common and house residents were often busy with chores in the home and difficult to summon. Whatever the reason, it provided a musical sonata of summons for all of the neighborhood. In that there were over fifty small urchins on Seneca Parkside, our compact dead-end street abutting Cazenovia Park, the sound of these utterances occurred during most of the day, until the small band of street urchins were settled in for the night, having had dinner and were watching television. And with repetition, the calls were often recognized by neighbors. They knew literally who was calling whom. when hearing the oft heard vocals.

Thoughts of this amusing musical summons brought to mind the whole nature of our small community. In that there weren’t many cars available at the time, the dead-end street itself often became an urban bazaar, where small urchins scurried hither and yon daily, on their way to and from the nearby St. John’s Elementary school or to various athletic venues in Cazenovia Park. Pick up street hockey games often commandeered the street itself. The hockey stick were $2 dollars at Sears. The wealthier family on the street usually owned the puck. Ditto for pick up baseball or football game in the Park.

All of the families usually took their ease from the summer heat by sitting on the shaded front porch and reading or chatting with friends or neighbors. In that the houses were only 12 feet apart, people often chatted with the neighbors next door. Everyone on the street literally knew each other. And sure, the odd lad seen weaving down the street at night, like a sailor at sea in a gale, was the subject of much discussion for days afterwards.

As the neighborhood news-paper  boys, my brothers and I  literally knew everyone, as we delivered the Courier Express and the Buffalo News and then collected weekly for the service. All of us were connected in this tight urban neighborhood. No one of the urchins minded the daily din of sounds. But,  I think the older people on the street always hoped that we would all surge away to the neighborhood park of Swimming pool and give them a bit of rest.

The Street itself rested on the grounds of a very old Seneca Indian Reservation. It had been inhabited for generations by the Senecas up through the 1800’s. It fronted on a small section of Cazenovia Creek. The environment was rich in adventure for all of the urchins with active imaginations. We hunted tigers in the nearby creek weeds and sailed on voyages  in makeshift rafts down the gentle stretch of creek. There was always something to do and people to do it with.

I suspect my aging, rose-colored filters have made the neighborhood seem nicer than it was some sevent- five years ago. But I am glad I remember it that way. And even still, I can hear in my mind’s ear the fond musical summons of “Joooeeeyy” or “Kevvvviiinnn” as an urchin summoned a pal to come out and play. It ws a good place to grow up in.

                                                 -30-

                                           (651 words)

                                      Joseph Xavier Martin