My Old Neighborhood

Listen while you read:  https://youtu.be/l0APXPF0dZY

Let's go back in time to that childhood of mine
To where the gypsies parked their cars
Beneath the bridge we'd hide
Down river banks we'd slide
Under those English summer stars

I wonder what became of those kids I knew the names of
I still got a deep love for my old neighborhood
Did I just see an old ghost hide behind a lamppost?
Been talking to the fine folks in my old neighborhood

So take my hand, let's go where memory's rivers flow
And every footstep rings a bell
And in those deep dark woods my childhood memory floods
So be my witness as I tell

~  James Maddock

Gingerville. Comprised of the Lower Road, 1st, 2nd, 3rd, and 4th Streets, Maple Avenue, and Chestnut, Walnut, and Sycamore Streets. This was my neighborhood. Its name derives, so the folklore goes, from a milkman's horse named Ginger. But that was before my time. I was born smack in the middle of the 20th century, one of the early Baby Boomers. And my neighborhood was full of them.

James Maddock grew up in England, but his sentimentality about his neighborhood is universal. This sweet song appears on The Green, his 2015 release. I saw Maddock a few years ago, and he was very personable and accessible, the kind of man who would have an appreciation for the children he grew up with in his neighborhood.

I wonder what became of those kids I knew the names of? Well, I do happen to know what became of many of them, thanks to social media. David, Linda, Ford and Jane. Lynne, Bob and Stephen. The Steffener twins. Tommy, Tony, Ellen, Liz, Mike, and Sandy. Richard, Robert, Danny and Phil. They're all alive and well in my Facebook world. Peggy, Joanne, Celeste and Judith are still alive in my heart, although they've left this earth.

I recently received a "friend request" from someone who lived at the other end of my street. Joanne was a few years younger than I, so I didn't know her well. But I remembered something that happened at her house all those decades ago. As a way to bully Joanne's older brother, some of the bad boys in town (my cousin included) caught and killed dozens of frogs and scattered their bloodied bodies all over Joanne's front yard. This was, perhaps, the beginning of my loss of innocence. Riding my bike down the street to view the carnage, I was conflicted in how I was supposed to react. Was this "cool" or cruel? Based on how sickened I felt, I knew in my gut that it was the latter. But my 8-year-old self said nothing.

In accepting Joanne's recent friend request, I apologized for the behavior of those boys. It's never too late.

But that was an isolated incident. My memories of Gingerville are flooded with good things. Roller-skating on the concrete foundation across from the Daileys' house, sleigh-riding in the fields behind Maple (dubbed "Yankee Stadium.") Riding two-wheelers as part of the Gingerville Bicycle Club, playing "Cucaracha," a hide 'n seek game played at twilight. Holding backyard circuses and puppet shows to raise money for candy. Watching our fathers "lay hose" on the Lower Road in preparation for The Firemen's Parade in October. Trick or Treat and the Halloween Parade. Placing pennies on the railroad tracks to be flattened by the freight trains, whose engineers blasted their horns at us when we pulled our arms up and down. Stepping on tar bubbles on our way to the GLF to buy nickel ice pops.

I lean on a memory that I thought was all gone
A memory that seemed to be long gone
But here it is, as vivid as a sunny day

Gingerville. My old neighborhood.

Gingerville Kids