Cold Case

On occasion, I watch “Cold Case.” Not that it’s an especially great show, but it is laced with references to the Italian Market, Fishtown, Kensington and other neighborhoods I knew growing up in inner city Philadelphia.

They are virtually all row houses. Not a term I hear anymore. Row houses run from one end of the block to the other, with no space in between them. One long monolith. They are usually identical, except perhaps for the facade, which may be brick or stone. There is the front door and the stoop; three or four steps to the sidewalk. No grass. Just sidewalk and street.

You walk through the front door into the living room. Behind that is the dining room. The steps rising upstairs are located in one of these rooms. Behind the dining room is the kitchen and steps down to the basement, which usually has a coal bin. The house is one room wide.

Upstairs are a front bedroom and two small ones in the rear. A bathroom is in the middle. It obviously has no window, but often does have a skylight with a chain to open it for ventilation.

Cars are parked on the street. Except, if there is an alley behind the row to access small garages under the houses. Clothes lines run back and forth across the alley. They are strung high on pulleys, so the clothes can be hung and retrieved from the kitchen.

They were row houses then. Now, they call some rehabbed ones “townhouses” and charge about thirty times as much for them.

Few people had televisions when I was a child. Entertainment was sitting out on the stoop in warm weather. It was there that goings on in the neighborhood were observed and discussed. You either sat on your stoop or circulated around the street to congregate at other stoops. In colder weather, activity moved to the lodges or civic associations which were, in reality, bars. Forget about secrets. Everyone knew what you were up to, so don’t think your parents wouldn’t find out.

While adults and young children clustered on the stoops, adolescents hung at the corner candy store. Either on the corner or inside playing the pinball machines, which paid off. Not enough to compensate for all the nickels you fed them from your soda bottle return earnings or paper route. Or, you were in the alley, shooting craps.

You played stoop ball, wall ball, stick ball, half ball or street football. With stoop ball, the “batter” flung a rubber ball against the stoop, hoping the rebound would fall between fielders. Distance of an unfielded ball determined the type of hit it was. Wall ball was similar, except it was played against the houses in the alley. Stick ball employed a rubber pimple ball or pink ball, along with a mop handle. It was played in the street with base running. First and third were car fenders or door handles. Home and second, manhole covers or other markers. Half ball was similar, except the ball was sliced in half and skimmed sidearm for the pitch.

Nightfall or intruders meant a “patrol.” If outsiders were on your turf, and this was known within minutes, there was no good reason for it. They were either there for a crime or “testing the defenses.” Had to be dealt with by our “gang.” It was our job. We were the White Buffalos. The origin of the name predated me, so I was never sure about the buffalo part. Incursions had to be dealt with vehemently to discourage future attempts by them or others.

By the same token, intra-turf crime was not tolerated, and was dealt with. The exception would be the local “family,” who ran the loan sharking, protection, daily number, book, etc. But, they also maintained the neighborhood and kept other thugs out. Cops walked beats then, but they were usually on the payroll of the family.

These were low income areas, but no one went without. If someone hit a really rough patch, neighbors showed up with food and clothing. We took care of our own.

Saturdays, adolescents would ride the subway downtown to hang out. You were taught to stand next to a pole while waiting for a train (so you could grab it in the event someone tried to throw you in front of one) and not make eye contact with anyone. My kids grew up in the suburbs of Cincinnati and were taught to look both ways before crossing a street. There are differences.

Saturdays were for women to go to the Italian Market, an area of street vendors selling all kinds of delectable cheeses, meats, pastas, etc. Men went to the barber shops to smoke cigars, place bets and discuss how badly the Phillies and Eagles stunk.

Sometimes, we would cut school and hop a train to New York City. We’d find our way from Penn Station to Greenwich Village and eyeball the beatniks. Created a yen for bongo drums. In warmer weather, you cut school to go down to the Jersey shore.

Weekend evenings were for dances. Huge ones with hundreds and hundreds of kids. Lots of girls and lots of fights.

And, of course, there was American Bandstand. The regulars (favorites of the television show viewers) always got in. Few others did. You had to ditch school to be at the head of the line to make it in. Worth doing once.

The tacit assumption was that everyone lived like this. When televisions became affordable, “Leave it to Beaver,” “Ozzie and Harriet,” etc. seemed like pure fiction. Wally went to school without a switchblade or gravity knife? I’m doubtin’ it.

Most of the neighborhoods are no more. At least, as we knew them. Italians, Slavs, Irish, etc. have been displaced by Orientals and Hispanics. Things change.

But, it’s nice to remember.