(Picture: Circa 1960 when The Pony Men would come around the streets of Detroit and talk your dad into paying for a ride)
I recently attended a funeral for someone who was dear to our family and our church, which always brings out emotions I don’t typically display (the hymns tend to be powerful and, even on a good day, I cant help but be overcome with the moving sound of a tenor’s voice). But, it was the eulogy from her son that really gave me pause. This was not only a tribute to his mother, but a glimpse into a world that I lived in my early years. This was the world of community, the power of a clan, the strength of a neighborhood. We were all ever watchful, ever united, friends for life.
When I was little, I thought I had a thousand aunts and uncles (and a million cousins). My parents were not immigrants, but their ancestors were, and survival was through a group effort. When they came to Detroit, they lived in close proximity of each other. And when you went to visit one of the row houses (I still see these in the older Detroit neighborhoods), you ended up knowing everyone on the block. Kids ran from house to house, as if they belonged anywhere and everywhere on the street. Meals and conversations were shared frequently and neighbors were always there to check in on you, watch over you and your kids, and there was safety in numbers.
Growing up on my street in Detroit at 9991 Strathmoor, phone number VE7-3608 was more of the same. It was a beautiful row of small colonials, all brick, lovely elms arching over the road, kids everywhere. There were bonfires on the streets using leaves that we raked up in a pile. We nestled apples underneath, wrapped in tin foil, stuffed with butter and cinnamon. When the flames went out, we hustled in there to find our apple and enjoyed it like it was the best treat on earth. Can you believe young kids were huddled around a bonfire, throwing more leaves into the pile to accelerate the flames? Where were the parents? Where were the neighbors? It was a different world then. They worried more about why my hard-boiled eggs ended up on the ground outside of the window. But now? Geez, I still want to hold my kids hand as they cross the street and they are in their 20’s.
Even beyond the bonfires, we would hop on our bikes and be gone all day. Baseball, ice skating, trekking around from house to house, creating different homegrown events to invite the neighborhood kids to. We would collect rocks from the nearest marble factory and display them at our “Rock Show”. Yes, the marble factory that we had to cross the train tracks (still on bikes) to get to the rocks. I was keeping up with the best of those neighborhood kids at a young age. Who knew that train tracks might be dangerous, I had my sisters, they had their friends, we had each other. Baseball games went on forever and we didn’t care about time or space. The key was to get in the house before the streetlights went on. Yikes if you weren’t back in time.
The riots in the late 60s brought tanks up and down our streets and it seemed wiser and safer to move to the east side of Detroit. But it wasn’t the same kind of place. Something was lost in the translation. Kids didn’t run rampant and everyone was tucked away in their houses playing Atari and watching men land on the moon. Play time became organized and there were no more train tracks or rock shows. Kids in the 70s had it pretty easy and row houses became a thing of the past. Funny how you want to provide something better for your kids, but my memories of the best life ever came with the benefit of a close-knit community. So, when I heard that eulogy today, it brought back a flood of all of my treasured childhood memories. Stories of this wonderful woman who played basketball for the church team, running around on the streets of Detroit with her brothers, fending off anyone who was going to disrupt family and friends. The ties that bind: Those were the days!
Fast forward to today, my three children (and two dogs) grew up in an 1120 square foot house in a neighborhood where everyone hung out on porches and ran over to watch over you if you needed them to. We lived there for 15 years and they grew up knowing that kind of community in Plymouth MI. I hope they have great memories to take with them as I did. Memories of lots of aunts and uncles, millions of cousins, a community at our church in downtown Detroit and understanding the power of the neighborhood. We, too, moved to a bigger house, but we still drive by the one we lived in as well as my old home in Detroit. That is my legacy and I wish the same for you: To be lucky enough to live in a neighborhood that is ever watchful, ever united, where you are friends for life.
