Pennway Street:
We just called it "Pennway Street."
5174 Pennway was where my father was born in December 1930, and where he would die fifty-two years later. It was the house my grandmother passed down to him, where he brought my mother as a young bride to live with his parents, where my brother and I grew up surrounded by intellectual brilliance and domestic chaos in equal measure.
If those walls could talk, they would tell the story of a brilliant man's rise and fall, of a neighborhood's transformation from middle-class Jewish enclave to battleground, of a family that loved fiercely despite everything threatening to tear them apart.
My grandmother's tastefully decorated 1940s home had fallen into disrepair and neglect, where her fine wallpaper had become part of the dirty, worn plaster walls. The original carpet lay flat with huge holes and black gummy stains throughout. Cigarette smoke had yellowed everything. In our bedrooms, my brother and I drew on the walls as our form of decoration and self-expression. I wasn't allowed certain childhood games, but I could express my creativity on those walls. I guess there's some logic to that.
My parents' room was crammed with boxes and magazines of all sorts. The path to their bed was narrow, covered by mountains of periodicals and trash. The nightstand overflowed with pill bottles, bric-a-brac, and cigarette butts. The hallway to my brother's room was where the dog papers lay, so the path required careful navigation unless you wanted dog waste on your foot.
When I turned on the kitchen light for a late-night snack, thousands of roaches would scatter across the floor and walls. Some nights I'd wake to the acrid smell of bug spray-my father making sneak attacks with cans of Raid. I think it was a form of entertainment for him. I remember being embarrassed at Pathmark because our shopping cart would sometimes contain five cans of roach spray.
Windows were boarded up after too many rocks crashed through. Our furniture had holes so big the springs and stuffing burst out. When my parents entertained, colored light bulbs went in to hide the dirt and stains.
Yet somehow, it didn't stop me from bringing friends over, unlike my brother who was mortified by our living conditions. Every corner eventually held something- boxes empty or full, junk, newspapers, magazines. When we started the Super 8 film developing business, many people came in and out of that house. They would sit for hours talking with my dad about life, politics, movies, while occasionally a roach would cross their path.
I'll never forget Dr. Alosi and his wife-an older, wealthy, worldly couple who traveled extensively and made films of their journeys. While waiting for his film to be developed, the doctor would sit in his pressed suit in our tattered, dirty chair next to the couch, so relaxed in conversation with my father that he'd fall sound asleep. Having so many different types of people come into that house was a grand education for me, one that helped mold who I am today.
If those walls could talk, they would tell the story of a brilliant man's rise and fall, of a neighborhood's transformation from middle-class Jewish enclave to battleground, of a family that loved fiercely despite everything threatening to tear them apart.
My grandmother's tastefully decorated 1940s home had fallen into disrepair and neglect, where her fine wallpaper had become part of the dirty, worn plaster walls. The original carpet lay flat with huge holes and black gummy stains throughout. Cigarette smoke had yellowed everything. In our bedrooms, my brother and I drew on the walls as our form of decoration and self-expression. I wasn't allowed certain childhood games, but I could express my creativity on those walls. I guess there's some logic to that.
When I turned on the kitchen light for a late-night snack, thousands of roaches would scatter across the floor and walls. Some nights I'd wake to the acrid smell of bug spray-my father making sneak attacks with cans of Raid. I think it was a form of entertainment for him. I remember being embarrassed at Pathmark because our shopping cart would sometimes contain five cans of roach spray.
Windows were boarded up after too many rocks crashed through. Our furniture had holes so big the springs and stuffing burst out. When my parents entertained, colored light bulbs went in to hide the dirt and stains.
Yet somehow, it didn't stop me from bringing friends over, unlike my brother who was mortified by our living conditions. Every corner eventually held something- boxes empty or full, junk, newspapers, magazines. When we started the Super 8 film developing business, many people came in and out of that house. They would sit for hours talking with my dad about life, politics, movies, while occasionally a roach would cross their path.
I'll never forget Dr. Alosi and his wife-an older, wealthy, worldly couple who traveled extensively and made films of their journeys. While waiting for his film to be developed, the doctor would sit in his pressed suit in our tattered, dirty chair next to the couch, so relaxed in conversation with my father that he'd fall sound asleep. Having so many different types of people come into that house was a grand education for me, one that helped mold who I am today.
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