Your Roots Are Where You Plant Them

This afternoon, I was perusing some of the other blogs from around our state, getting a feel for what was to come in the ensuing week.

Much to my surprise, I found a weblog about the Kensington section of Philadelphia.

Why did this surprise me? I had no idea that "kenso's" were that technologically advanced.

Nah, I just never even thought that anybody would blog about my home "nabe" Kensington. Yeah, that's right, I'm from "Kayenay".

It was a pretty tough neighborhood, even back then. I'd say that, over the years, I had about 20, 30,000 fights, with about 29, 988 of them with my oldest friend and most notorious instigant, Marc Smyth. We fought just to break up the boredom. We fought over who would go first (I always wanted to go first, as Marc was a naturally wiry guy and was great at everything...I was this pudgy, uncoordinated boob...you get the picture), we fought over who met who first (we were about 4 years old, for crissakes), we fought over girls, we fought over who won the last fight.

Nobody ever popped a cap in the winner.

I'm waxing nostalgic, because I do miss the old neighborhood. I had a great childhood growing up on the tough streets of Kensington, where my parents (who are still together and will celebrate their 47th or 48th wedding anniversary this year) planted their roots, and still thrive.

We played hard, fought hard, and prayed hard. The times were simpler, safer and more people cared about what happened to you than just your family.

If you broke a bottle (a cardinal sin) at "F" and Cornwall Streets, you could rest assured that your mom knew about it by time you traveled the 8 or 9 blocks to get home at "G" and Tioga. If you fell and tore open your knee, the closest "mom" to you at the time would put mecurachrome and a band-aid on it and send you home. You had a network of "moms" throughout the neighborhood who looked after all of the kids. If you smoked, you did it in an alley for fear of getting caught.

The alleys are another thing...they were your alternate route, if you were late and needed a short cut. Now, they are all locked down for fear of break-ins.

While my mom and dad planted their roots firmly in Kensington, the seeds of their marriage have blown all over the region and into another state. I have a sister in Port Richmond, one in the "Northeast", a brother in Plymouth Meeting, and a sister in Connecticut. When I married Karen, we decided to plant our roots in Whitemarsh.

As I watch them grow, I sometimes feel sorry for the fact that my children will never know what it was like to "run the streets" without fear of bad actors. We left the house right after breakfast, came home for lunch, and left again until dinner time. We never told mom where we were or what we were doing unless we were going off of our "block" or over a friends house. Simpler times. But, times change.

I can only hope that my sons and daughter will someday wax nostalgic about the "good old days" spent growing up here...with the flavor of the suburbs being so different than where I came from, one can only hope.