The Age of Innocense

In Africa they believe it takes a village to raise a child.  Growing up in the fifties we didn’t call it a village, we called it a neighbourhood and mine happen to be the North End.

Funny thing about the north-end, nobody was indecisive about it; you either loved being a north-ender or you hated it.  Personally, I loved it!  We were street wise and tough, we had to be.

For the first eight years of my life I thought I lived in a castle!  What did I know? None of my friends had a name like Rivera Court carved in granite above their front door. Rivera Court, also known as 161 Cathedral Avenue, proudly towered above its neighbours. It was a wonderful place to live.

It was built in the thirties, rather Art Deco with its reddish brown brick and grand entrance way.  What a site it was to behold. Inside, the halls were long and dimly lit.  Beautiful sconces decorated the soft green stucco-covered walls.  The ceilings shone like copper and I loved running my hands along the gold polished handrails as I made my way upstairs to our third story apartment 

Our suite ran the entire length of the long hallway and was the only one to have a front and back entrance. The doors were made of beautiful rich dark wood.  How safe and protected I felt safely tucked in behind them! There were so many nooks and crannies in which to hide away where hours could be spent in make belief.

My sister and I shared our bedroom with my uncle, a scenario that would be unheard of today!  It was a large room with high coved ceilings and hardwood floors.  Luckily we had our own radiator. In the winter it would sizzle and hiss like a snake, but for us it was a welcoming sound.  Hiss and sizzle meant heat, something that at times could be a rare commodity.

Air conditioning was non-existent so summer days and nights were spent outdoors.  Parents congregated together, the ladies drinking coffee, the men beer. Kids would be everywhere; playing soccer, baseball or maybe just a game of hide and seek. There was no such thing as staying in your own back yard; the neighbourhood was our back yard!

My favourite hangout was Zeliksons, a tiny little store just up the street from us.  Candies were three for a penny.  It was fun just to savour the thought of which ones would be mine. I had to ensure I made the right selection.  After all, it would have taken me hours to scrounge for a bottle that I could turn into two pennies. 

The Miracle Bakery was right next to Zeliksons.  I loved the name Miracle Bakery! Every morning the scent of freshly baked bread seeped out into the street.  Huge buns dripping with cinnamon or melt in your mouth donuts tempted us on our way to school.

What is a neighbourhood without its people!  In our little part of the North End `many different languages were spoken.  So many different accents could be heard.  Eventually, curiosity got the best of me; I asked my mom why everyone sounded so different?  Her answer was simple and direct; they are displaced persons.  For years I thought anyone with an accent was a displaced person. I had no idea what it really meant, perhaps that was a blessing! She didn’t mean any harm calling them that, it was the fifties and that was just the way it was. 

Mrs. Palonski lived on the second floor.  It was whispered she had a husband but nobody ever saw him. People said he was a gambler.  What that meant I didn’t know but it sure sounded exciting.

Mrs. Veegee lived on the main floor. I knew her for eight years and for eight years she wore black. Her long grey hair was usually tied up in a bun and to an eight year old she resembled a witch.  Some of the kids were afraid of her, I never was. I knew she lived by herself and I often wondered and worried about how lonely she must feel.

Reginna lived across the hall.  She was young and beautiful, my dad and uncle loved her, my mother not so much!  Her pitch-black hair almost reached her waist.  She had dark velvety skin and beautiful big brown eyes.  I used to think she was a gypsy, maybe she was.

Time moves on and with age comes knowledge and with knowledge the loss of innocence.  I came to understand what it meant to be a displaced person.  All my dear friends, Reginna Mrs.Veegee, Mrs. Polonski and Mr. Zelekson, all Europeans of Jewish decent, all people displaced by war, hate and prejudice.

I was blessed to have these wonderful people in my neighbourhood.  I loved all their different accents and the sounds of their names: Vladimir, Aida, Hanna, and Ursula.  They were different than me and I loved it!

I am glad that I saw my neighbourhood through the innocent eyes of a child. What does an eight-year-old girl know or understand about hate, war or terror.  I will never know their stories, their pain, their suffering and maybe I don’t want to. All I know is that without them my neighbourhood would not have been so special.

I look back to those times and wish once again for the age of innocence. Maybe our castle was just an old apartment building but to me it was home. Were we poor, probably, but we had clothes on our backs, a roof over our heads and a wonderful neighbourhood to grow up in.  I will always be proud to announce to the world that I am from the North End, that I am a north ender!