Won’t You Be My Neighbor? Part 1

(Me second from left 11 years old - Applewood Manor)

My porn name is Candy Towanda.

I read on the internet once that if you take the name of your first pet and the name of the first street you lived on you get your porn name.  Towanda Street was my first home and Candy was our dog.  That makes me Candy Towanda.  I like that.  It sounds very alluring.   

We lived in a small red house on Towanda Street with a carport, a swing set in the back, no fences between yards and a neighborhood full of kids.  There were about seven close families on our block with an average of 4-6 kids per family.  The Coffins with three children, The Davis’ with four children, The Houlihans with seven children, The Claeys with five children, The Driscolls with five children, The Drakes with two children.  Then the four of us - 27 kids on one street!  It was a whole classroom full of kids!  During the summer months my siblings and I would head out to play shortly after breakfast.  We played Red Rover, Statue Maker, SPUD, Red Light Green Light, Capture the Flag, Mother May I and Tag.  We made up plays together, had mini carnivals and crabapple fights.  All of the different age kids played together.  There was no need for summer camps because our neighborhood was its own summer camp.  The parents all watched out for each others’ families and they shared many experiences, both fun and challenging. We were not only disciplined by our own parents but by every adult in the neighborhood.  Someone was always watching.  We stayed out all day playing with our friends with a break for dinner.  We knew dinner was ready when my Mom’s cowbell would ring thru the neighborhood.  After dinner and dishes we would head out again and play until the streetlights went on and we all headed home.  It was a “Leave it to Beaver” childhood and the memories of those first seven years are bright and happy ones.

When I started third grade my family moved to a larger house in another neighborhood in Matteson, Illinois.  This one was a new development with houses still being built.  It was called Applewood Manor.  Once we settled in, my parents headed out to meet the neighbors.  Invitations were extended, walks around the neighborhood were shared, they helped each other with home improvement projects.  The older kids were babysitting the younger kids and once again a community was built.  My parents’ closest friends were the Capacasas and the Moyers.  Just about every Friday or Saturday evening when the weather was right, my parents would sit out on our patio with the Capacasas and Moyers.  They would order pizzas, pour some beers and their laughter would rise and swell like waves on the shore.   Even at a young age I knew that what they shared was very special. 

The Ritchies lived two doors down from us.  They had one son, Stephen, and two daughters, Anne and Robin.  The older daughter, Robin, was mentally challenged but very sweet.  One day my Mom and I were in the kitchen and Robin came running up to the door excited and out of breath.  “Mrs. Wachter, Mrs. Wachter, there’s a fire in our house.”  My Mom kicked into gear and we both ran down the street lead by Robin.  There was smoke pouring out of one of the bedroom windows and we saw Mr. Clark from across the street rushing to the side of the house.  Anne and Stephen were standing in the driveway pale and scared.  Mr. Clark grabbed the hose and ran into the house as my Mom turned the water on.  By that time other neighbors were congregating around, calming the Ritchie children and trying to help in any way they could.  Someone called 911.  As the firemen pulled up Mr. Clark ran out of the house coughing and throwing up.  The fire was out and everyone was safe.  I looked around. A fireman sat near Mr. Clark giving him oxygen through a mask, Ann and Stephen were enveloped in the arms of Mrs. Vandetta, Robin in the arms of my Mom. Mrs. McElmury was rolling up the hose while the firemen and some of the other Moms were bringing out the burnt bedding, still smoldering. As scary as the entire episode was, it gave me so much comfort to know that I could trust my neighbors to help out in an emergency.  The Ritchie kids had been at home by themselves but they were never alone.  They had an entire neighborhood watching out for them. 

Mr. Clark was the “mayor” of the neighborhood, a good looking man with two small boys of his own. When the weather cooperated he rode around the neighborhood on his bike every evening checking in on the neighbors, chatting everyone up and in the process finding out everything that was going on. He was great with the kids and everyone loved him.

Mrs. Czupryn was an Italian Mom whose husband owned the local currency exchange. When you walked into Mrs. Czupryn’s house you were always greeted with a warm hug against her ample bosom and food - always food.

Mr. and Mrs. Moyer lived just next door. Mrs. Moyer gave me my first job at the elementary school where she worked. Mr. Moyer worked at the Ford Motor Company and gave my brother an introduction into blue collar work one summer in his factories which was a quick solution to his indecision about whether or not to go to college.

Mr. and Mrs. Gallagher were both very young and very good looking. I babysat their two sons and one daughter often. When I had you boys and we were broke I remembered how Mrs. Gallagher used to put her son’s pants on backward half of the time so as to prolong the wear and tear on the knees. Used that bit of wisdom.

Mr. and Mrs. Rosenberger were another of my babysitting clients. About 20 years ago when I was in my 40’s I had taken you boys out on the boat to Alcatraz. A beautiful young woman in her mid to late 20’s walked up to me and asked “Are you Laura Wachter by any chance?” I knew this must be someone from very long ago since I hadn’t used my maiden name since 1981. She then said “I’m Ann Marie Rosenberger, you used to babysit me when I was in kindergarten.” Whoa! What are the chances??!

Mr. and Mrs. McElmury lived next door with three girls and a boy. She was considered one of those new agey parents who didn’t believe in disciplining their children and whose child raising philosophies were in constant conflict with those of my Mom. But they learned to live harmoniously despite their differences.

Mr. and Mrs. Fordonski had four sons all with tight crew cuts back when crew cuts were definitely NOT in style. Steve Fordonski was my first kiss.

Mr. Vandette was an airline pilot. As a teenager I thought he was strikingly handsome and had a mad crush. His wife and two daughters were sweet, another of my babysitting clients.

Mrs. Collins who lived with her husband and two daughters up the street was our 4-H leader and whipped us into shape for the public speaking and demonstration contests. Her husband, the very quiet Dave Collins was my Dad’s best friend. They could spend hours downstairs in my Dad’s workshop and you wouldn’t hear them exchange but a few words as they worked.

Just as was our old neighborhood on Towanda Street our new neighborhood was a rich tapestry of personalities flung together through fate or luck, affecting each others’ lives in unexpected ways. How were we lucky enough to live in two neighborhoods where our neighbors were like family? Even as a teenager I knew how blessed we were. I often wondered how I would find such a neighborhood in which to raise my own family.