I grew up in a post war neighborhood lined of appealing Cape Cod homes, sidewalks and tree lined streets. Being born in the middle of the Boomer Generation, I had an older brother, and the street was full of children from 10 years older to 8 years younger, and most had smiles that glistened from braces. There was always someone to play with and most mothers were home during the day, if not, their grandmother was.
The street was clear of cars, as back then most households had one family car. My mother would get the car on Wednesdays to go food shopping so she would drive my father into work that day. A street full of one-car families made it very easy to play ball in the street, and yes, when a car was coming, the boys yelled out “Car!”.
There were many services that came through the neighborhood, making it easy for the stay-at-home mom; i.e., the milkman, the bread man, the soda man, the repair man, the garment cleaner, the ice cream man during the summer, and even a carnival kind of ride on a truck. Oh, and once a week, came the Charles Chip man. How I loved those Charles Chips! They stayed fresh and unbroken in large cans.
Even though many services came through the streets, our neighborhood location also allowed easy walking to stores on the Boulevard as we called it. There was a butcher/market, that would deliver if needed, a barbershop, a delicatessen, a bakery and sewing/notions shop, a tailor and two drug stores. I vaguely remember one of them had a soda fountain that was long taken out by the time I became a teenager. In addition, we were able to walk to schools, the library, the church, boy scout and girl scout meetings; mom didn’t drive us anywhere.
The children really did live knowing that when the street lights went on, it was time to end the day. Calling a child to come home was easy, mom/dad would open the front door and call out the child’s name, and we went running home. We never went farther than a shout at least not when we were young.
The dads would all come home within two hours of each other; you could almost time them by their dinner hour. I knew what families ate supper at 4:30 because dad got home at 4, who at 5 p.m., and who ate late at 6 p.m. Most of the dads worked at what they called the “Plant”, some skilled, some in suits, most of which had no degree, just military service from WWII.
These Post War neighborhoods were built to house the well-deserved veterans. My parents bought our Cape Cod for $9,999 in 1951 with no down payment.
My dad was a WWII, D-Day Invasion of Omaha Beach Survivor and a recipient of the Purple Heart. There was another hero from WWII just across the street from us; we were a bit closer with that family. He and my dad had a kind of brotherhood. My dad had an old refrigerator in our detached garage filled with Ballantine Beer; they would get together and talk. Funny though, they never seemed to want to speak of their war time efforts with family. I can imagine how they came to Jesus as they ran up the beaches while being fired at seeing their fellow brothers fall at their side, hoping that if they keep running, they’ll make it. My dad did, wounded, but he made it. He lived with shrapnel in his leg his whole life that would act up whenever it was going to rain.
There was something very adaptable about those Cape Cod Homes, they could easily have more living space by finishing off their walk-up attic and even more if you chose to add a dormer, which many did. My neighborhood had families of 4 – 8 people. Kids today would wonder how a one-bathroom home could possibly accommodate a family of 8, or even 4! We did it, and it didn’t seem like a hardship, not at all.
There was always a doorbell on these homes (something that isn’t as common these days). Unexpected Company on a Sunday afternoon was expected. I can remember my mother intentionally serving our big Sunday Dinners in the early afternoon, so we would be free should Company come later that day, when we would serve something light with Coffee and cake that was usually brought by the unexpected company.
The neighborhood was bonded, moms/dads looked out for each other’s children, gathered in driveways with their lawn chairs or sat on front stoops on hot summer nights. My family owned that home for 64 years; I can still remember every floor board that squeaked, but mostly, I remember the pride both of my parents took in that little Cape Cod.
It was a time that I look back on with very warm and comforting memories.
