LOOKING BACK
mountaintop with a bench
where a kid could go to think
when things got tough.
Oak Park Park, as we call-
ed it, not only had the distinc-
tion of sounding like
something out of an Abbott
and Costello routine. Deep in
its forbidden woods, daring
adolescents exchanged their
first experimental kisses
despite countless warnings of
sinister strangers lurking
amidst the tall trees.
My son generously feigned
mild interest, although the
rhythmic bopping of his head
made me suspect that the bet-
ter -part of his brain was still
in Rapland.
"And here was our house," I
said, pulling up to an eternal-
ly familiar yellow brick ranch
To my son,
Nine Mile and
Greenfield looked
`city-ish.
Art by Angelo Antonnicola
Down Memory Lane
Visiting the Old Neighborhood
isn't easy with your 13-year-old
along for the ride
WENDY ROLLIN
Special to The Jewish News
One sunny significant day a
few months ago, I knew the
time had come. A momentous
rite of passage was at hand.
My 13-year-old son was ready
for the pilgrimage to My Old
Neighborhood. Together, my
boy and I would visit the
hallowed territory of my
youth.
"Do I really have to go?" my
son pleaded. "Mom, you're be-
ing s00000 mean!'
Since becoming a teenager,
his entertainment passions
have been rap music, video
games and horror stories.
Anything that doesn't beat,
blink or bleed is probably bor-
ing. But I wisely made a few,
shall we say, "musical conses-
sions" . . . and we were on our
way.
As negotiated, a cassette of
stirring rap classics provided
the traveling music while
nostalgic mother and reluc-
tant child went forth. Exiting
The New Neighborhood via
Northwestern Highway, we
rolled right along down to the
Lodge — the expressway to my
past.
When we reached Nine Mile
and Greenfield, I turned off
the music, much to my son's
displeasure. "What did you do
that for?" he protested. "We
made a deal!'
"I promise I'll turn it on
again in just a few minutes,"
I told him with rising excite-
ment. "Forget Jazzy Jeff,
child. Look around you. This
is where your mama grew up!"
Casting an ever-critical
teenage eye on the blocks of
houses to either side of us, my
son said, "It looks kind of .. .
well . . . cityish."
"Cityish?" I asked. "What
does that mean?"
"I mean," he said, "the
houses look . . . well . . . real
close together. And see those
guys standing over there?
Their clothes look very poor.
Why are they all standing
there?"
"They're just waiting for a
bus," I explained, realizing
that as far as my son was con-
cerned, busses took kids to
camp and school and that was
it.
As we waited for the light to
change, the image of the bus
riders dissolved into a picture
from long ago: me and my
girlfriends, ponytails bouncing
in the breeze, strolling the
Nine Mile route to Northland
for a Saturday afternoon of
trying on clothes and devour-
ing Sanders hot fudge
sundaes.
The memory was rich and
smooth. Then, the flash of a
green traffic light brought me
back to the present. "Just
wait," I told my son, wanting
him to savor it all with me.
"I'll show you my old house!
I'll take you to Oak Park Hill
. . . to Oak Park Park!"
Through the passage of time
and the retelling of old stories,
these sites had attained a
mythological magnitude. Oak
Park Hill was Olympus — a
with its landmark fire
hydrant in front. "This," I pro-
claimed, "is where your
grandma and grandpa, Aunt
Cathy and I lived?'
"Aren't you forgetting so-
meone?" my son asked. "Bon
Bon, the world's most in-
telligent poodle?" he added
with a sweet smile. The kid
knew this shtick well.
While the sun shone bright
on my old Kenosha home, I
could see my son looking
around, sizing it up. Purchas-
ed in 1956 for just under
$27,000 — not an insubstan-
tial sum at the time — it had
three good-sized bedrooms,
plus a master bath, plus a
den, plus a full basement. My
mother worried, when she and
my father bought it, that
they'd overextended them-
selves.
"Gee, Mom," said my son.
"It looks kind of . . . well .. .
smallish!'
I could see I had my work
cut out for me in the area of
cultural transmission, of con-
veying to my child the flavors,
sights and values of a pre-
Nintendo childhood. But
somehow it seemed important
to me on that particular sun-
ny significant day.
"Listen," I addressed my off-
spring, "my Oak Park wasn't
just another mere suburb. It
was a very singular small
town. With a whole bunch of
memorable characters, both
good and bad. And a feeling,
anyway, that everybody knew
everybody else. Sort of like
Anatevka in Fiddler on the
Roof. Remember?"
My offspring wasn't reac-
ting. If only Stephen King had
written Fiddler . . . or perhaps
if Shalom Aleichem had writ-
THE DETROIT JEWISH NEWS
61