Eighth Street Urchins
We all came from families of no less than four children and upwards to eight. We were bound together like a gang of warriors whose territory smelled like grass, melted asphalt, Double Bubble chewing gum, dirt, chlordane, and sweaty kids. There was always steady din of kid clatter that never let up; it was background noise, which became a soothing lullaby to newborns birthed into our world.
That was a time when red PF Flyers were the footwear of choice that insured that any race you were running in would deliver victory. It was standard fare on a kid infested street in East Meadow, NY, to see six street urchins standing in a line getting ready-set to go. On Eighth Street were no less than 150 children between the ages of two and twelve. We spent the summers performing in self-produced plays, riding rusty bikes with baseball cards clothes pinned to the spokes, swinging like Tarzan from the branches of large oak trees, playing kick-ball, ring-a-levio, and tag from when the sun came up, until the night-cap round of Pied Piper ice cream at 9:00 pm. Our block was a world unto its own; going around the corner could be likened to traveling from Staten Island to Brooklyn today. If you ventured to Lancaster Street for instance, the territory was as unfamiliar as being in a foreign country.
The ethnicity of the tribe was mainly Irish Catholic and Italian. Those nationalities made up the bulk of the herd, sprinkled with an occasional German here and there. I remember the oddity of a British family that moved in, which caused quite a stir for days. The family from Liverpool became instant celebrities. In our crowd, they were the nearest thing to an actual Beatle that any of us would ever encounter; in fact, in our eyes their oldest son became our own personal Paul McCartney.
Most of us had moved to the area from either Queens or Brooklyn. East Meadow wasn’t only considered suburbia, but at that time to us it was considered the country. My yard in particular had a feature that was considered an attraction to the whole block, a water fountain. The water was warm, rusty and metallic in flavor, but that didn’t stop the influx of thirsty pilgrims that stopped by daily to partake of libation from our rickety fount.
We didn’t have time to stop and eat; when we did it was usually Skippy peanut butter and grape jelly on partially stale Wonder bread. We would eat outside on picnic tables that were usually too hot to sit on and were infamous for delivering large, dry splinters in our bottoms that needed to be fished out by the only nurse that lived on the street. The highlight of any week was having one of your best pals “eat over.” What could be better than sharing dry meatloaf and a lump of boxed macaroni and cheese with someone who could make you laugh to the point of having Tang shoot out your nose?
Usually we knew the daily festivities were winding down when our parents, equipped with their aluminum, webbed lawn chairs, Tareyton cigarettes and coffee started setting up in groups on some of the lawns. It was usually around dusk, because all the doors and windows were open, and you could usually hear the clanking of the pots and pans after dinner. When the clang ceased, the mass migration to the front lawn began. This meant that our activities needed to change location based on the parental positioning on the street. Usually we could find a thinner area mid-block to exercise our streetlight version of tag. No one knew for sure if we would be called in for the day, based on the general mood, so obscurity and scarcity helped our cause. We knew things were going well if the Good Humor man showed up and our mother’s bought themselves ice cream. A cigarette and a Toasted Almond meant we had a reprieve of at least 45 minutes.
Every summer there were at least one or two serious romances taking place in our group. Romance at that time would mean so and so “liked” so and so. It usually entailed a lot of giggling, arm punching, and playful pushing, and by the end of the summer could progress to hand holding, an event that would circulate like wildfire and be discussed in hushed tones at secretive meetings.
Life on Eighth Street was an adventure, filled with memories that remain until today as each one of us grew and went on our way to establish ourselves in life. Memories of that time are replete with sounds, smells, and sentimentality. What went on inside our homes did not always contribute to the best of memories from that period of our lives, but when we stepped outside our doors into the morning sun and melded into our play pack, all of our concerns melted away and a day of carefree fun and frivolity awaited our young impressionable lives.
Tags: 60's, Long Island, Play
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