Stay-Cation in Philly

  Stay-cation. My speech therapist was the first to say it in my presence. I like the word. The dictionary says that stay-cation is a vacation that is spent at home or nearby with leisurely things that one likes to do. From Sunday, August 7th, until Wednesday, August 10th, my stay-cation was in Philadelphia, and my home was in South Philadelphia.

     I've told you before, I don't like the city. I don't like too much noise. I don't like traffic. I don't like being in a car in the city. I've been avoiding being in the city for years - since my elder kin moved out of the city. Now, my children live in the city or close by. It was inevitable that one of them would be a Philadelphia homeowner. My daughter has a house in South Philly.

1

          This is the street. Look at how narrow! Look at the cars! Where are the trees?

   I was born in South Philadelphia, but was raised in Delaware County, Pennsylvania, and I remember farms, and fields, and animals, and greenhouses, and grass, and trees, and space. In the late fifties and early sixties, there were no apartment complexes, and no filled streets of cars. The boom of malls, housing development, apartment buildings, and more, created traffic and fewer farms. 

      In the late eighties, I moved from Delaware County to western Chester County. In the early stages of my time there, there was no Walmart and no light pollution. We could see the stars in the sky as if we could reach out and touch them; they were that brilliant. We could see the fields beyond the street we lived on with a million fireflies lighting. It was June, but it was like gazing at blinking clusters of Christmas lights. It was quiet, spacious, and calm.

      Now my daughter has a house on this street. Can you hear me think? Heaven help me! 

      WAIT! WOW! When I looked beyond the stop sign and the cross streets, I could see the skyline of center city!

2

     I've talked about the photo of My Space; the one that was in my childhood home in the seventies. It had all I needed and wanted. Situated in the corner of the room was a corner desk. 

   

Aww! When we took the tour of the house, there, in the basement in Her Space, was the corner desk made by my Dad so many years ago. I've seen it over the years, but this time it made me feel a sense of sentiment and promise.

3

      When we saw the house for the first time, I was attracted to the wrought iron railings. I said to my daughter, "I want to go to your house and paint the railings!" 

       "Why don't you come for a few days." I rattled off a few things I could help with: like chipping paint off mirror glass in the living room that a painter carelessly messed up, or hanging pictures and a bedroom set mirror; and any other odd and end I could think of.

      Before I knew it, I was shuttled by my wife to South Philly. I brought my tools, Rust-Oleum gloss-black paint from Home Depot, my brushes, and some cleaning products like soap pads from the Family Dollar. It's a standing joke at my home, and many other homes, I imagine, that soap pads are tampons and in French the word for tampons is pads. So, when my daughter asks for a soap pad, I bring a tampon. There should be no mix-up.

      There is no heavy labor involved in the chores in the house, and I rested appropriately. The corner hardware store was a block and a half away whenever I needed it. I have not seen one of those in years. Instantly, the hardware fragrances, the expertise, and the attention to me came to the foreground. I miss those days. I miss the walk to any corner store.

4

     

After the painting of the outside and inside wrought iron railings, and some other odds and ends were finished, I decided to go outside into the backyard and check out a broken door on a hard plastic portable closet. "I might be able to jury rig that door," I confidently proclaimed to no one. 

      I decided to get my tools from the house. I went to the door and tried to open it, and it was locked. I had no key. My pretty girl was at work. My phone was in the house. When we had seen the house the week before, my wife had opened the door to the back alley, and some kind of critter moved. That was the last time we saw the opened door. This time, there was a padlock securing the door. I didn't have the key for that one either. 

     The last time I saw the backyard, I didn't see the chicken wire above the cinder block wall. I would have been climbing and braving the critters to get to the street at the end of the alley if it wasn't for the obstacles.

      It was a hot, humid day with temperatures in the nineties, and I was stuck! The neighboring houses were closed up to keep the heat out and the air conditioned air in. There was no window or door to knock on. I stood and said to the One who hears the pleas, "Please get me out of this one..." I looked around for at least twenty-five minutes for somebody to come outside. The first minutes were bearable, but Mother Nature delivered an outside pressure cooker to the backyard. I asked again for emphasis, "Please get me out of this one..."

      ...and there she was! She had come outside in her backyard. Her home was about four or so houses down. I had seen her before when she passed by the house on one of her errands, and there she was again. I said, "Hello!"

      "Hello!" she said as she proceeded to walk to her door.

      "I'm stuck outside!"

      "What can I do?" She was kind, just like all the neighbors in that street, and she wanted to help.

     Absentminded me - with a locked door, a locked gate, no keys, no phone, no daughter at home, and no way out - got my answer to my plea. "Can you go to the house and open the front door, and go to kitchen and unlock the back door!" 

      "Okay!" In no time the back door was open. I thanked her profusely in my slow deliberate way, and I was so relieved and excited to get into the air conditioning! We introduced ourselves. She is Miss Pat. Everyone calls her Miss Pat! "How did you do this?" she laughed.

    "I DON'T KNOW, but you were the answer to my prayer!" 

    When she left, I raided the fridge and found some leftover chocolate pudding pie from a gathering at my pretty girl's work. I cut the biggest piece of pie and ate it. The dilemma of trying the door of the closet outside or napping was a no-brainer.

    We saw each other outside the next morning. She said, "Good morning Joe!"

       "Good morning Miss Pat!"

       "I hope you're having a better day today, baby."

     "Yes I am! Thanks again!" We exchanged good days. I have a new friend. 

5

      

      One of my favorite things about my stay-cation in my daughter's home was that first cup of morning coffee. There was no coffee in the house and no coffee maker yet, so I walked to 15th and Snyder every day and got my coffee at the Melrose Diner. 

      The last time I could remember going there was in 1967, after my dear late sister's graduation from high school. When I saw the inside of the diner, I could see the family from my past gathered around the table. The layout was the same as it was nearly fifty years ago. More memories of sentiment at the changes in life, and the promise that some things have never changed, gave me a peaceful feeling.  

      Every morning, I said good morning to the skyline. I never really appreciated the city view in a car, but I loved my walk and the spectacle. One morning, the sky had a hazy fog that helped fade the top of the skyscrapers. Magnificent!

      On one of the evenings, I was treated to a dinner with my young kin members at the Melrose. I think I've seen too much food on Facebook. Some folks just whip out their phone and snap a picture of their food and post it. Disgusting!

      WAIT! LOOK! I haven't tasted a cheese steak sandwich with a Philly roll in years. Delicious! SNAP! POST!

      There is nothing like it, and those Melrose fries were crisp!    

6

     Each day, I could hear church bells. I knew that St. Monica was nearby, so during one of my walks I found it just a few blocks from the corner of 'our' street...and I saw a tree! The church was beautiful and the bells were calming on this scorching day.

     On the last day of my stay-cation, my honey and my pretty girl and I went to dinner on Broad Street. On the front of the restaurant hanged a sign with the words Pesto Ristorante Italiano. The name Pesto was in bold red letters, just like Italian gravy. Like the Melrose Diner, the Italian restaurant was to die for. On the sidewalk near the street hanged an Italian flag on a streetlamp pole. I looked down the street, and there, between the Italian flag and the restaurant's sign, was another tree! In the distance, I could see the city skyline below the flag. It was a pretty picture. I love trees. I love the skyline in the distance. My favorite food to order in an Italian restaurant is gnocchi, those puffs of cheese or potato smothered in marinara. I wasn't disappointed!

      It was time to go home...my home. Saying goodbye for now is always melancholy. I think I really enjoyed myself. The ride home was uneventful, except for the majestic skyline from the Expressway! This time I liked it. I stared at it and thought, Heaven help me, I've got to do this again! I hope that this experience is the first of many stay-cations in South Philly.