Memories of home

To the Editor,

The recent article about home (“Humans of Swarthmore,” October 16) triggered some home base and home space memories for me.

As a child, I lived in a two-family house in the Bronx, New York. We lived upstairs, and my grandpa and three aunts lived downstairs. Other relatives lived on the same street and around the corner. From sunup ‘til sunset, we played. Outdoors, we played stick ball, stoop ball, handball, running bases, jump rope, etc. Indoors, we played cards and board games, listened to the radio, read, and “made-believe” with crayons, paper dolls, costume jewelry, scarves, etc.

We didn’t own a car: We took family walks. I also rode my blue Columbia two-wheeler or roller skated around the neighborhood and park. Every morning, as I walked the two blocks to my school, PS53, neighbors would greet me with, “Be a good girl,” and, “Listen to your teacher.” On the way home, it was, “Did you have a good day?” “Were you a good girl?”

In Swarthmore, I live in a small, split-level house. I watch the children play outside, with pleasure. I hear the “ping” of baseball bats on Henderson Field and remember our rowdy stickball games. My walks take me past soccer practices, and I remember my kids’ and grandkids’ soccer, baseball, and crew practices.

Tom Wolfe said, “You Can’t Go Home Again.” I say, “Home is where the heart is.”

Myra Hochman
Swarthmore