Hometown Exercise...

Parker Street was my childhood home, an infinite street within finite borders. Without knowledge of what lie beyond the corner, some of the dirtiest slums in Newark, I only knew the great uneven gray sidewalks that went from one cornet to the next. Where giant oak and maple trees shaded the pavements and where every house on the block was unique in shape, color and size, making Parker Street a quilt of architectural homes patched together by the people that resided there together. On our left, there was the brick house where no one lived, and in the backyard bloomed a wild rose bush. My brother and I would sneak through the gap in the shrubs to steal roses in the summer and pretend it was our own secret garden. Further down the block was Shawnee and Shavonee’s house, the Puerto Rican Jehovah’s Witnesses whose daughters would sneak upstairs into our apartments sometimes and steal our mangoes from the fruit basket. Their father’s company, Chico’s Roofing, owned a pink van which had murals of imitation Disney characters painted all over the sides. Then came Alfred and Alexandra’s mansion. Really only a large house, but at the front sat two stone lions which, to me, as a young girl symbolized only the finest of homes. With the twins and my brother at my side, we rode the block on our bicycles up and down spring and summer. Until Autumn stole the greens from the tree tops and soon we would take turns riding down to the end of the block where the big acorn tree grew and collect buckets of acorns to put in our backyard for the squirrels to easy When autumn would arrive, we would take turns riding down to the end of the block where the big acorn tree grew and collect buckets of acorns for the squirrel’s convenience as they prepared for their winter slumbers.