Thomaston Street – No Place Like (my first) Home

When I recall my first home in Hartford, Connecticut, fond memories come to mind in a flood of sights, smells and sounds of more innocent times. I lived on the first floor of a two-family, wood-shingled house from my birth until age nine. My father’s parents lived on the second floor.

It was great having grandparents right upstairs. I could run up the back stairs to Grandma Sarah’s kitchen, following my nose toward a pot of chicken soup or fresh baked challah. I was always welcomed there by her warm smile and a taste of the latest treat just emerging from the white porcelain stove. Poppy, my grandfather had retired, so he was often available to play Acey Deucy or Go Fish. He also entertained me with a game that consisted of dropping whole walnuts down an inclined cutting board; the winner’s walnut rolled the furthest. And he happily served as my chauffeur to and from violin lessons, which I started at age seven.

Both stories of the house had back porches, whose support posts served as launching pads for wheel-driven, rope clotheslines – nature’s dryers back then. But to a young boy, those porches were ancient fortresses with stately castle towers or rooftop hiding places in the Old West. The porches overlooked a modest-sized fenced yard, and a detached garage, from which the broad wings of a two-toned grey Desoto often protruded. The basement was another magical place, filled with treasures to be explored – mostly “old stuff” according to my dad, but many worthy of asking, “What’s this for?” followed by, “Can I have it?” regardless of the answer. The sweet smell of sawdust and machine oil greeted me each time I followed my father into the workshop area, desperate to be his helper and carry the most important tools – like a pick-ax or sledge hammer that I could hardly lift.

My favorite room in the house was the Sun Room; it had windows on three sides to help chase away a winter’s chill. Today you’d probably call it a den, but the way the morning sun streamed in and warmed that cozy space best suited the old- fashioned name. When the windows were opened in Spring, the room filled with the sweet scent of lilac bushes, which pressed their flowers like bunches of ripe purple grapes against the screens. The room was dominated by a soft divan (I’m not sure it made the old sofa seem like a fancy French import or that was just what they called it back in the early ’50s). That environment made it the most inviting place to reading a good book.

The houses in our neighborhood were clustered fairly closely. Each driveway had a wall of hedges between it and the next-door neighbor’s home. Despite those defined borders, most were kept low enough to encourage welcoming conversations. Sidewalks lined both sides of the street and served as safe pathways to schools and some neighborhood stores several blocks away. My favorite route took me to our local drugstore, where I could buy multicolored button candy, lined up neatly on a white paper strip and sold by the inch. I’d use my front lower teeth to carefully peel each sweet, pastel button off the paper, hoping I’d have bought enough to last for the walk home.

On our street, the cement walkways were typically filled with mothers pushing baby carriages, youngsters on tricycles and the unmistakable roar of metal roller skates. The street was never too busy for dodge-ball or some form of baseball. And the many picket fences and hedges surrounding the small front yards were convenient sanctuaries during Hide-and-Seek competitions. Best of all, the neighborhood was compact enough for moms to call “Suppertime!” or ring a cowbell from their front porch. And on warm summer evenings, I’d be back outside as quickly as possible to get in extra innings or play King of the Mountain until the streetlights glowed, signaling that it was time for bed.

Marc Sacher
4/18/18