The House on Thomaston Street

From birth until age nine, “home” was a two-family house at 81 Thomaston Street in Hartford, Connecticut. On rare occasions, I have the opportunity to drive by my old neighborhood and that address. One look at my old house brings back a flood of sights, smells and sounds that make up many fond memories.

Our front steps welcomed a small porch landing with two doors standing side by side. We lived on the first floor, while my dad’s parents occupied the upstairs. Just looking at the front stoop, I can still hear the pop of a rubber ball (a Pennsey Pinky was the bounciest) as I tossed it against the third step and caught the ricochet in my well-worn second baseman’s glove. By hitting the edge of a step, the rebounding ball would simulate a high fly ball toward center field, which required a home run-saving leap.

Those steps were as far as mom had to go to call me to dinner from somewhere in the neighborhood. Thomaston Street, like most residential areas in the city, were safe in those days and the domain of after-school kickball, while the neighboring bushes offered good cover for hide and seek. Our games never seemed long enough before the call of a dinner bell from a nearby front porch interrupted our friendly competitions.

Having grandparents right upstairs was a treat I appreciate more now, since my own grand kids are a 20-minute drive away. My grandfather, Poppy, always greeted me with a warm smile and an invitation to play. Early on, he’d bounce me on his lap, playfully singing “On the way to Boston, on the way to Lynn, you better watch out or you might fall IN!” On the word “in” (said with a raised voice for emphasis), he would open his legs and let me slip a foot or two between his knees while still holding my hands. Somehow, it was always a joyful surprise; the anticipation of dropping suddenly toward the carpet was reminiscent of anticipating a jack-in-the-box springing open at the tune’s climactic “POP! Goes the weasel.”

As for Grandma Sarah (Poppy’s second wife), she would regularly fill both floors of our home with the wonderful smell of chicken soup, fresh-baked bread or sizzling potato latkes. Our shared back stairway led my nose directly to her kitchen on the second floor, where I’d often get an early sample of her latest delicacy.

The back of our house included wooden porches, which made great forts or hideouts during our re-creations of the classic battle between cowboys and Indians. Every back porch in the neighborhood was outfitted with a clothes line. This consisted of a rope wrapped around a set of wheels – one attached to a porch post, the other on a post in the back yard. Using wooden clothespins, mom would hang our newly laundered clothes on the rope and reel them out over the back yard to dry. When no clothes were hanging, I would think of creative ways to use this simple pulley system, like sending out secret messages or suspending a soft toy for target practice.

The basement of the house was laid out in a series of wood-slatted cubicles, most with rusty hinged doors that squeaked loudly as if in pain when opened. Large padlocks suspended from hasps on some of the doors made the curious contents that much more enticing to a boy of six. Amid the pungent odor of damp pine and turpentine were strange looking iron tools and an array of skeleton keys hanging on sturdy iron nails.

Inside our home was an undeniable warmth created by my parents’ caring nature and encouragement. That warmth was mirrored in a soft-cushioned, taffeta couch and dad’s well-worn, green leather chair, each accented with mom’s hand-knit afghans and the aroma of dad’s pungent pipe tobacco. My favorite room was an enclosed sun room because it was flooded with natural light all day long. And when the windows were open – even a crack – the lilac bushes just outside perfumed that cozy space. It was a wonderful refuge for reading, reflecting and the occasional nap.

Stopping by Thomaston Street is truly a fond journey back in time – a time of simple pleasures and memories of a home filled with love.