Kids Made Our Neighborhood
By Henry W. Baumann
Sheffield Manor, our quiet country neighborhood in Springfield, N. Y., during the 1920's, would have been a different place without its kids. We played a large part in neighbor helping neighbor, by transporting groceries for people unable to get to the store, and on Sundays hiking two miles to the closest bakery for any resident needing our free service. Friendships between kids spread to parents, who got to know each other through us.
We were also an important part of communications in an area almost devoid of telephones. Mrs. Rosen's candy store had the nearest phone, and served as distribution center for necessary incoming calls to the entire community.
Most kids stopped at the store on their way to and from school for candy, pencils or books, and some just to see if they were needed. When there was a message waiting, we delivered it to its recipient, usually a mile or more from the store. Mrs. Rosen rewarded us with a piece of candy, even though we didn't' always accept our obligation graciously. Like all kids, we occasionally felt put upon and grumbled a little, but nevertheless delivered the messages promptly.
Mrs. Rosen also found personal use for us when her religious observance made it necessary to enlist a gentile kid to light the gas range in her living quarters behind the store. We kids came in handy every afternoon to carry stacks of newspapers a block to the railroad station where Mrs. Rosen set up temporary shop as a convenience for homebound commuters.
Younger brother Eddie and I once had a personal need to use the phone service one January day. We arrived home from school during a howling snowstorm. A neighbor lad had put Mom to bed and sent for us immediately.
Frightened, we recalled suspecting for a long time there was something different about Mom. Our questions had been always evaded, and often Grandma and Pop stopped talking when we came within hearing.
Now, while we hastily plowed through the already foot deep snow over our street, a tight dread gripped like green apples inside us. We were half frozen by the time we plunged into unbroken snow drifts covering the trolley tracks. Our favorite wild cherry tree reared gaunt and black, its top lost in the opaque whiteout.
We found the candy store closed and dark.
Frantic, we pounded on the frosty glass front window until a slit of light appeared inside. Mrs. Rosen swung open the door, warning bell jangling.
When we explained our need, she quickly went to the phone, but the doctor was out on a call and couldn't be reached. Mrs. Rosen left an urgent message for him.
She then tried to comfort us, saying Mom's problem wasn't anything to worry about, and insisted on serving us hot chocolate that we couldn't enjoy in our anxiety over Mom.
To our relief, when we reached home, Pop had arrived from work. Mom would be all right, he told us, while the neighbor lady cooked us a makeshift supper. Then, after calling goodnight to Mom, we were sent to bed.
During the night, in a record blizzard, our brother Robert was born prematurely. When the doctor arrived next morning and had taken care of his patients, he motioned Pop into the kitchen where they talked softly over coffee. To us they smiled and made small talk, but we sensed the undercurrent of sadness in a situation that should have been happy.
Eventually Pop let us peer in at the bundle beside Mom. He was tiny and red and crying, and Eddie promptly nicknamed him “Snowstorm.”
We hoped we had another kid in Sheffield Manor, but tiny Robert was too feeble to hold on and succumbed on a dreary Sunday morning.
When we kids grew older and more people put in phones, need for our courier services dwindled, but by then we had found other pursuits.