No, I couldn't give you directions around Pittsburgh, or even get myself from place to place without getting lost and venturing unexpectedly onto one of those super steep, heart-stopping side streets. I'm not exactly a 'burgher. But I was born there. And lived in Zelienople (sort of a 'burb) through my babyhood and toddler years until my parents moved our family to IL after which point every summer vacation was absolutely and totally nothing more and nothing less than a station wagon road trip to visit paps, grandmas, aunts, uncles, and cousins in Bloomfield (Pitt neighborhood, now "Little Italy") and Penn Hills. (And also two hours further east in Cambria County to be blogged on in a few posts...)
Okay, so I'd get lost and I don't know all the sites and specifics, but I've formed the bridges, tunnels, old city houses and narrow streets into a gestalt familiarity for myself -- things that seem to have absorbed into my being from viewing Pittsburgh from the back seat of the wagon year, after year, after year. From Mom tuning in the radio as soon as possible to KDKA to the sharpness of "Dahntahn," "Youins," and all the Pittsburghese that sounds to me of family, childhood, and comfort. It's a large piece of my identity puzzle, and I love the place! So, here is "Pittsburgh Trip Part 2" . . .Day one started with a trip to my Pap and Grandma Jones' old row house on Cypress Street in the Bloomfield neighborhood where I pointed out to my kids the house and walked around to the back alley to give them a peak at the tiny backyard where my grandparents had kept a perfectly maintained house, porch, and yard and where they'd nurtured roses and mint.
I shared with them the visits we'd enjoyed in that patch of green, sipping ginger ale and snacking on butter cookies and M&Ms. We ran the street and alley, playing hide-and-seek only for us, older Jones cousins (me, my sister, Remy, and cousins, Bonnie and Beth) to end up in the third floor of the house, looking out at the whole neighborhood. (My brother, James, and cousin, Sharon, were 6 1/2 years too young to run loose like us, big kids.)The garage as it appears below is the most unchanged component. When we stayed for longer visits, this was our frequent entrance point.
It made my heart ache to walk around and around the house, yet not be able to cross the threshold and to see it all again. A room-by-room tour in my memory had to suffice . . . the thick, white paint on the interior trim, small front living room, wonderfully tall staircase that divides the first room from the eat-in kitchen. The exercise bike in the basement. Grandma's cherry vanity and chair, and fabulously fancy brush and mirror in the master bedroom up the stairs to the left. The tiled step up into the shower, and the seemingly secret stairwell in the back bedroom that leads to the attic . . . Sigh . . .
She informed me that my second cousin (Dad's cousin), Jackie, lived a few steps from where we were standing -- on Cypress Street, right there. It had been years since I'd seen this cousin, but visits with her, her siblings, their kids, and, of course, her mom, the fabulous and hilarious Aunt Cathy, were part of every summer trip of years past.
I knocked. There was no answer. Dee knew she was home and called her; Dee swore that Jackie didn't have to work that day, and she hadn't seen her go anywhere, and she had to be home. Yep. Dee was on the money -- Jackie was, indeed, home, and hadn't answered the door simply because she was still in a house dress.
Knowing it was us, now, she opened her home and welcomed my crew. It was the next best thing to being in Pap's place. We visited and laughed and hugged with family. On Cypress. In Bloomfield.
She called her sister, Elaine, to come over from her residence a few streets away. And I might add, here, that standing on one of these streets feels more like standing in a hallway, as the roads are so very narrow and the houses so very close to the street and to each other -- almost always sharing exterior walls.
The intimacy I had remembered from childhood was not merely that of a child's imagination.
Serendipity, I love you!
A road and river "Ducky Tour" followed by a ride on the Monongahela Incline was a relaxing way to take in more of the sites.
. . . and this is my not-so-great pic of the same street the day we visited. The interesting thing is that the movie was shot during summer weather -- with LOTS of fake snow.
Now living east of the city, my aforementioned Aunt Ann and her husband, Uncle Rich, and their daughers, Bonnie and Beth, welcomed us to their home for a lovely lunch complete with dirt pudding (topped with gummy worms) for the kids (big and small). I am sorry that I failed to take photos (boy, am I inconsistent with that!). We didn't play hide-and-seek, but their hugs were as warm as ever. I think I was too busy relishing in their comfort to remember my camera. There is a calm about them that brings one home so-to-speak, a kind of nurturing that we, adults, rarely receive in "mature" years. Spending time in-person with family has a way of handing us back to ourselves.
As do the physical settings sacred to our personal narratives.
