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There are times when an older person’s mind becomes almost a slave to the past. When the past grows more real and the present fades like an old photograph, it is like viewing time through the wrong end of a telescope.
I find myself at the moment at such a place in my life. As I set down my thoughts, I am walking on South Seventh Street. I am a young boy and I am holding my mother’s hand. The sights and sounds, and yes, even the smells of the old shopping district overwhelm me. It is no particular afternoon. My mother looks radiant. The sun streams through her bobbed blond hair. Shopping on South Seventh Street is our moment in time together, and I am happy with the thought that nothing can ever separate us. I am looking forward to my usual treat — a hot dog and fountain soda at Izzie’s Hot Dogs at the end of our shopping trip.
South Seventh Street is bustling with shoppers in search of a buy. Most of the shoppers are women; some pushing strollers or baby carriages. The shops are many and varied. There is Gary’s Men’s Shop where Mom buys most of my clothes. Gary is an older man with a kind face, his hair streaked with gray. I see Evantash’s and Lilian’s Dress Shop as we walk along. Adeline is standing outside the doorway of French Bootery. Before you purchase your shoes, you place your feet under an x-ray machine. You peer into the screen and see the bones in your feet through a green tint. Adeline guarantees a perfect fit.
At the corner of Seventh and Jackson, there is a busy fish market. It is like my personal aquarium because I had never been to a real aquarium. While Mom selects fresh whiting for dinner, I wander around the displays that lay on mounds of shaved ice. A man cleans our fish for us as I marvel at all the varieties in the store.
Across the street is Max’s Fruit Store where we buy our fresh fruit. The “better” fruit is inside the store, but mom picks through the bargains on the stand outside. The fruit is priced right for a workingman’s family, and you get used to overlooking the bruised skin once you have taken your first bite.
We pass by Sam’s Clothing where Mom usually purchases my Easter outfit — slacks and a sports coat. Sam assures us the outfit that Mom has selected is the very latest fashion, and most importantly, will wear well.
The Grand Theater is on the other side of the street. A double feature is playing today. It will be a few years before I am allowed to go to the Grand. Usually my friend Sal and I go to Saturday matinees at the Jackson Theatre, a short distance from my house or the Ideal, just a block away. My feet sometimes stick to the floor at the Ideal, but it shows Abbott and Costello movies or “The Durango Kid” on Saturdays, so I don’t mind. Sometimes my friend and I throw hard candy at the screen or other kids in front of us until the usher sees us. The best part of going there is the little store outside right next to the movie theater called Sherman’s. Before we go into the theater, we always stop at Sherman’s for a water ice and soft pretzels. Even Dad likes it.
The sun is getting hotter and Mom complains that her feet hurt so we go back to Izzie’s for lunch. Izzie is behind the counter and greets us. We order the usual — a hot dog for me, tuna salad for Mom. Today, I also get an ice cream cone before we leave. In no time, the ice cream has dripped down the cone onto my hands and eventually my shirt. Mom does her best to clean me up by dabbing a napkin here and there. It just makes things stickier.
It is some years later. How many I can’t tell. I remember it is a warm summer night. Darkness has already fallen. I am walking to my grandfather’s house with my family. His home is just two blocks from the shopping district. But as we approach Seventh and Wolf, we hear sirens wailing. There are shards of glass all over the pavements. Something terrible has happened. Flames leap into the evening sky amid billows of black smoke. There are fire trucks, flashing lights and hoses spraying water. A gathering crowd pushes closer for a better look. Confusion is everywhere. That is when I notice that the fire trucks are outside of Izzie’s, but there is no Izzie’s Hot Dogs anymore, just a gaping hole filled with rubble and debris.
There was a gas explosion. Izzie’s was destroyed along with an adjacent jewelry shop. Izzie was killed in the explosion. I feel this sense of loss all over again. A small malfunction and Izzie is gone forever. So too is the foolish youthful notion of invincibility and anything in this life lasting forever.
Many years have passed. I have experienced far more serious tragedies. But for some reason, my mind keeps going back to the night of that explosion on Seventh Street, the night when Izzie died.
Contact the South Philly Review at editor@southphillyreview.com.
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