This is my Dad story. My parents were raised in Italy in the same little town but never knew one another. They met in America, got married, and moved into a nice new neighborhood, but was definitely an immigrant neighborhood. One either side of our house were Polish immigrant families. Two doors down on the right was a Jewish immigrant family. directly across the street was an Irish family and to their right was an Italian family, and next to them was one from Scotland. I will not bore you with more of the makeup of the neighborhood. I believe you understand the setting.The funny part though is that the street I lived on was named “Main Street.”
Our home had a nice front porch. Everyone had a nice front porch. In the summer we would sit on the porch in so nice Adirondack rocking chairs. One evening I was sitting on the porch with my father talking and visiting with passer-bys, but I related to my father that I had had some ugly words thrown at me that day near school about being Italian.
My father answered me with a question about how did I get along in our neighborhood. Oh, I said, I get along fine. I really like everyone here. My father said something to this effect, “If you can get along here, you will do fine in the world because this is the world. You can practice here.”
It has been about 75 years since that episode on the porch and my memory of words spoken may now be vague, but the lesson was never forgotten. I lived almost all my young life on Main Street, first at 1234, then at 1260. And I have never become detached from the lessons of Main Street.