It seems like forever since the pandemic upended life as we knew it. With more of us getting vaccinated every day (at least here in the U.S.), things were gradually getting back to some semblance of normal, until the Delta variant arrived on the scene. (It’s given us time to contemplate what elements of “normal” we’d like to see return and those we’d prefer to go by the wayside. But that’s a topic for another day.)

Many of us fortunate enough to be able to shelter at home found ourselves with a lot of time on our hands. I spent much of that time doing music, which was a life saver, playing guitar and writing songs, and participating in Zoom song circles, open mics, and concerts. Along with music, I found myself spending a good deal of time (especially while walking) thinking about the past and the people and events that had shaped me.

I was born in Philadelphia and spent the first four years of my life in East Oak Lane. When my father opened a hardware store in Elkins Park, we moved there, to a house just a few blocks away, which resulted in my father spending most of his time working, often returning to the store after a hurried dinner. My mother was not a warm person. She was overly concerned about cleaning, and I’d often come home from school to find her with her head in cabinets wiping them down, or with the rugs rolled up and her on her hands and knees, scrubbing away. I wasn’t allowed to “make messes” or lie on my bed without removing the bedspread first. When my friends came over, we were relegated to the basement.

Luckily for me, there were some kids around my age nearby. Down the block was my friend Barbara. We met when we were four, and then walked the mile or so to school together in elementary school. Summers, we spent time on her back porch playing jacks, riding our bikes in the neighborhood, or playing with her Barbie and Ken dolls.

And then there were the Peases. They lived just two houses away. Three girls: Penny, Sandy, and Jackie. Clark, the youngest and a boy, came along a few years later. Penny was older than me, but Sandy and Jackie, though younger, were closer to my age, and they were the ones that became close friends. I spent a lot of time at their house, playing in the sandbox, and doing art and fun things like listening to Elvis records in their basement. I sometimes had lunch at their house. I remember sitting at their large, oval-shaped dining room table eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, feeling like one of the family. Mrs. Pease was a fun-loving and warm person, and I loved being around her. One particularly joyful and vivid memory I have is sitting on her back porch, listening to her singing “Lipstick on Your Collar.”  She was dancing around, and Jackie, Sandy and I joined in. 

Then, when I was 12 or 13, they moved away. Not far, but much too far for me to walk to. My father took me to their new house one day and dropped me off. My memories of that day are few, but one that stands out is sitting on their front porch waiting for my father to come back to pick me up, and feeling sad. The warm connection I had to the family had been broken, and things just didn’t feel the same. That was the last time I saw or heard from them.

Some years ago, in the Philadelphia Inquirer, I saw Mr. Pease’s obituary. I read of his WWII service, which I had not known about, and how, like so many young men at the time, he had taken advantage of the GI Bill to go to school and buy a home. Clark’s address was included in the obit, and I wrote a letter to him about how much I had enjoyed being a friend of the family and how much it had meant to me. I asked him to remember me to his sisters and his mother, if she was still with us. I never heard back.

After my visit to the Pease’s new home, I couldn’t quite articulate or understand my feelings, but looking back mid-pandemic shutdown, I realized that I had felt abandoned. Sandy and Jackie were the sisters I never had. Mrs. Pease was the warm and loving mother that my own wasn’t, and I had gravitated to her just like a sunflower seeks out the sun.