This is the time of year for meeting with family and friends. The atmosphere is usually joyful and filled with stories of each person’s present state of living. Now and again a sense of nostalgia overcomes the group and tales of the “old days” in our childhood neighborhood dominate the conversations. We recall the times when the innocence of our youth was all that we knew of the world and it felt as though we had all the time we would ever need to just enjoy each day without anxieties or tragedies that would most surely come but did not yet seem probable. 

So it was on this year’s Thanksgiving day when my brothers and I began to reminisce about the joys that were ever present on Belmark Street where our home nestled among a delightful variety of children our ages who would forever impact our very being. Somehow as we chatted excitedly the rest of the room disappeared around us and we found ourselves smiling at each other over and over again. 

Ours was an interesting situation because our father had died and we were initially the only kids on the block without a dad in the house. Luckily most of the men very kindly took on the role of modeling kindness and generosity to our family. They were an interesting group of salesmen, architects, car mechanics, plumbers and entrepreneurs who offered their specialties to us whenever we needed their expertise. Best of all they opened their homes to us where we enjoyed endless fun with their children. 

People did not tend to move around as much then as they do now so our neighbors were a steadying force in our growing up years. We could set our clocks by the sound of Mr. Janot coming down the street in his truck as he returned home from work at exactly five thirty each day. So too did Mr. Limb head for a seat under the grape arbor in his backyard where he sat quietly informing his wife of his days adventures at the service station that he owned. There was a kind of reassurance in knowing that these two men were part of the routine of our own lives. 

Mr. Bush was a salesman and a dashingly handsome man. His stunning smile was enough to sell anyone on whatever he was offering at the time. I remember thinking how much he resembled a movie star. It would be shattering to me when he eventually became ill and died in the hospital and a rather young age. Somehow it did not seem right at all that such a strong and athletic man would succumb to an infection, but he did and his newly widowed wife would become one of my widowed mother’s best friends. 

Mr. Sessums was a man of few words but he is the one who turned on our gas heater when the weather turned cold in that first winter after my father’s death. I can still see him kneeling on the floor to reach the pilot light of the furnace with his long legs barely having room in the cramped area. Just like a miracle we felt the warmth of this efforts and my mother smiled while reassuring us that we were going to be alright. I don’t think that Superman himself was more of a hero to me than Mr. Sessums was in that moment. 

Mr. Cervenka was a kid at heart. He played ball with my brothers and built forts and underground structures where we concocted adventurous stories of life in the jungle or pretended that we were pioneers back in the day. It was always fun when Mr. Cervenka was around. 

Mr. Frey was an architect and an artist. His home was much like ours, a small three bedroom bungalow with little to distinguish it from the others up and down the block, but he had turned his house into a wonder. How he and his five children fit inside is still a mystery to me but he found his way around such challenges. His artwork and his beautiful wife made the home seem almost enchanting. 

Mr. Hulin lived on the street behind us. He was a single man who lived with his two children and his mother. He did his best to teach me how to swim and he was funny and entertaining. I secretly wished that he and my mother would fall in love with each other and get married but it was not to be. I learned many years later that his daughter had also hoped that we would become a family. She adored my mother as much as I did her father. I still wonder why my matchmaking efforts did not work because getting the two adults together seemed so perfect at the time. 

Other fathers who were important to us lived a few blocks away. There was Mr. Morgan who mentored my youngest brother in baseball and other sports. He reminded me of my Uncle Willie in both appearance and personality. Mr. Schmalz was a role model for my middle brother who often spent time with his family. Then there was Mr. Barry, the father of my dearest friend who literally seemed like a walking saint on this earth. I don’t think I have ever met anyone as even tempered and wise as he was. Even his children agreed with me that he was almost the prefect human being. 

I wish that I had thought to thank each of these men for taking the time to be good to me and my brothers. They were steadying forces in what sometimes felt like a frightening situation that we had found ourselves destined to navigate. They were among a host of remarkable people who always set aside a smile or kind word to show us how to grow into caring adults. They were important parts of our little village at 6411 Belmark Street in the long ago. They were good men who gave us their skills and their love.