By Doug Knight, Avalon and Haddonfield
Woodland Avenue in Haddonfield, New Jersey, was about as happy a place for kids imaginable. And by the way, those of us lucky enough to live on Woodland Avenue pronounced it “Woodlyn,” not WoodLAND. It was a lovely, tree-lined street, one block from “the field,” which was a playground/ballpark for the non-stop games of b-ball, touch football, softball, and kick-the-can that I and my friends played regularly. It was also the site of Lizzie Haddon, the grade school we all attended.
I was nicknamed “Bugs,” like the character, because my two front teeth protruded like the “tramp wabbit. “To this day, some old friends call me Bugs, even though the orthodontist had been taking care of the teeth for a long time. .
A small stream lingered just beyond the street and nestled into the woods directly behind my best friend Lee’s house. We always called it “the crick,” and it was great fun to gather in Lee’s backyard after a heavy rainstorm to watch the crick breach its muddy sides, carrying leaves, dirt, army men and plastic boats to an unknown end. A favorite thing Lee and I and friends would do was to hike along the crick, exploring the unknown landscape and having chance encounters with squirrels, chipmunks and other beasts of our imaginations. We all had the requisite Swiss Army Knife and a thermos of cold milk, along with PB&Js consisting of Jif peanut butter (never Peter Pan!). We would usually make it about a half mile before it was time to eat, not so much because we were hungry, but it just seemed a cool thing to do. We would sit facing each other on a sandy knoll, and discuss the many virtues of a well-made sandwich. Someone usually had a Tastykake for dessert and would dig into it without offering to share, but would finally split the last Krimpet or Tandy Cake among the rest of us.
Lee and his father built a fort among the trees in their backyard. It’s nicely done, with two window spaces, a door, and a flat hinged roof that can be opened to let the sun in on sunny days. A staircase provided access to the fort. We thought we were about 50 feet tall, but we were probably 20 feet off the ground.
One day, while Lee’s parents were outside, Lee and I gathered our firecrackers and played “Alamo,” throwing illuminated lady’s hands out of the windows and onto the ceiling, trying to keep the imaginary villains from getting to us. We set up a “bomb” with about 12 firecrackers in an envelope, put it in the chimney and it exploded on the ceiling. Unfortunately, Lee’s father climbed the ladder to check on the commotion at the same time. The “bomb” fell on him or very close to him. him, when a visibly shocked and angry guy showed up at our door. The fort in the trees remained forbidden for two weeks. It’s an eternity for a 12-year-old couple.
Dad always bought Buicks. He bought a 1958 Buick station wagon. It was painted brilliant silver and had an enormous chrome grille that shone like stars. The car looked as big as a train to me. Dad, always frugal, did not opt for an automatic transmission or power steering, so while Dad could maneuver the car, Mom, who was slender and petite, could barely turn the steering wheel. And the stick shift was a challenge for her, as well. I will never forget her trying to back out of the garage and how the Buick kept stalling.
Very frustrated, she exclaimed, “The rear engine wants to work better! I was bewildered. Was there an engine in the back of the car?”Of course,” he said. When I put the car in reverse, the rear engine starts. and move the wheels backwards. ” I tried to tell her that there was no engine at the moment, but I don’t think she ever believed me. On the other hand, I once asked him how the TV meteorologist knew what the forecast was. She said, “He’s seeing signs. ” Oh. . . I was thinking that God had put huge signs in the sky that said something like, “It’s going to rain on Tuesday,” and that those weather kids on TV had very sturdy telescopes to read them. I guess that proves that I’m my mother’s son.
Christmas on Woodland Avenue was simply spectacular. The families all tried to outdo each other with lights and decorations. We had these huge orange lights about 4 inches long that Dad hung in various bushes just off our porch, and I remember thinking our front yard looked like the used car lot downtown. There were about a dozen kids aged 5 or 6 up to 12 who would go to each house and sing Christmas carols on Christmas Eve. The younger kids loved this, the 10-year-olds tolerated it, and the older kids were embarrassed to be out with the “little kids.” But the tradition was that you were drafted into the choir until you were 13. And in 1959, you did what your parents told you to do.
Choir practice was held a day or two before the traveling concert. A kind and perhaps hearing-challenged mother usually held the rehearsal, as other moms were not in the least bit interested in serving hot chocolate and marshmallows to a group of hyperventilating adolescents trying to outdo each other by screaming out “Silent Night.”
And when the big night came, Santa Claus was waiting in his sleigh just above the branches of the tall oaks that surrounded Lizzie Haddon, and your lungs ached from shouting “We the Three Kings” so your parents could hear you at home, and you and your basset hound were allowed to sleep in the warm bed with your mom and dad, and you looked out the window that was still broken a few inches, and saw the orange Christmas lights that on Christmas Eve stayed on all night. You were content, happy, safe, and warm.
Knight writes from Avalon and Haddonfield.
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