Sylvia Waltzer was born on November 5, 1923 in her parents’ bedroom on Marion Street, the Greenridge section of Scranton, Pennsylvania. She was the last of eight children and second daughter born to Fannie and Morris Waltzer. Dr. Milkman delivered her. I am not making that up. He might have been the milkman, too. Additionally and ironically, to say the least, Sylvia’s only sister and Fannie and Morris’ first daughter- Dorothy, who was 7 at the time, proclaimed that Sylvia looked just like the doctor upon her first glance of her sister. These are all verifiable facts, according to my mother’s rendition of her life.
Yesterday, on a perfectly sunny and warm Saturday in July and 87 years, 7 months and 16 days after her birth my mom, Sylvia, and I took a day trip to my friends, Betsy and Jim’s vacation retreat in the Poconos of Pennsylvania, about a half hour away from Scranton. You can always meet someone who has some connection to Scranton; our Vice President, for instance, Joe Biden, was born in Scranton. So, it didn’t surprise me when Jim told me that their next-door neighbor, Rose, was from Scranton. Mark, my husband, might joke that you can drive through Scranton and it will take only two minutes, but to my mom, and me it’s the center of the universe and after yesterday, I understand why.
After a delicious lunch of white fish salad on croissants, a Jewish/French-fusion meal that we ate sitting by the serene lake that Jim and Betsy’s backyard overlooks, Jim took us on a tour of Scranton and found the house where Sylvia’s life began- on Marion Street. Betsy insisted that my mother sit in the front passenger seat so she could guide Jim to the places she remembered; although, Jim is enamored with the town of Scranton himself and showed us some other sights that validated its charming characteristics. When I saw the railroad tracks, I knew we were close to Marion Street. Those railroad tracks provided a setting to many of the stories my mom had told me- the stories of my grandmother feeding the hobos who used to travel on the trains and stop off in, of all places, Scranton. The story of how my Aunt Dorothy and her friend, Gert, were planning to run away to Hollywood, via the train- a short distance from their home. When we found my mother’s house, I didn’t see the old woman who I have come accustomed to knowing, I saw a giddy, excited young girl. I forgot how that young girl resides in all of us women, waiting impatiently to emerge as memories of our youth return. That young girl took over Sylvia’s aging body as she got out of the car and walked quickly down the street to the yellow house.
That yellow house seemed to be illuminated as my mother walked up to it- maybe because of her awe that it really still existed, not only in her recollections of the happiest times of her life, but as palpable as ever- with its charming wrap-around porch that her descriptions confirmed. We took photos of my mom in front of the house standing less than 5 feet tall, but looking as if she felt 12 feet tall. Jim, the ambassador to Sylvia’s curiosity and wonderment, boldly knocked on the door. At first, it appeared that no one was home, but after a few long minutes, a young man came to the door with a little girl, who must have been the same age as my mother was when she moved from that house to Brooklyn, NY.
“I came tell you that your flowers need watering and that that lady over there was born in this house,” Jim stated, pointing to my mom.
“Really? My grandfather bought this house and left it to me,” responded the young man.
He told his daughter to get her grandmother, his mom, who lived two doors away. She came out and we all stood in front of the house, mesmerized while my mother shared stories of her family while they lived on Marion Street. That old yellow house meant a lot to that family, as well, based upon its history of being passed down from generation to generation, but on that warm July day, it became more of a shrine to its inhabitants-former and current.
While they talked, I noticed the majestic view to the left of the house just beyond of the Pocono Mountains. I understood why my mother still talks about how when she left her first home they cried uncontrollably in the car- she, her sister, her brothers, Matty, Fintz, Oscar and her mother. “If you wouldn’t cry, they wouldn’t cry!” my grandfather, Morris yelled at Fannie.
Scranton is the epitome of any Small Town, USA- its quaintness as profound and symbolic as a Norman Rockwell painting. Jim took more photos of us on the steps to the wraparound porch. We found out that the little girl who lived there was indeed four years old, the same age my mother was when she left her first home and birthplace. She was unaffected by our excitement and much more interested in drawing on the steps with her sidewalk chalk and playing with her next-door neighbor, Joshua. Perhaps one day, the little girl will return to Marion Street as an old woman and reminisce, or she might pass the house down to her descendents, as her great grandfather did. She may recall that warm day in July when an old woman returned who was born in that house.
In all its simplicity, Jim validated Scranton as a touchstone of America; while my mother validated it as a touchstone of her youth as we continued our tour up and down the steep hills, taking in the breathtaking views, hundreds year-old architecture and lovely homes. My mom had Jim find the old orphanage where she used to stay on her return visits to her family that still lived in Scranton. Her Aunt Sonia was the cook and resided in the orphanage with her son, my mother’s cousin, Sidney, as well as other cousins, who had lost one of their parents.
That orphanage too, held many dear memories for my mother. As we sat in the car looking at the old building, Sylvia told us that’s where she had her first kiss from her first boyfriend, David, one of the orphans. She was about thirteen at the time and he kissed her and told her that he loved her. After that visit, back in Brooklyn, one day, when she came home from school, Dorothy and her brother Fintz greeted her at the door, with wide, gloating grins. “You have a package,” they said, “We didn’t know you had a boyfriend,” they revealed smugly. David had sent my mother a box of chocolates and not only was her secret boyfriend divulged, but Dorothy and Fintz had also sampled some of the chocolates.
My mother also told us about the time in the house on Marion Street when my grandmother, Fannie, had lit the Sabbath candles and one of their cats had jumped on the table and knocked over the candles. Fannie came into the kitchen to find a fire starting and put it out with her bare hands. When my mother was in the eighth grade she had to write a composition about fire safety and she wrote it using that story of the Sabbath candles. Her teacher, Mrs. Bush, was so impressed by it that she told my mother that she was taking it home and bringing it back to show the principal, Mrs. Ebling, the next day. The next day came and the next week but there was no Mrs. Bush, just a substitute teacher. After that week, Mrs. Ebling came to the classroom to inform the students that Mrs. Bush would not be returning. It was not said, but surmised that Mrs. Bush had died. Gone- Mrs. Bush, my mother’s wonderful composition and the opportunity to be noticed by Mrs. Ebling. To my mother- it was her one shot at eminence extinguished just like the flames in the kitchen on Marion Street.
The memories still remain, though- and I got to see my mother as the little four-year-old child, the coming of age thirteen-year old young woman and an aspiring writer. Thanks to Jim and Betsy.
Later on, Jim was sharing a book written by a woman in her eighties about mini-vacations in the Poconos. My mom said, “I feel like I had a mini-vacation today.” Jim responded, “I know, I saw it on the smile on your face.”
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| This is on the wraparound porch when Mom (front, center) was a toddler, probably about 1925 or 6, Cousin Sidney is in the back,left, brother Fintz is in the back, right. |
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| This is Mom in front of the wraparound porch in 2011. |
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