Sweet Philly

I have the sweetest memories of Philadelphia. To be exact, it was Wallingford, PA, a suburb of Philadelphia. I spent the summer of '06 there expecting no humidity and fall-like temperatures but was surprised to find the weather near my South Louisiana humidity. Nights were cooler but days were noticeably the same. Every morning I would wake up, close my window and gaze at the sunflowers in the garden that sprouted taller than the first story. My aunt told me that sunflowers “slept” too and would bend toward the sun. And every night their heads would droop to the ground. I’d fix a bowl of cereal while watching hummingbirds outside the screen door. Then I’d sit down with my breakfast and the Philadelphia Inquirer. Some days I would run. In this neighborhood each side the street was identical with the other. Driveways were directly across the street from a perfect replica of the same home. Colors and shutters varied but I had never seen anything like this in Louisiana. An hour later I would walk out the front door and through the picket fence and head to the city. Once on the interstate I was in city gear. You really have to be when you drive in big cities. The homeless man, Steve, and the IKEA I passed every day were stark reminders I wasn't in Wallingford anymore. Parallel parking on the street was always an adventure. Is it Thursday? No parking on the right side of the street. The street sweeper passed that day. Up the steps and into the brownstone with magazine covers draping the wall. Upstairs surrounding my desk were beauty samples and soon-to-be published books. I’d pick up a quick lunch at Wawa or the sandwich shop a few blocks down depending on if I were in heels. Returning home after my commute was the biggest relief from a busy day and quite the contrast. Dixie, the black Labrador would greet me at the door while my cousins Grace and Ryan would do crafts sometimes listening to the Beatles. I’d drop my purse and head to the kitchen to chat with Aunt Jan about the day and help prepare dinner. Dinners were different in the North. Hot meals and stove use were a winter thing. You only used the AC if necessary so you didn’t intentionally heat the house by cooking. I’d help chop vegetables or fruit for dessert. Ryan would make everyone a glass of water and Grace would set out utensils. Everything was new here in Pennsylvania. The North in general made me feel like I was in another country. Icees and snoballs were no where to be found, but the closest thing I could find was a snoball’s cousin, the gelatti. Towns were two miles wide instead of 30 miles long. Our daily routine gave me something to look forward to. A sense of recognition in an unrecognizable place. Once dinner was ready, which was usually about the time Uncle Gerry got home from work, we sat down to eat. Uncle Gerry blessed the food and then entertained us with history of Philadelphia like the Mummers Parade or stories from his childhood. He even educated me on things I never knew about Louisiana. After cleaning the table, my Uncle Gerry, Ryan and I would watch the Phillies game. I had always been a big fan of the sport but after the summer of nightly games I learned more math from stats than I had ever learned in schooling. Ryan would usually have to go to bed before the game was over. And Uncle Gerry would head to his room, too. Ryan would perch on the stairs and ask me the score of the game. Or I’d run up and tell him when they had a safe lead so he could sleep peacefully. After I reveled in a win or moped over a loss, I went to my room. I would thank God for such a day. Each day like the last. Some differences, but all a blessing just the same.