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Published in the Philadelphia Inquirer, South Jersey
Commentary, on December 14, 1999. Finding a world of welcome in Voorhees By Sidney B. Kurtz In 1956, my wife and I left the crowded streets of Philadelphia and moved to Lake Villa, a small community of all-brick ranchers in what was then a rustic, farm-studded Voorhees Township. Our families thought we had lost it, moving so far away. There were times when we thought so, too. We still worked in Center City Philadelphia. There was no High-Speed Line yet, and other than our one car, the only transportation across the Delaware was the No. 61 bus from Berlin - an hour's ride. We had considered buying in Woodcrest, a development just going up a few miles down the road. But those homes were of frame construction, while the houses constructed in Lake Villa by Dominic Caruso, an Italian immigrant who stood over his men with a stern eye and a strong hand, were all brick with real plaster walls. The clincher was the price: Houses in Woodcrest were $500 to $1,000 higher than Lake Villa's $13,500 homes. After settling down, we began getting to know our new neighbors. At this point, some doubts crept into our minds. People with unfamiliar names such as DiMattia, DeMarco, Marrone, Carullo, DeNite, O'Toole, Carramanna, Stone, Sheilds, Long and Tartaglione stared back at us. Realization struck. In a community of 130 homes, we were the only Jewish family. It was overwhelming. After coming from an almost 100 percent Jewish neighborhood, we were outcasts, we thought. We were wrong, of course. But then - miracle of miracles - after 11 barren years my wife became pregnant and on July 4, 1960, Steve was born. Now we worried about whom our child would play with. Only shaygits (Yiddish for gentile) kids were being born around us. The following year, however, we were blessed with another son, also born on July 4. (It must have been the fresh Jersey air.) We were most relieved; Steve would have a Jewish playmate after all. In 1968, son number three came along. Our worries proved needless. During 33 years in Lake Villa, we didn't have one religion-related problem. Our first Christmas Eve there was spent helping Bob and Shirley Caruso trim their tree and joining them in a toast to the new year. That same night, we babysat for Mae and Chips Tartaglione so they could attend midnight Mass. I felt really good about that. We had been accepted. Among the many deep friendships we developed was with Mae and Chips, who lived opposite us all of our years in Lake Villa. This is their 50th year of marriage, and this column is dedicated to them. Their family is throwing them a big bash, and I'm invited. My wife won't be there. She died of lung cancer in 1983. Mae and Chips are typical of most of my former Lake Villa neighbors - warm, friendly, devoted to each other and their families, and still living in the homes they purchased in 1956. I haven't visited Lake Villa for several years, but I'd bet my Social Security check that if I drove down Sunset Drive right now I would find Chips sitting in his favorite reading spot by the living room window. What impressed me more than anything else about Chips was his ability to speak on any subject, be it politics, literature or sports. Greeting Chips with a "good morning" or a "hello" was like opening the door to a mass of knowledge. You might as well kiss the next half-hour good-bye. Sometimes, when I sat on my curb edging the zoysia grass. with an ax, I felt his eyes staring across at me and I tried to imagine what words of wisdom he would impart to someone who edges with an ax. I had the feeling his delicate comments would be liberally sprinkled with equal doses of pity and humor. Mae, on the other hand, is living proof that opposites attract. As quiet as Chips is talkative, she came and went without fanfare. She and my wife developed a wonderfully warm relationship, and during garden-harvest time they could be seen sitting at the picnic table under the Chinese elm preparing a large batch of cucumbers for conversion to bread-and-butter pickles. I feel I must mention their daughter, Karen, although her death from brain cancer while she was still a young woman was a sad event in their marriage. I am proud of the fact that the tree we planted in her honor in Israel will be a vital and living memorial to her for many years. I can still see Karen leading the neighborhood kids, mine included, in their daily exercises out on Sunset Drive. It is a memory of a South Jersey that we don't see enough of today. Sidney B. Kurtz is the author of a family memoir, The Jewish Rectangle: An American Adventure. He lives in Pennsauken. |