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A very close friend of mine, who grew up on the East Side of Niagara Falls just about the same time I did, recently pointed out something that disturbed her very much. It bothers me too.
We both share fond and not-so-fond memories of the "good old days" when things were so much simpler, when everything we needed was right there in our old neighborhood. It was safe then -- no fear of the nights or of the streets. People got along.
Twenty-fourth Street was our Main Street. What we could not find there, we could certainly find within walking distance, along Pine Avenue. If it was not there, it could certainly be found on Falls Street, at the Sears store or in any one of the Five and Dimes like Niesners or Kresges.
We could walk home from school for lunch, and still have time to play along the way, or walk to church and still have time to stop at the fruit stand on 24th and East Falls streets, where we could buy the biggest, sweetest peaches in America for a nickel.
We played together. The Italians, like Rich Venuto, and the French, like David Dashineau, got just as dirty in the kickball games. We wrestled like BoBo Brazil, put balloons on our bike wheels to make them sound like motorcycles and sneaked into the Zajac Funeral Home to stare in awe at the dead bodies. We were just kids, all a little different and all a lot the same.
Our moms knew each other, our fathers worked together and we celebrated all of the holidays the same way, going to Beaver Island and sometimes Crystal Beach. We went to church, not always together, but we prayed hard every Sunday, and at night we asked God to take our souls if we should die before we woke.
We were Germans and Jews, Irish and Slavs, Anglos and Africans, and we all lived together in our own little world, where the factory whistles blared through our open summer windows, announcing the imminent arrival of our fathers.
We read the funny papers and we kept our backyards clean. When we finished our chores we watched television -- "Dragnet," Ed Sullivan, Annette and Bobby, and Amos and Andy.
Everybody knew everybody. Our parents knew our teachers and every mother had the right to reprimand every child.
Mr. Rajac sliced the bacon by hand at his busy corner store at Cudaback Avenue and 24th Street. Eddie Zewin sold appliances and furniture to nearly everyone in the neighborhood and James Maroone covered a lot of our houses in bright new aluminum. Credit-worthiness was set with a handshake.
The mayor rode a white horse. There were parades for every occasion and the Fourth of July was a really big deal. When our neighbors had out-of-town company, everybody on the block celebrated.
Ours was a mixed neighborhood, rich with exotic cultures, one spilling over into another, superbly unique yet sublimely the same, each enjoying our own culture while we respected and enjoyed our differences.
Somehow it all worked, maybe because we were all at relatively the same socioeconomic level, and we were not actually trying to change that. Our parents all had better futures in mind for us. They did not want us to have to experience what they had suffered.
It's nearly all gone now. The neighborhood is not what it used to be. Its character and charm are gone and precious little remains to remind us of what was. Most of the people who made it what it was are gone too.
The only place I could find that was still in business was Martin's Service Station. Though he no longer sells gasoline there, Don Martin Jr., a spitting image of his father who ran the business for more than 50 years, still fixes cars for the few there who still drive.
Like his father, Don Martin is a quiet, friendly man with a heart of gold. He and his dad were there for the community in good times and bad. They never refused to help people when there was nowhere else to go, even when the factories were laying off, or when the workers went out on strike for better wages and working conditions. Martin's Service Station was there. And it is still there. Don Martin cares about his neighbors, offering the same kind of support as his father did.
Stepping into the dark old office space next to the garage was like stepping back nearly 70 years into history. Time has stood perfectly still there. Except for a few newer car parts and magazines, the place is just the way I remembered it, when my father used to take me there with him while he was having his car serviced. I was just two or three years old the first time Mr. Martin handed me a few pennies to put in his famous peanut machine. It was a treat I looked forward to every time we went.
The very ledger books Mr. Martin used to keep accounts in are still there, bearing the scribbled names of old neighbors who, like everyone else, paid Mr. Martin by the week for gas and service.
Though the buildings that remain along the 24th Street commercial corridor between East Falls Street and Buffalo Avenue may not look like much, they embody the soul of a vastly rich heritage, one shared by the diverse ethnic cultures that comprised the unique neighborhood that I and my very concerned friend grew up in.
Structures are the landmarks that validate the history of the people who built and inhabited them. My people are part of that history, but there is not a commemorative trace of them anywhere there.
And that is what disturbs my good friend and me. There is no evidence that we were ever there.
At the intersection of 24th Street and Buffalo Avenue, a sign has been posted designating the area as a Polish landmark. There is no question that the Polish people were there and that they contributed immensely to the area and to the whole city of Niagara Falls. But other cultures were there, and they contributed, too. In fact, the area is historically significant precisely because of its unique cultural diversity. And that is worth recognizing, preserving and celebrating.
Perhaps the city should take steps now to help preserve that little stretch of land that represents such a big piece of Niagara's history. Let's not repeat some of our earlier mistakes that led to the wholesale demolition of our landmarks, and let's be sure to include everyone in the commemoration.
| Niagara Falls Reporter | www.niagarafallsreporter.com | March 19 2002 |