Manuscripts/Mixed Material [O, Happy Distances!]
O, HAPPY DISTANCES!
By Herman Spector
Everybody wants to write stories at one time or another, I guess, and I'm no exception. One thing I'd like to write about, if I had the gumption to sit down and write, is that magic sense of distances that a kid has. I don't know just how to explain it. You walk around a corner and it's a different world. Maybe it all depends on where you spend your childhood. For instance, the [Claremont Parkway section? was already something of a slum when my family moved there, but it had some aspects of the country too. Just a few blocks [?], at Jerome Avenue and 170th Street, was a farm where my father used to take us kids occasionally to get milk straight from the cow. Wouldn't believe it, would you? I remember that short trip as if it was a great adventure. Ah, you can't get that feeling again after you're grown up. People change, and move away, and when you begin to feel a little lonely and gypped. I guess that's why “blues” writers make so much money.
Sure, I'm a native of [Claremont?] Parkway, and very proud of it. It was called Wendover Avenue in the old days, but we know it better as “[Denxine?] Alley” because of the fires - sometimes three and four a day, that used to break out there like a rash. The clang, clang, clang! of the fire-engines because so familiar to us kids that even we stopped chasing after it. We had plenty of other things on the agenda - gang-fights, [hasings?], open-air