The Old Neighborhood Surfaces With a Thud - Dr. Ed Iannuccilli
Dr. Ed Iannuccilli, Contributor
The Old Neighborhood Surfaces With a Thud - Dr. Ed Iannuccilli
“The first time you and Danny met was when he came by with his mother. He was three years old and wearing a yellow sunsuit,” Mom liked to recall. And from then on, we were friends, sharing that neighborhood, its people, its nooks and crannies, its schools, its stores, its playing fields, the other kids, and the reliable trips to the Castle Theater every Friday night. And when we left the comfort of that neighborhood, we remained close, sharing much more over the years.
As a kid, I was in his house, and he was in mine, often. His parents introduced me to Irish traditions, culture, and food. “I like your Mom’s food better,” Dan would say. So did I.
GET THE LATEST BREAKING NEWS HERE -- SIGN UP FOR GOLOCAL FREE DAILY EBLASTHis dad was an imposing man, a fire chief whose refined quiet demeanor intimidated the little kid from around the corner. His mom was the opposite, ever a smile, a joke and the “How are your parents?” I was part of the family with his two brothers and three sisters.
Dan was fun, adventuresome, sometimes mischievous, and always dependable. He was there when I walked around the corner to his home, looked to his third floor (I too lived on a third floor), called out “Danny, Danny,” and there he was at the window. “I’ll be right down.” And off we went to have fun. Good fun. Always fun. In a neighborhood full of kids having fun.
It was skipping into La Salle football games, buying from the waffle man, skating at The Duck Pond, or purchasing Easter chicks. It was making a club out of the old coal bin in the cellar.
It was the story of building a racing cart that crashed immediately on the hill because we nailed the tires to the wood rather than using an axle.
I’m clinging to that history and am deeply saddened, perhaps, even more these days because I have reached that vulnerable age, because as I think of that neighborhood, I realize that almost all of those friends who played street basketball, football, and capture the flag are gone.
I found some old pictures of the day Dan and I made our first communion, so serious in our dark suits and white shirts, sternly at attention in front of my house, posing with a sense of importance. As I looked further, I realized we stood tall because we were proud to have reached a milestone together. Our relationship was never that stern, never that formal.
It's not just losing a friend; it’s losing the past.
His friendship mattered. I’m OK. I’m remembering the good times, cherishing those happy moments as I brush away the tears. It lasted so well for so long, and I so appreciated it.