An integral part of Buffalo’s “Polonia,” in the early 1940s, Koons Avenue was unlike any other street on the East Side.  That short, truncated section, running southward from Sycamore Street to a dead end, differed from those even in the surrounding area.  The few homes on the eastern side backed into a right angle-shaped property owned by the New York Central Railroad.  It was defined by Emerson Vocational High School at the northern end, with the Wollenberg Mill at the other.  Angled like a cubist painting, the mill, technically on the “other” Koons and cut off by the Field and the railroad tracks, dominated the area.  Here, families that still maintained small flocks of poultry could purchase necessities for them, all packaged in sturdy, colorful printed cotton sacks.

We became one of those families when Mother’s brother, Walter, who had been working at one of our Kowalkowski cousins’ family bakeries, the Mazurek’s Gold Ray, was encouraged by the new owner to help himself to whatever was left at the end of his work day. Once a week, he filled his Model A Ford to the brim, bringing us more bread and pastries than was possible to eat, even by sharing with others. Mother considered the overflow a sinful waste and decided a small flock of chickens was the answer for the uneaten bread.  Unfortunately, once they arrived we learned that chickens could not “live by bread alone.”  They needed wheat and corn, laying mash and calcium, all available at the Wollenberg Mill.  I was sent to the mill to buy the supplies, dragging it home either by wagon or sled, depending on the season. I then got to select the pattern of the sack that would eventually be sewn into a dress for me.

Dogs were common in the neighborhood, with a smaller population of cats, all allowed to run free.  My pets became the chickens, which were found to have individual personalities; they were named and played with.  This resulted in the self-imposed responsibility of keeping their quarters clean.  And almost immediately the first of a lifetime of pet cats arrived to protect the chickens and to keep the rodent population down, especially since our neighbor raised pigeons for food.  He had open containers of food for them and a stack of railroad ties.  These provided a wonderful hotel for rats, which grew to the size of small dogs, and invaded the entire neighborhood.

Between the mill and the vocational high school were the playground and the railroad tracks.  Horrified 21st century mothers would demand the closing of such a playground, but mid-century mothers, busy with household tasks, were relieved to have a place that kept their children busily occupied and out of their way.  The quite sizeable playground was covered with a layer of gravel, except where this had worn away, leaving swaths of hard packed dirt, while under the “big swings” were long slabs of concrete.  A few scraggly, dusty trees attempted to survive. Except for an occasional parent bringing a toddler to the “baby swings,” there were no adults, no supervision. The college students, who unlocked the playground gates and infrequently presented a craft program, camped out within the shelter house in case of need and were seldom seen.

When we outgrew the baby swings, they remained useful to send dolls swinging skyward, a risk to passersby not paying attention.  The purpose of the teeter-totter was to experience the bumps when the board hit bottom; but there were those times when the rider who had reached bottom strolled away, leaving the one still in the air to come crashing down with a tooth-jarring thump.  Nearby was what was called the “swingers,” maypole-like equipment with several chains ending in handholds.  Hanging on, one would run in a circle until a certain momentum had been reached, at which point feel were lifted off the ground.  Despite arms feeling like being pulled out of their sockets, riders would try to hold on as long as possible, hopefully until the motion came to a stop.  If one let go before this, one went flying into nearby shrubbery.  At the far end of the playground were two sets of “big” swings—one for boys, the other for girls, separation rigidly respected—facing each other from either side of the playground.  One would try to swing as high as possible, head hanging down backward, wondering if one’s eyes would pop out. When that paled one stood on the plank seat, clutching the chains and pumping with knees to achieve height.

At some point, all these activities resulted in bumps, bruises, brush burns, scrapes, cuts and pinched fingers, usually dismissed.  Only when blood was drawn did one run home, temporarily, to have iodine poured on, before returning to the playground.

There was also a mammoth sandbox, shaded by a concrete roof resting on a concrete pillar in the middle of the box.  Many sandy architects and engineers could spend contented hours creating yards of structures and messy, watery moats without interfering with each other.

When the playground closed at dusk or at noon on Saturdays, or when its pleasures were temporarily exhausted, there were alternative outlets. There was the “Field,” a 14-acre, L-shaped space owned by the railroad, between the school and the tracks.  On summer Sundays, muni baseball leagues took over the two diamonds, for double-header games, attracting huge crowds.  Goodyear Avenue neighbors, whose garages fronted the street, opened up garage doors to sell cold soft drinks and snacks, while some of their entrepreneurial children, dragging wagons behind, peddled refreshments directly to the crowds.  The air was filled with excitement, the crack of balls on bats, the calls of the umpires and the roar of the crowds.

At the far end of the street, across the Field, lay those tempting railroad tracks, an even riskier lure.  These were technically rendered off limits by a high chain link fence, but as quickly and as often as the city repaired it, an opening was cut and peeled back by adults wanting a short cut to the other side.  Walking on the rails to determine how long one could maintain balance was a popular activity. Hopping from one unevenly placed tie to the others was an even more difficult challenge.  And having seen adult males catching a ride by grabbing a handle on the slow-moving trains, some of the older children also gave in to this temptation. Needless to say, parents were kept in the dark about this play area.

A dead end with few cars, the street itself was the place for many games, including hopscotch, jumping jacks, marbles and pounding caps with a stone to produce the noise of a pistol.  Roller skating on the uneven and concrete street not only took effort but also wore out the iron wheels of the skates, in those days clamped on to shoes. Goodyear Avenue, with its underpass and blacktop, provided temptation.  One would start at the top of the rise, give oneself a little push and sail speedily downhill, avoiding the limited auto traffic and the sewer grate at the bottom.  If one’s wheels got caught in the grate, a nasty fall would result. Walking along with one foot on the curb, the other in the street, would guarantee finding not only marbles, but also sufficient coins with which to buy treats of ice cream or penny candy from the store mid-Koons Avenue.  It was the lady of the house who was in charge of the store; her husband was employed elsewhere.  When the store’s bell tinkled, she left her work and, impatiently, waited while a child hung over the candy counter, deliberating on how to spend a penny.

Any house with a porch with many front steps was desirable for playing “school,” a form of “it.”  One had to guess in which hand a pebble was held in order to move up one step (a grade).  If one didn’t guess correctly, it was necessary to take to one’s heels, often into the street, while the “teacher” chased the “student.”  If caught before he (or she) could return to the safety of the steps, he then became the teacher.  And when dark fell, it was time to go home and listen to stories on the radio.

Providing occupation on rainy days, games—often missing parts—could be found at someone’s home, or a large bundle of worn, mismatched playing cards was available for playing war.  For girls, paper dolls and coloring books were common.  The boys had cap pistols and marbles.  When one was old enough to make the trek to the small, local library on Doat Street, around the corner of the “other” Koons Avenue, a new world of second-hand adventures opened up.  Since only three books could be borrowed each visit, avid readers were compelled to make more than one trip per week.

Saturday afternoons in summer—at least for most girls—were dull.  Having been scrubbed and hair put into curlers, instructions were to “stay clean” for church on Sunday.  Once a month I was sent to St. Luke’s Church to make my Confession.  Growing up in a dual culture, in which many adults still spoke Polish, we understood what was said, but could not respond in kind.  Perhaps the Church hierarchy’s insistence upon retaining the Polish language and culture was the reason why we English-speaking children were required to communicate our sins in Polish.  Not having a clear understanding of what constituted sins in English, it was impossible to do so in a foreign tongue.  As a result, “sins” were confessed that sounded interesting, but not understood.  What was confessed must have provided a source of hilarity for the priest after he left the Confessional.

Some visitors to the street included the rag man, of interest because his creaky wagon was pulled by a horse, and the huckster selling fresh fruits and vegetables, who allowed children to clamber all over the truck since they would tease mothers into buying an extra piece of fruit.  Especially welcome was the iceman, who after chopping large blocks of ice (since some homes still had ice boxes), would have left icicle-shaped shards, which the children, sitting on the wet, splintered wooden floor of the truck, their legs swinging, would suck.  Garbage men would come into the yards to pick up and return the containers, but no one ever came to plow the street when filled with snow.  One snowy winter, the adults came out with shovels to clear the street, while the children, underfoot, moved snow from one place to another, creating more disruption than help.

Once or twice during the summers, the city would close off the street to traffic for a street dance, bringing a sound system on a truck.  Mothers came to watch, the younger children ran around, the teen boys huddled in a cluster on the edge of the groups and nudged each other, while the teen girls, in their circular skirts, ankle socks and loafers, danced the jitterbug, the polka or, arm-in-arm, stamped to the Rhinelander.

Summer ended with the reopening of school in September.  The playground closed.  School supplies and clothing, put away in June, were brought out of storage. Cotton dresses were tried on to see if they still fit; if necessary hems were let down to allow for summer growth.  Nothing was replaced unless absolutely needed for school.  The hated “snuggies” were kept stored until winter, when in theory they would keep us warm.

At Lincoln School (#44) the day ran from 9:00am and 3:30pm, with an hour break to return home for lunch, although one could choose to eat in the school cafeteria.  School meant meeting old and making new one, plus a legitimate opportunity for still walking the curb on Goodyear, prospecting for spending money.  Since there was no homework, once the school day ended, play activities resumed until dark.  Autumn also brought its own special memories—piles of leaves raked and left at the curb, that were convenient to jump into and created a delicious perfume when burnt.  Halloween came, but it took a brave soul to go trick-or-treating, since the response was being chased away by an annoyed adult or, worse, the family dog, although small stores might donate some unsold (and usually stale) candy.  More likely, one dressed in costume and stayed home.  Occasionally someone playing ghost, groaning and wrapped in an old sheet, drifted through the neighborhood.

With the coming of fall, a mysterious rectangular wooden structure was delivered near the corner.  Then on a usually cold November day—a school holiday—children would accompany parents (men received a day off from work for presidential elections) into its mysterious interior, heated by a pot-bellied stove, to learn that voting took place here.  That evening, parents and children clustered around the radio, anxious to learn the results of the election. This was especially so when Franklin Delano Roosevelt was running—again—for the presidency.  In our lifetime, he had been the only president; it was unbelievable—and frightening—that this could change.

Late autumns and winters meant quiet home-centered time.  Darkness fell early, and Mr. Frost entered the houses, leaving his mark on windowpanes in unheated rooms, which frost one could scratch with a fingernail.  Family members slept in icy bedrooms, snug and warm under thick comforters (piezyny), made from the down of ducks eaten.  For our house, a newly purchased stove served double duty.  It had a gas stove for cooking at one end, and a coal stove at the other that heated the kitchen.  However, while the coal side heated the room, its top and oven also became very hot.  As a result, much of the cooking was done there—a pot of soup usually simmering on top, a pan of baked beans or a roasting chicken in the oven.  When Uncle Walter passed away, that ended the supply of bakery goods.  Mother resumed baking, taking advantage of the heated oven.

Families tended to huddle near the kitchen stove, or wherever it was warm, to listen to the news, with Gabriel Heater, or other offerings on the radio.  These ranged from comedies, like Fibber McGee & Molly, The Great Gildersleeve, Jack Benny and Baby Snooks, to crime and dangerous adventures, including The Lone Ranger, The Shadow and Lights Out.  The Firestone Hour and the Bell Telephone Hour exposed us to classical music.  But especially for us, there was “Let’s Pretend.”

By current standards, the holidays of Thanksgiving and Christmas would be seen as bleak.  There were no parties, no list of people with whom one exchanged gifts, no beautifully decorated houses. A Christmas tree with Nativity figures under it would be the extent of the décor.  There was no purchasing of expensive “must have” items for the children, that were discarded as soon as the next “must have” was being advertised.  The season was one of reflection, of simplicity, of meaning.

The holidays received a great deal of attention at school, church and elsewhere, so we children were well versed in the meaning and significance of both.  At school, stories of the Pilgrims and their survival in the New World thanks to friendly Indians gave us much to think about on the holiday itself.

Christmas was given even more attention.  St. Luke’s Church, as others, put up a creche of life-size figures of Mary, Joseph, angels and eventually—on Christmas day—the baby Jesus.  Then shepherds appeared, and soon afterward the wise men arrived with gifts.  The public school personnel were untroubled then about the possibility of antagonizing anyone of a different religious affiliation, since it was known that all the children were likely Catholic.  Thus, there were stories of the event and carols were sung.  But non-religious Christmas songs and stories were also sung and told.  The totality filled our imaginations.

On the radio, the airwaves were filled with carols, intermixed with popular songs such as “Santa Claus is Coming to Town,” etc.  All the weekly programs had a Christmas theme.  And specials aired as well.  By the time Christmas came, we were so immersed in the specialness of the day that Christmas spirit filled us to the bursting point.

Christmas, for me, began with hanging up Dad’s stoking, because it was large and likely to hold more gifts from Santa Claus.  Usually he left me an orange, tangerine, banana or some other piece of fruit.  There was rock candy on a string, a small bag of food for the chickens and, on separate Christmases, once a box of peanut brittle, another time one of ribbon candy!  And after enjoying Santa’s gifts, there was still the possibility of a present from my parents.

“Uninformed” children told me there was no Santa, but I knew better.  After all, I did see that the stovepipe from the heater in our dining room had been moved, which proved he had come to our house.  Additional proof was that, having been taken to Lincoln Park as a very little girl, I actually saw Santa arriving in his sleigh from the sky.  No one could tell me he wasn’t real!

Unlike some in the neighborhood, our home had a Christmas tree, under which my Nativity set was placed—and played with.  The tree was left up until Candlemas Day, by which time all the needles had fallen, its strays proving a nuisance for months to come.  But in many homes with children there was no tree, no presents.

Winter had its joys as well.  Climbing over the snow banks resulted in boots filled with snow and wet snowsuits, so one arrived at school (or elsewhere) with rosy cheeks and wet clothing.  Struggling through the deep snow in the Field offered the opportunity of discovering the North Pole, the goal of children in the Arthur Ransome book, Winter Holiday (my all-time favorite).  Attempts to make snowmen were less successful than throwing oneself into a pristine snow to make snow angels.  And there were always snowballs to throw.

Those lucky children with siblings had someone to play with indoors while I, an only child, needed to find ways to amuse myself.  I immersed myself with paper dolls, coloring books, but also reading, then writing “book reports” on each on read.  I attempted to produce a newspaper, but there was no news, so that failed.  I also spent time writing (pretty awful) stories. No matter the weather, two weekly trips to the library were necessary, but eventually finding fresh material became futile.  The librarian offered to “help,” but I had read each book she suggested so often I could quote sections, word for word.  A year before I was entitled, I was given an adult library card. But with the return of spring, the doors opened again and out we children poured.

Koons Avenue was a magnet, due to its situation, its variety of activities and places to expend energy and challenge abilities, therefore a delightful place for children to grow up.  It was a time of endless summers, a time of dark winter afternoons and warm kitchens and a time of extended childhoods.  It was a time when adults were adults, living in an adult world, and children in their own world.  Parents were not companions to their children. They neither played with them, nor arranged activities for them.  There was interaction, but on a parental level.  Parents knew that their children were somewhere in the immediate area and would return home when hungry or tired.Despite a lack of supervision and seemingly reckless behavior, children, left to their own devices, were respectful, actually well behaved and no one was really injured—at least as far as I knew and saw.  We were noisy, grimy, unfashionable and active, but also a generation of sturdy, occupied children who discovered for themselves their abilities and limitations and learned to cope with life’s challenges.  Needless to say, there were no problems with being overweight.  Although there were exceptions, girls and boys tended to live in separate worlds.  Not limited to one best friend, there were many playmates—anyone who was available at the time—but during those times when no one was available, there was no problem.  There were times when one wanted just to be alone.  Koons Avenue, luring crowds of children from the surrounding blocks, was not just a place—it was a way of life.

However, that was then. Emerson High, having undergone changes, became shabby, its lawn and trees long replaced by a parking lot.  The houses—including ours—on that side of the street, taken by eminent domain to expand the school, changed the character of the street.  The playground, rebuilt further down in the Field, appeared an uninspiring place with no tempting equipment.  The houses on the other side of the street became dispirited, their ridgepoles sagging hopelessly.  The neighborhood had changed, and with it, the lifestyle.  The echoes of those children long ago are silenced.  And sadly, even the Wollenberg Mill succumbed to fire in October 2006, thanks in part to the city’s neglect of this National Register site. The Koons Avenue of long ago moved into history.

Did the half-lot that would offer Dad scope for his talents ever materialize?  It certainly did.  Within a few years, it had become a showplace.  Adults taking a short cut through the Field always stopped to look and, if anyone were around, to visit over the fence.  Dad would frequently cut an armful of blossoms for anyone’s special occasion.

The yard had been neglected for years when we arrived in that summer of 1940.  Dad salvaged what had life left and created the rest.  There was a plum tree where I could climb and sit, eating ripe fruit, another tree from which to pick sour cherries to snack, but producing thousands more for pies and canning.  A row of small Catalpa trees marked the edge of the half-lot, while a huge one, mid-yard, provided scented shade.  The fence was covered with rambling roses of several varieties.  Perennials grew beneath these; annuals filled areas adjacent to the sidewalk while a raised circle, edged with whitewashed clamshells, was filled with summer flowers.  From early spring to late fall, there was always some plant in bloom.  Flowering spirea bushes provided privacy for the yard from street traffic.  And a velvet, bright green weed-free lawn surrounded the plantings.  There was even a Victory garden.

To achieve all this, no chemicals were ever used.  All was done with love.  We lived in a park, experiencing the perfumes and beauty around us.

Thanks Dad.