This story was written about a year before my Father passed away and long
before G.I. Joe and Lilllie was written. Someday it may be a part of an
autobiographical book but for now, I just dedicate this little story to Joe
Sr, My Mom, Lillie and my precious sister Nancy!! Enjoy! (JSB)

A Trip Back Home
By Joseph S. Bonsall, Jr.


I drove back into the old neighborhood today. The Oak Ridge Boys had a day
off in Hershey PA, so I rented a Toyota Corolla at the Harrisburg airport and
drove across the Pennsylvania countryside to the little town of Spring City.
This is the home of the Southeastern Pennsylvania Veterans Center where my
Mom and Dad, both Veterans of World War Two, now reside.

It was a very bright and sunny spring afternoon and I was so happy that my
concert schedule worked out in such a way that I would be allowed see my
folks. Usually a day off is spent in some town a long ways off with nothing
to do but take a walk and watch the corn grow. Today worked out just right.

I parked the rental car in the main lot and proceeded to the fourth floor of
the Veterans home. Mom was upbeat as usual and Dad was downbeat as usual,
although I cannot blame him. His old stroke-ridden body is so frail now, and
besides that he just had a toe removed and he is in pain from a bout with the
shingles. Otherwise, I guess he is doing just great!

I took Mom out to dinner and Wal-Mart, which was a big day for her. I bought
Daddy a singing fish called Billy Bass or something goofy like that. Anyhow,
it sang "Don't Worry, Be Happy" and he laughed so hard at it that he almost
fell out of bed. Well worth the $22.50 for the singing fish.

I said goodbye to them both and headed on into the City of Brotherly Love.
Late Sunday afternoon, as I exit the Schulkyll Expressway and turn on to US
Route 1 North, I notice that the sun is just now beginning to sink behind
William Penn's hat on top of City Hall in center city Philadelphia. I have to
chuckle at this point. The statue of Penn on top of City Hall collects
rainwater in a storm and it drains off of the hat in such a way that if you
stand on South Broad Street and look up, Mr. Penn appears to be taking a
hearty, colonial piss on downtown Philly. I swear it is true. Check it out
sometime.

I needed that light moment. The Veterans home is a wonderful facility and my
folks are truly, very well taken care of there. Their years of service to
this country and all of the medals hanging over Daddy's bed have earned them
the right to that care and for that I am very appreciative. However, seeing
them there somehow rips my heart into little pieces and it takes days to push
it all back a bit farther into my mind.

Their last several years of living in the old house was really very scary and
I worried about them constantly. Even though I had them install a complete,
state of the art (I hate that expression) security system and even though my
sister Nancy lived relatively close in nearby Cherry Hill NJ, the streets
were getting worse and the whole neighborhood was going downhill faster every
day.

Also, Mom's Diabetes was getting worse. Her eyesight was failing and after a
Diabetic coma hit her and we almost lost her, it was time to talk serious
turkey. Mom agreed and actually led the way (as usual) to make plans for what
she called The Soldiers Home. They have lived in "The Soldiers Home" for two
years now.

One year ago today, Nancy sold the little row house that my parents had lived
in for fifty years. It was paid off, too, as Mom liked to say. Little Joey
Bonsall grew up there and now fifty-plus years later, I find myself driving
to Jasper Street for the first time in almost two years, and I am not even
sure why I am doing it.

Anyhow, I exit the Roosevelt Expressway and take a left on Wingahocking Aven
ue. I have always chuckled at that, too. Such a funny name, Wingahocking
Avenue Exit 1/4 mile. hahaha I am so glad I never lived on that street. On to
Hunting Park Avenue. That sounds much better. Oh, you live by Hunting Park.
Oh my. Well, well! How very nice. Yeah, right!

I pass through the new Spanish-speaking complex of row houses right off of
Hunting Park where the music is pounding out of the passing cars so loudly
that the street is actually shaking. When I was sixteen and jacked up the
volume on my cheesy-sounding radio that dwelled inside of my old
winged-monster, '59 Impala, people would yell from their front porches to
"turn that damn thing down - or off!" I would, too, and I was probably only
blasting, "Soldier Boy" by the Sherelles. Nowadays, kids have bad ass rap
music thumping out of bass speakers from Hell, with lyrics about rape and
killing. And people are just too afraid to say anything. Ah, the whiff of
passing and changing times. It is not a pleasant aroma.

Anyhow, I make it through without getting shot or taken hostage. I am still
quite a few blocks from my old house. I drive through Juniata. Actually it is
just another several blocks of row homes but the homes on these streets
always seemed a little nicer, more well-kept. Little bitty lawns with a few
Azalea bushes and awnings on the windows.

When I was little, I used to think that moving about fifteen blocks over to
Juniata would really be moving on up. I remember when the Williamson family
over on Clearance Street moved over there, taking two relatively good looking
daughters with them. Janet and Diane Williamson were moving to Juniata. To me
they might as well have been moving to a new row house on the Moon.

What everyone really dreamed about was moving to a home on the Jersey Shore.
When I was a kid that was the ultimate goal of the hard-working people in the
old neighborhood. To live down at da shore! Atlantic City, Wildwood, Ocean
City, Cape May, hey, it really didn't matter. Just to live at da shore. I
don't believe that I ever saw the Williamson girls again after their big move
to Juniata. I can also honestly say that I never remember anyone actually
moving to da shore either.

Past Juniata, down K Street to Kensington Avenue. Ah, getting close. Cross
Kensington and go under the EL. The Elevated Frankford Commuter Train was
called the EL when it ran above ground and the subway when it ran beneath the
ground. That seemed to always make sense and one thing that did not change
was the sound of the EL pulling into the Tioga Street station just one block
from where I grew up.

I pulled over and listened. The sound of those iron wheels on the tracks as
they slow to a halt was indeed a sound of childhood and, hey, they have even
remodeled the old EL station.

When I was a kid, the old Tioga Street EL station was where bums hung out.
They are called homeless, now I guess, but back then we called them bums.
They are the reason that the old EL station smelled like stale pee. On a hot,
muggy summer day, YO, it was rough. I'll bet the new station still smells a
little like pee. It just has to. You could get on that train and go right on
in to downtown Philly, or go the other way and end up in Frankford where I
went to high school. Either way, you held your nose while digging for a token.

On a musical note, the EL station had great acoustics. Guys would gather down
there and sing harmony. We all sounded good as our voices echoed off of the
walls in there and the bums seemed to really enjoy it.

By now, you have noticed that each inner city neighborhood has its own name
and in reality, each has its own personality and identity, too. This city is
really made up of small towns that are entities all to themselves with names
like Fishtown, Kensington, Frankford, Harrowgate, and on and on. As a
teenager I was involved in some pretty big fights defending the local turf.
Basically, the young guys all fought for Kensington because Harrowgate was a
part of Kensington.

The main intersection was Kensington and Allegheny Avenues, which was three
blocks from the Tioga EL station. There was an Allegheny Ave EL station, too,
that also smelled like pee. Many of us were part of the K&A gang which is
another story for sure. For now I'll just tell you that we really were a
pretty tough bunch, especially when we hung out with the older, really bad
ass K&A guys.

We would gather on the corner of Atlantic and Jasper streets, jump in some
old cars that belonged to the older guys and drive over to Juniata or
Fishtown and fight for good old K&A. And I usually got my clock cleaned.

I used to think it was so funny that guys would get so bent out of shape over
a few concrete streets. We were much like alley cats staking out our
territory. I always figured, however, that if war were to ever break out
between Philly and say, Trenton, New Jersey, or Baltimore (or maybe even
Camden) that all of these guys would gather together as one big army and
march down Interstate 95 in Phillies' hats and Eagles' helmets shouting YO
and eating cheesesteaks and soft pretzels.

Anyhow, I grew up on Jasper Street, which was right by Harrowgate Square. The
little park was looked over by the City Department of Recreation, and I mean,
just that. The city would mow around the War World Two Memorial on the
Kensington Avenue side from time to time, but for the most part, it was just
looked over.

Neighborhood folks just called it Da Square. It was, in reality, one square
block of grass, trees and dog poop. But to little boys it became a ballpark
or a football stadium or even a boxing ring with just a slight turn of the
imagination.

By the way, each neighborhood had a string band and The Harrowgate Stringband
was one of the best in the city. On a rare occasion, they would put on a
concert in Da Square and everybody would come out to hear them. These bands
were a very strange phenomenon and remain a part of Philly folklore to this
day. The bands were made up of average neighborhood guys who would dress up
in huge feathered outfits and play old songs like "Oh Dem Golden Slippers"
on banjos from Hell while drinking whiskey from a hip flask.

Each New Year's Day stringbands from all over the Delaware Valley would
gather to march and dance through downtown Philly in front of thousands of
people and a nationwide TV audience. It is still a huge event that is called,
the Mummers Parade, which is kind of like a weird Mardi Gras for guys who
hang out in bars. This city is so fascinating to me. Guys who would knock
your block off at an Eagles' game dress up in purple feathers and funny shoes
and enthusiastically play the living daylights out of banjos and xylophones
while doing a silly dance called the Mummers Strut. There is even a Mummers
Hall of Fame. All of this, mind you, from the same city that gave us American
Bandstand.

So, I drive on under the EL across Kensington Ave, and proceed one block down
Venango Street to Jasper and turn right. I slowly drive past three small
blocks of row houses, garages, alleyways and trash, and pull over to the curb
and park directly across the street from the old house. I roll down the
driver's side window and just sit there.

To my right is a vacant corner lot piled with trash that was once Del's
Restaurant, where actual mob guys came to eat. It was amazing! At lunchtime
there would be Cadillacs and Lincolns parked on the street where normally
there were just the Fords and Chevys that belonged to the blue-collar working
men who lived in these homes. Now old Del's was just a pile of rat-infested
rubbish.

A few years ago I had taken part in the Presidents' Summit On Volunteerism
program that was held right here in Philly. The Oaks and former President
George Bush actually went into a section of Germantown and cleaned up a few
streets with the help of a bunch of nice, inner city kids. Presidents,
Generals, and volunteers spread out all across Philadelphia to clean up the
streets, inspire people to keep them clean, to volunteer and to be a mentor
to young people. It was a great event and I believe that a lot of good took
place. However, they missed this section of Harrowgate, one block from
Kensington and the EL and they sure, as hell, missed old Del's corner.

I sit in my rented Corolla and stare over at the two-story home at 3517
Jasper Street. I would like to say that the sinking sun was shining on the
second floor and that there were happy faces of young children playing on the
porch while Mom cooked Salisbury steak and Dad showered the grease off from
the factory while smoking a Winston. (I had to say that my Father actually
smoked while taking a bath.)

But, no, none of these things were true. The house was shut up and dark and
still looked pretty much the same as the day when Nancy and I loaded "GI Joe
and Lillie" into an ambulance for their last ride down Jasper Street on their
way to Spring City, PA and "The Soldiers Home."

In my mind's eye, I could see Joey sitting on the porch with Mommy and dear
old Nana Clark. I could see my sister posing in her brand new Easter dress. I
could see Daddy's latest brand new, used car parked by the telephone pole.

I could see a young teenage Joey sitting on the corner of what was then
Flannery's candy store with about eight other guys who were just as energetic
and confused as he was. I see a boy running down the street all bloodied up
from a fistfight that he lost and trying hard not to cry.

I see a young Lillie standing on the corner yelling over towards Harrowgate
Park, Joeeeyyyyy, at the top of her lungs, hoping for a response from the
dirty little kid wearing a Phillies' hat and playing ball. I saw my Father
park his Studebaker and then - thanks to a good mix of Seagrams Seven and
Ballantine Beer - not be able to get out of it and walk to the house so he
stayed in the car and slept while his dinner got cold.

As long as I sit here, these images and mirages constantly appear and fade. I
feel like Rod Serling is looking over my shoulder. I also feel like I am
stuck here in somewhat of a time warp. An hourglass slowly running out of
sand.

Strangely enough, my whole thought pattern is interrupted by some goofy girl
in a white miniskirt with purple lips, multi-colored hair and a nose ring.
She is pounding on the passenger side window and saying something. I rolled
the window down so as to hear this pearl of wisdom.

"Hey, are ya dating?" she asked.

I almost break out laughing.

"Yer not a cop are ya?"

That is even funnier, a fifty two year old cop in an Avis rental Corolla.
Now, that would really have been undercover.

Then, I notice the five guys not far behind her and my spidey sense kicks in
a bit. (It had always worked for Peter Parker.) I am bit scared, however, I
kind of feel like jumping out of this stupid looking little gray car and
kicking some honest to God, old time, Philly Ass!

This old neighborhood was far from perfect when I grew up here. The families
that occupied these little homes had their share of trouble and ours was no
exception. Some worked in various factories. Some were truck drivers,
policeman and fireman and such. They were all tough, blue-collar guys who
drank and smoked too much. Most of them fought in the wars from Normandy to
Iwo Gima to Korea, and they still maintained at least some sort of pride in
themselves.

June Cleaver didn't live here either. However, I remember so many wonderful
Mothers like my own, who worked two jobs to help make ends meet, and raised
families and did the best they could. I grew up here and learned a lot of
harsh lessons and, quite honestly, I was learning more today.

That old phrase everything changes, everything stays the same does not apply
to the corner of Jasper and Tioga. Nothing here is the same! Flannery's candy
store, Elmer's hardware, Russock's drug store, Mrs. Tuma's dry cleaning and
Emrich's grocery store are long gone. Progress Manufacturing, Craftex
Textiles, Schlicters Steel Mill and many others have long since vanished. The
Midway and Iris Theaters have been replaced by a McDonalds and a Blockbuster
video store.

Now, don't get me wrong. I know in my heart that there are still a lot of
good, honest, hardworking people around who - like the generations before
them - are also doing the best they can. It is just that I wonder if the
dreams are still there. I hope so.

I once walked these streets with a head and heart chock full of dreams and
plans and goals that I would someday accomplish. Where are the dreams of this
young hooker and these hard-bodied thugs behind her, smoking pot and
listening to Snoop Doggy crapp?

The trash in the streets speaks volumes about lost pride and it makes me so
sad on one level. However, a voice screams out inside of my heart that is
thanking my Almighty God for the Veterans home and thanking Him for His
constant, guiding hand on my life all of these years.

A wave of common sense prevails and I do NOT jump out of the car.

"Gotta go," I tell the young street girl as the neighborhood darkens. "Why
don't you guys clean up around here a little?" I yell as I lay Toyota rubber
on Jasper Street!

Whoa, big tough Philly Boy. I am laughing again. I used to think that I could
move back to the city anytime and I guess I could if I had to, however, it
would have to be a Supreme Court decision to ever pry me away from the
rolling hills of Tennessee.

I drive over the Betsy Ross Bridge and have dinner with my wonderful sister
in Jersey. We were always such a small ship - Mom, Dad, Nancy and I. And I
love her very much. In fact, I love her more than ever.

"Went by the old house on the way here."

"Neighborhood is awful isn't it?" she replies.

"Why did Mommy stay there so long? God knows I tried to get her to move out
for years," I said.

"Old School, Joey, you know that. She worked hard, annnndddd......"

"IT WAS PAID OFF!" We said it in perfect unison while laughing out loud.

Nancy made me a wonderful dinner. We laughed and cried and said goodbye. I
drove in the darkness for three hours and sang songs. Old rock and roll
songs, some Springsteen and a few gospel tunes. I sang so hard that I really
didn't have much voice left for the show the next night.

By two AM, I was back in a Hershey, PA hotel room, tucked hard into bed and
dreaming about hitting a baseball over the park benches in our make believe
Connie Mack Stadium at Harrowgate Square. The black electrical tape around
the old ball makes it hard to find as dusk settles and the tree branches
start to meld in with the sky. I circle the bases, laughing. A tree is first
base, second base is a mound of dirt, third is a light pole, and home plate
is a strategically placed paper bag.

I stomp hard on the bag and my Mother's voice fills the air. "Joeeeeyyyy,
come on home and eat! Your father and Nancy are already at the table."

She sounds a little like Lucille Ball in my dream.
.
"Coming MAAAAAAA!" I yell as I pick up my old Adirondack bat and my Jimmy
Piersall-model Wilson glove, and head across Tioga Street toward home.

Old Del is sweeping leaves off of his sidewalk and waves at me as I cross the
street and disappear inside of the little, two story row house at 3517 Jasper
Street.