Hazel Street
Redondo Pier by Edward McClure November 26, 2015, Redondo Beach. Early morning sunrise at the Redondo Beach Pier. Canon 5d Mark ii.
Honorable mention
On our block, everybody knew everybody. That’s the way it was in the 1950s. I never had a key to my house. We never locked it. The kids played in the street or in the backyards. We went to the park without supervision. People were like extended family up and down the street. We knew all the names, and we knew all the stories.
Nobody moved in, and nobody moved out. I loved engaging in conversation with the oldest residents on our block. I would soak up their wisdom as if it was from Aristotle himself. My neighborhood had the most profound and brilliant philosophers on the planet at just the right time for me.
“Ole Man Shannon” was a crotchety old guy who pulled no punches. He told me secrets most people never knew, and I never shared with anyone else. Mr. Chapman knew the whole history of the goat farms that existed before our homes, and Mr. Clemens knew where “all the bodies were buried.” Mrs. Zink gave us perspective along with lunch on a tray of sandwiches, and Merton told us how all those animals became pets hanging around his yard. Old Charlie Coyle and I argued who was better, Stan Musial or Ted Williams.
Mr. Nicholson gave me the most joy. Although he had his own son, he treated me like his second one. And he was like my second father. His boy was always gone (being seven years older than me), so he reserved a lot of his wit and wisdom for me. I first began mowing his lawn when I was probably only 8 or 9 years old. That was my first job.
As my work ethic emerged with this new responsibility, so did my appreciation for money and the satisfaction of a job well done. Mr. Nicholson taught me many things about working around the property. I got to know his garage as well as I did my own. We lived right next door to each other.
I remember the first day I saw the small little wood “treasure chest” on his work bench. It was no bigger than a box of Kleenex, and it had a small lock on its latch. The lock was so small that it looked like one hard pull would break it apart. I asked Mr. Nicholson what was in it?
“The thing that means the most to me, Davey.” He always called me “Davey.” Nobody else did. It was always Dave or David to everyone else.
“Can I see it?” I naively asked.
“Some day” came the reply.
Irvin Nicholson was an exceptional man. He worked as hard when he got home as he did while at the lumber yard where he earned his living. He had a great sense of humor, and always made me and everyone else laugh. He loved his wife, and always put her priorities first in his list of duties. Although he had a fine relationship with his son, their busy schedules seldom synced. I would sort of fill that void when the occasion called for it.
I learned from Mr. Nicholson that my work for him gave me credibility in our whole neighborhood. Soon I was cutting almost every lawn on the block, and my business model was booming. A dozen years later I would buy a new sports car with the cash I made mowing lawns on Hazel Street.
No matter what other responsibilities I had, the jobs for Mr. Nick were always the top priority. We enjoyed spending this time together, and the rapport was a natural extension of the relationship. He always expressed his appreciation for this time I spent with him, but I just thought he was being nice.
The lots on Hazel Street were exceptionally long for the residential properties of that town. Our yard had gardens and fruit trees in the back, but the Nicholson lot next door was much more barren. Since our families were so close in every sense of the word, I was able to use both yards as my private playgrounds. This included almost every sport, including golf. The Nicholson yard provided enough open space for me to really work on my golf game, and Mr. Nicholson did not fail to notice my passion. One day he asked me, “would you like a putting green in my back yard?”
Before I could even comprehend what I was hearing, a dump truck deposited two tons of dirt and gravel in his back yard. Then Old Nick proceeded to show me how to construct a real golf green, and I was forever in debt for one of the best gifts in life I was ever given. My friends came from everywhere in town to play in our back yards, and this just amplified the incredible euphoria of growing up on Hazel Street. This was heaven on Earth for young boys of that era.
As I got older, my tasks included every variety work imaginable. If a family locked themselves out of their house, and I was called upon because of my notorious skinny body (even as a teenager). In the ‘50s, some homes had small milk passages on the outside wall, where the milkman would deliver the bottles. I could slip through that tiny opening, to the always amazed onlookers. I did whatever was necessary to get a job done.
The work ethics learned in my neighborhood would last my lifetime. There were no better teachers on the planet than my mom and dad, Mr. Nicholson, Mr. Chapman, Mr. Shannon, Mrs. Zink, and all the rest of the great generation which populated this country in the middle of that century.
I moved away from Hazel Street in my early twenties. My parents still lived there, and so did the Nicholsons. Whenever I would visit my folks, I would make sure to go see Old Nick next door. Nothing seemed to change much, but it was always good to see him and the old neighborhood again.
On a phone call one day, Mom mentioned that Mr. Nicholson had not been feeling well lately. I told her I would probably stop by soon to see him. Sadly, that would never happen. Two days later I was told that Irvin Nicholson had a heart attack, and died suddenly. I regret not going to see him immediately to this day. That was another lesson learned, and in the most difficult fashion.
After the funeral, we went over to the Nicholson home. It was hard for me to speak to anyone, as my emotions were still raw, and the place was crowded with relatives. When I eventually exited through the garage, as was my custom, I noticed that little wood treasure box was gone.
Three days later, I received a package from a familar address on Hazel Street. Inside, was that small wood box with an enveloped attached. With great trepidation, I opened the letter. It was from Mrs. Nicholson. It read:
“Irvin asked me to mail this to you if he died before me. I have taped the key to his box here on the bottom of this letter, and I trust you will know what to do with it. I have not opened the box myself, and I feel no need to know what is inside. I only know that he wanted to make sure you had it after he was gone.
Thank you for all you always did for us, and I know Irvin greatly enjoyed having you around.
Warm regards, Bernice”
My hands trembled, and I had to dry my eyes before even removing the key from the letter. I held the box in my lap, and paused to think of what might be inside. When I finally opened the box, there was just a Thank You card inside. I opened it and read:
“Davey, I want to thank you for the time you spent with me. It meant so much, and it was the most important thing I wanted you to know. Nick.”
My eyes were now swelling, and the emotions uncontrollable. It took me a while to assemble my thoughts, but they became more coherent as I calmed down.
The fact that Mr. Nicholson attached the most importance to spending time with me would never be forgotten. I was always thinking in those early years that the elderly folks I was spending time with were teaching me, and giving me great gifts of wisdom. It never occurred to me until now that I might have been giving something back to them. B