The high cost of leaving
the old neighborhood

Robyn’s Hood
By Robyn McCloskey

For the past 16 years my husband and I have raised our family in Newtown. It’s mainly because Newtown is where my husband works, and, being a big believer in simplifying life as much as humanly possible, he thought it also should be where we live.
We were both born and bred in Northeast Philly. Though we haven’t lived in the Northeast for quite some time, we still find Newtown to be something akin to another planet. We have always lived in the more modest sections of Newtown, but even that is getting harder and harder to do.
For the price of an average-size three-bedroom home, you could feed a developing country for an entire generation. Or for just slightly less than that, you can live in what is euphemistically called a townhouse, even though where we were raised they are called rowhomes. In the summer, most everyone joins the swim club, where a family of five can frolic between the hours of 10 a.m. and 6 p.m. throughout the season for a little over $1,000.
These "poor" kids will never know the joys of running through an open fire hydrant . . . for free.
Don’t get me wrong, Newtown has served us well and has been a lovely place to raise our family. It’s just that when a milkshake costs $7.95 or a dinner for two can run into the hundreds, you kind of long for the good old days of street-corner pretzels at "four for a dollar" or a $5 pizza. Sometimes it’s just too much for our hard-working, blue-collar brains to take in.
Take, for instance, the million-dollar McMansions with swing sets in the back yards. Which begs the question of not only how can you afford a million-dollar home, but how can you do it while your kids are still in preschool? The student parking lot of the local high school overflows with fresh-off-the-assembly-line Mercedes, Lexus and Hummer vehicles. And don’t get me started on the 6-year-old girls dressed in the latest styles from Juicy Couture.
I wasn’t sure we would survive the year that one of our daughters turned 13. Not because of all the usual teenage drama, but because of the number of bat mitzvahs she was invited to, with all seemingly existing simply to outdo the previous one.
The most opulent she attended was a weekend-long celebration. Following the ceremony and reception at a five-star-hotel, everyone was driven via limousine to New York City to see a Broadway show, then on to dinner at the Rainbow Room. What are the parents going to do for this girl when she gets married — fly all the guests on a chartered plane to Fiji?
I remember the first bar mitzvah I attended when I was 13. It was in honor of the boy down the street, Scotty Beck, with whom I had shared a mutual crush since the age of 5. It was a lovely service followed by a simple affair at an affordable hall with good food and fun dancing.
Apparently that no longer is sufficient. Somehow here in little old Newtown, it has morphed into a contest rivaling that of MTV’s My Super Sweet 16.
We were lucky enough to find kindred spirits in neighbors of ours who also hail from the Great Northeast. She is a full-time mom and a part-time physical therapist who sees nothing wrong with driving to Jersey to buy gas because "I refuse to pay Newtown prices." He is an honest, hard-working mechanic (yes, they do exist) who never fails to ask "Youse want a beer?" every time we walk into their home.
The husband most especially has issues with Newtown. When they moved there, he would complain to his wife that when he was out mowing the lawn everyone who drove by would wave as if they were old friends. His response was always the same: "Yo, I’m from Philly, don’t talk to me unless you know me." He still wears his "Whatchyoulookinat" Philly scowl, and yet we all know deep down that he would do anything for you, like most of the guys I remember from where I grew up.
We have spent many an hour together lamenting the things we miss about our old neighborhood. We talk about whether we have all done our children a disservice by no longer living there.
It’s always comforting to visit the past. But I guess in the grand scheme of things, we are where we are supposed to be, if only to show some around town that life can be good without a McMansion. ••
Robyn McCloskey’s column appears each week in the Northeast Times. She can be reached at crmccloskey@phillynews.com