Tales from Brewster Street

Brewster Street, in the early Sixties, was a neighborhood in its adolescence. It was, then, only 2 blocks long, and had roughly as many vacant lots as homes. Ten years earlier it was all cornfield. But as the postwar boom in new, G.I. Bill funded homes spread, someone decided it was a good place to put a street, and, one by one, modest single family homes began to sprout. We lived at 33 Brewster Street, in a two bedroom brick, with an attached one car garage, sort of the Brewster Street prototype. There were several in a row, including ours, that if you looked closely were the same house, but slightly disguised by moving the chimney to opposite sides, or putting the garage out back, or having a carport instead of a garage. Our side of the street was solid, from the Spanglers at one end all the way to the Lippys at the other. The other side, though, was sparse, with only a handful of homes and empty grass lots between that allowed a view from our picture window of the elementary school a block away.
I knew the names, then, of the occupants of every house on Brewster Street, and many of the names of people on adjoining Mumma Avenue, Center Street, Sanford Avenue, and Glendale. My best friends lived at 27 Brewster, the Williams. There was also a kid my age at the Wentz home, an unusual two family rancher at 21 and 19 Brewster. But there was one home, one family, on our street that was, to say the least, unusual. That was the Bostions at 23 Brewster Street.
A passer by, even a stranger to the the neighborhood, would likely do a double take if they spotted the Bostion home. They would have to be observant, though, because a casual glance was not enough to reveal there was, in fact, a house at 23 at all. Their front yard, or where one typically was, was a rainforest of shrubbery, and plantings, and trees that had never, ever been pruned or thinned or trimmed. These plants, while perhaps the same genus as the orderly, shaped, mulch bedded ones of neighboring homes, had grown and evolved and intertwined and conspired to completely eclipse the dwelling. To the casual observer, the sidewalk in front passed an undeveloped lot that neglect had allowed to become botanical Hell. The lone clue that humans dwelled within this jungle, was a flagstone walkway that bisected the parcel, and pointed towards the front door.
I visited the Bostion home fairly often. They had a son, Benny, that was about a year younger than I, and we sometimes played together. Each time I visited, I would pause at the intersection of the sidewalk and the flagstone path, gather my courage, and remind myself there were probably not any tigers or pythons in Hanover. But I didn't dally. No, I would jog to the door, just in case there were more localized predators I hadn't considered lurking in the thick, dark forest.
Inside, Benny's house was an over flowing museum. The Mom, Catherine as I recall, collected those lamps that were the ticket in about 1960 that slowly rotated, displaying a back lit, animated scene. In their living room there was one of a forest fire, several of waterfalls, one of a river, and one of waves breaking on a beach. She also had several wall hung pictures of similar scenes on those hollow, 6 inch thick plastic boxes that lit up inside. They, too, were a decorating fad for about a week in 1960 or '61. Their house was also a shrine to the Washington Redskins. There were footballs, and banners, and autographed pictures everywhere. The Dad, Archie, was a maintenance man at Dickinson College, where the Redskins, then, held training camp, so the whole family were obsessive fans. The biggest fan, though, was Linda, Benny's older sister, who was the toughest kid in the neighborhood. She usually wore a Redskins jersey, often with shoulder pads underneath, and sometimes wore a Redskins helmet while just sitting around. She would go door to door in the neighborhood, demanding all the kids between 5 and 18 report to the elementary school yard to participate in the football game she was organizing. She assigned positions, made the rules, and quarterbacked. And if you objected, she punched you in the gut.
When Linda was about 11 or 12, she decided she would like to have a horse. Now, the properties along Brewster Street were not farmettes. They had no outbuildings, except the occasional detached garage. These were 50's subdivision sized lots, 1/3 acre probably. So, the Bostions got a horse. Not a pony. A full sized, in fact intimidatingly large, brown, poop manufacturing horse. It lived and grazed in their backyard, which was slightly less jungle like, slightly, than the front. Linda shifted her attire from football player, to cowboy, er cowperson, favoring pointy boots, jeans with a lasso hanging off the belt, and plaid snap front shirts. She would ride the horse up and down the alley that connected the back of all the houses on our side of Brewster Street to the envy of all the neighborhood kids, and to the disbelief of our parents. Sometimes she would offer to sell rides on Thunder for a quarter, but most of us couldn't come up with a quarter. I think Thunder only lived on Brewster Street one summer. One day, he was no longer there. Either the Bostions came to their senses, or township authorities, summoned by alarmed neighbors, ordered Thunder's exile.
As long as I knew Benny Bostion, he was fascinated by spiders and snakes and other odd pets. In his room, there were hermit crabs, and a small glass tank with a furry fifty-cent piece sized spider inside. We often went “snaking” together. We would wear old sneakers and walk in a nearby creek, overturning rocks on the creek bottom and try to catch what ever wriggled out from under. He usually had a snake or two, captured on these expeditions, in his room. One day Benny came to my house, all excited, to summon me to come see his new pet. His parents had gotten him an Eastern Racer, which, for the zoologically uninformed, is a quite large, though harmless, Black Snake. They were keeping him, until they figured out a longer term plan, in the bathtub with a window screen and a brick preventing his escape. It was time to feed his new baby, and Benny had a white mouse in a cage he let loose in the tub with the snake. In time, Mr. Snake would seduce the poor little mouse, squeeze him until his red eyes popped out, them eat him. I recall being troubled by the idea, and making up some obligation that wouldn't allow me to stay and watch the moment of truth. Maybe next time.
One summer Saturday morning, I was lying awake in bed, waiting until 9:00 am. when Mighty Mouse came on to get up. From across the street, I heard three BAM BAM BAM cannon like shots, and ran to our picture window to investigate. Neighbors were hurrying toward the recently finished, newly occupied house diagonally just across the street. The Storm family, a twenty-something childless couple were the new occupants, and I guessed Mr. Storm had blasted his wife, or vice versa, and hurried out the door, barefoot and dressed in my Lone Ranger pajamas to join the other neighbors nosing. Being nosy, in the late fifties, early sixties, black and white TV era was perfectly normal and acceptable. It was expected. Nosy was the opposite of aloof. Anyway, I ran around the back of the Storm's house where the others had gathered, and there on the cement slab patio was a spilled laundry basket, Benny Bostion's black snake, now in three pieces, and a stunned Mr. and Mrs. Storm, staring at the white, aluminum siding wall of their new home, riddled with holes-dozens of them- from the 12 gauge shotgun blasts. Noticeably absent from the gathering of neighbors were the Bostions.