Cheryl Kehoe Rodgers: Home is where the neighborhood is

As I get older I’m discovering how much I can learn from my now-adult children just through conversations during dinner. We chat about the state of education and the inequities faced by students (Kaitlyn, who is working on her doctorate in education), the best and latest show/movie currently streaming (Thomas) or what Aunt Beth is making for dinner (Matthew).

Sure, we’re not solving the nation’s problems (although Kaitlyn certainly is giving it some thought), but we are communicating and leading each other on different paths, or recipes, depending on what my sister is making for dinner that night. During these kitchen-table talks, which inevitably turn into debates as each topic is explored, I find when it comes to my part of the conversation, my “area of expertise” is the past, and how much I don’t remember.

Without fail Kaitlyn will ask me a question and I’ll have either a vague or no recollection of the event, let alone when it happened. Even with prodding, my mind struggles to bring it into focus. I usually go to my standard excuse — I worked nights when they were younger so these things happened on their dad’s watch. “I must have been at work.”

Of course that’s not entirely true, but they accept it. I moved to days when Kaitlyn was in third or fourth grade (true to form, I can’t remember exactly). So, theoretically, I should remember at least some of the events she brings up.

But, most times I don’t.

I remember games. I remember CYO events like Holy Hours and home visits to the elderly. I remember school shows and awards ceremonies, receiving sacraments. You know, the big events. But the day-to-day living? Well, that’s a different story.

Honestly, I don’t remember catching Tommy’s chin with the zipper when I was putting his jacket on him when he was little. He does. Which is why no zipper has ever come close to his chin since then. Even after 25 years.

I do remember accidentally snapping the elastic of a birthday hat on Kaitlyn when she was 3. Every birthday party after that? The elastic is behind her head.

I don’t remember making Tommy butter sandwiches, but he claims I did. He probably should get his cholesterol checked if that’s true.

But I do remember both times Tommy split open his chin and needed stitches — first when he hit his chin on the side of Mermaid’s pool and the second time when he dove for a loose ball during a CYO basketball game at Holy Savior.

I do remember taking a walk in the Farm Park with my husband and Matthew, and seeing an old fort in the woods. “That must be one of the forts the boys made,” Jimmy said.

Excuse me? I asked him to repeat that.

Apparently Tommy and his friends were homesteaders at the state hospital. Years later Tommy told his dad that he and his friends built several forts throughout the state hospital grounds and would seek refuge in said forts. They also had a “campground” on Barbados Island.

You can’t accuse us of being helicopter parents. Clearly my son was living a nomad’s life and we had no clue.

When my older kids get done listing the times parental supervision was spotty at best, I remind them that they’re both living, and enjoying very good, productive and happy lives, so their dad and I must have done something right.

They can’t argue with that logic.

I remember thinking, before hearing several of those stories, that I felt sorry for my kids. That they didn’t get to experience a childhood like mine. Growing up across the street from a school with basketball courts, baseball fields — Roosevelt was a magnet that drew kids from all over the North End. Kids were on the premises from morning till night, especially in the summer, playing basketball, street hockey, stickball, riding bikes or resting in the shade of the trees with drinks bought at Greenwood Store (later known as DiRenzo’s). It was rare that the courts or fields were empty. It was an idyllic situation.

I was driving home one day, thinking of my childhood and looking around my current neighborhood, and a pang of regret seeped in. I wished my kids had the same great experiences as I did growing up.

I said that to Tommy one day — that I was sorry he didn’t have the opportunities that my brothers and sister and I had. That his neighborhood growing up was nowhere near as much fun as my neighborhood.

Apparently, the rivalry of the ends — North vs. West — that was in high gear when I was a kid is alive and well. Because my son was staying true to his West End roots.

Tommy walked right through the door I opened to educate me on all the fun and adventures he had growing up. (Except the forts, he didn’t tell me those home-away-from homes. His father dropped that dime later). He started to talk about his neighborhood adventures — sledding down the deadend hill, riding bikes at St. Francis, playing “Man Hunt” or playing football/basketball/lacrosse/baseball/dodge ball.

He talked about spending summer days with his friends riding their bikes down to the zoo, searching (and finding) snapping turtles in the creek. Apparently there’s a rather mean one that dwells in the depths of the Stony Creek that really does snap. I thought the meanest member of the wildlife in the area was the zoo’s swan. He did fess up to the Barbados Island sleep-away camp, about hiking the woods of the state hospital. This was, he claimed, the best neighborhood to grow up in.

Automatically I was ready to defend my North End roots, and list the (countless) number of reasons why it was the best neighborhood in Norristown. But then something in my mind (or heart?) just clicked.

Tommy was right.

He did grow up in the best neighborhood — because it was his. His time of learning, his time for exploring, his experiences, his friends. The location doesn’t matter — city, suburb, country, desert, coast or mountains — the heart of all good things is home. This neighborhood was Tommy’s home — it’s where his family is, his friends, his experiences, his memories. And that’s what made it the best neighborhood.

It may not be the North End, but it’s the neighborhood where my kids played, laughed, learned and experienced.

In other words, the best neighborhood in Norristown.

Email Cheryl Kehoe Rodgers at crodgers@timesherald.com