new york city history – The Bronx We Knew

A Bronx Fourth of July

The explosions started early, a wake-up call to all who still slept that the commemoration of America’s declaration of independence from Great Britain had begun. Reverberating up and down Westervelt Avenue and rousing neighbors on nearby streets, those booms and blasts of celebration echoed the sounds of the battles fought on this terrain in the British-occupied Bronx some 200 years earlier.

Not that the battles fought here had any significant effect on the course of the Revolutionary War. One story we often heard in the classroom characterizes the futility of our forebears’ efforts. It told of a group of rebel colonists who devised a plan of attack. Dragging a cannon to the top of the hill on the Kingsbridge Road (later named Gun Hill Road), near the banks of the Bronx River, they launched a cannonball on British troops stationed below. The effort, though valiant and well-intentioned, was of little consequence to their red-coated targets.

This area of the northern Bronx was called Neutral Ground since neither side held full control. That made it difficult to know which side a civilian was on. As a result, local residents endured constant raids on their property from bands of guerillas on the American side as well as from Redcoats, Hessians, and Tories.

But even back then, long before the outcome of the American Revolution could have been known, the colonists celebrated every fourth of July with fireworks. In a letter dated July 3, 1776, John Adams directed Americans to celebrate the Fourth with “pomp and parade…bonfires and illuminations from one end of this continent to the other from this time forever more.” Philadelphia started us off, holding the first fireworks display on July 4, 1777.

Personal possession of fireworks was illegal in New York City, yet some families on the block acquired enough of an arsenal to set off a non-stop barrage that lasted from morning to midnight. At a frantic pace the older kids and teenagers lit the fuses, apparently unconcerned about running out of ammunition. With one match they would set off whole packages of string fireworks at a time. The furious, rapid-fire bang-bang-banging went on for minutes as paper wrappers leaped and flew across the pavement. When it seemed that a particular string of firecrackers had been spent, the budding pyrotechnicians would approach for a closer look, only to be unnerved by a leftover bang or two that, had there been a little less patience, might have cost them some fingers.

Firecrackers were loud, but cherry bombs were deafening. To make them even louder, the kids set them off inside metal garbage cans, causing a reaction in the pit of the stomach similar to a physical punch. Add to that the whiz-bang of the bottle rockets, and the ear-splitting cacophony was complete.

Young kids waved sparklers lit by a supervising adult. Cracker balls afforded them another way to participate safely in the fun. When thrown forcefully to the ground, these little red balls that resembled Trix cereal would explode with satisfying snaps.

By afternoon the air was hazy with smoke, and redolent with the spicy scent of gunpowder. Toward evening, charcoal from backyard barbecue grills added more smoke and smoldering scents to the air.

At dusk, people in cities and towns across America piled into cars or used public transportation to get to fireworks shows organized by local businesses or municipalities. But residents of Westervelt Avenue did not have to fight traffic or crowds. Armed with lawn chairs, couch pillows, mosquito repellent, cold drinks, and ice cream from the Mister Softee truck, they made their way to their front stoops, settled in, and waited to be dazzled.

Once darkness fell, families on the eastern side of the street brought out their nighttime arsenal, a load that appeared as abundant as the noisemaking bombs of the daylight hours. Their displays were supplemented by the equally elaborate show from Kingsland Avenue beyond. Gazing skyward, swatting mosquitoes here and there, we had front row seats to a spectacular show that lasted for hours. Now the fireworks that had been set off simply for noise took a back seat to the blazing explosions of color that we had waited for all day.

The ground show was a pale forerunner: Roman candles pumped out continuous bursts of light; tentacles of fire shot from the whizzing spinners as onlookers scrambled out of the way; fountains spewed sizzling sparks. But the sky show brought audible gasps from the crowd as rockets shimmered skyward, exploded into starbursts that filled the sky, then melted into streamers of red, white, silver, green, gold, and blue that rained down upon the rooftops.

As eleven o’clock approached, the pace of the rocket launchings slowed and soon stopped. Cramped from sitting for hours with heads upturned, we headed inside. But the teenagers, along with a few adults, were not finished. Rapid-fire blasts of firecrackers started all over again, even at the midnight hour, perhaps in an attempt to use up all the leftovers.

We fell asleep as we had awakened, to the sounds of celebration eerily similar to the sounds of the Revolution itself.

The next morning, tattered remnants littered the street. Red wrappers from rockets and bombs fluttered across the pavement, along with the blue-and-white checkered firecracker papers.

Another Fourth of July was over. We knew that next year’s Independence Day would be celebrated in exactly the same way, as this one had been a repeat of so many before.

Ed and Millie

Ed and Millie never fought. I came to this conclusion about my neighbors on Westervelt Avenue as I swirled a piece of my waffle into a pool of maple syrup and watched, for the hundredth time, as Ed backed his dark blue Pontiac out of the garage and up his driveway onto the driveway behind his.

On school days my breakfast time coincided with Ed’s departure for work. From my place at the kitchen table, I’d watch as Ed then rolled the car forward and began the turn onto the access road that would exit onto Mace Avenue. There at the turn he would pause, smile in the direction of his kitchen window, and wave. I never saw him fail to do this.

He and Millie must never fight, because if they had just had an argument would he still wave and smile?

Ed and Millie, at this point, had passed middle age by a fair distance, but they were so active and energetic that no one considered them old. Ed, however, liked to say he was “as old as Methuselah.”

Millie, petite and slender, had alabaster skin that crinkled into networks of deep lines. Her silver-gray eyes matched her hair. Ed’s gray hair was all but gone at the top. A tall and sturdy man, he had laugh lines etched into his face and blue-gray eyes that smiled behind wire-framed glasses. His neat-as-a-pin appearance, even while wearing work clothes, gave him a dignified aspect.

Like other stay-at-home wives of the 1960s, Millie had a daily routine. One day a week, soon after the wave from the window, she would leave the house by the back door with her collapsible shopping cart for the short walk to Eastchester Road and the Associated Food Store. An hour later she would return, towing the cart crammed with brown grocery bags.

On other mornings I’d see her in the backyard hanging the wash on the freestanding clothesline. When I was very young and confined to my fenced-in backyard, she would sing out across our side-by-side driveways: “I love you, a bushel and a peck,” and I’d sing back, “A bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck.” This would be our standard greeting for years to come, and Millie would often add that she loved me before I was born.

Whatever Millie’s workload for the day, she would complete enough of it by early afternoon for a stretch of free time for herself. This she typically spent in the living room, specifically in the elbow of the sectional sofa where various projects and pastimes awaited her attention. Beside her sat her knitting bag stuffed with colorful yarn, knitting needles jutting out like TV antenna ears. Neatly arranged on the coffee table within easy reach lay the Daily News, a book of crossword puzzles, two sharpened pencils, the TV Guide, a box of tissues, and a box of assorted chocolates that never seemed to have more than a few pieces missing. It was a scene of organized clutter in an immaculate room.

An item we did not possess also had a place on the coffee table—the television remote control. This latest bit of technology—along with their color TV, an anniversary gift from their children and grandchildren—set Ed and Millie apart from their neighbors. When a glance at the clock showed it was time for As the World Turns, Millie would reach for the remote. Never one for idle hands, her fingers worked the knitting needles as she watched her program, the afghan-in-progress draping her knees and cascading to the floor.

The male member of the household set his mark upon this room as well. Spread across the fireplace mantel, nose to tail, stood Ed’s herd of brass horses. A set of antlers hung over the archway that separated the living room from the dining room. On the side table beside his armchair Ed kept his particular things, including another brass horse and a box of Kleenex Man Size tissues.

Later in the afternoon Millie plucked the laundry off the clothesline and then started dinner. She might also take on a baking project. Modern woman of the 1960s that she was, Millie embraced convenience. Taking advantage of cake mixes and refrigerated dough, she rarely baked from scratch. But whether it was a wedge of chocolate cake or a half-dozen cinnamon buns, she frequently shared those desserts with us.

Sometimes I’d get advance notice, if Millie happened to see me coming home from school. As if she couldn’t keep the surprise to herself any longer, she’d call out, “I’ll be ticking your bell later.”

I knew what that meant. And when 5:00 rolled around and our doorbell “ticked,” there stood Millie holding out a plate of something fresh from the oven, sheathed with plastic wrap stretched to shiny smoothness. When she placed her offering into my happy little hands, warmth penetrated the plate, spread across my palms, and projected comfort that went beyond the appeal to the sweet tooth. This unexpected gift spoke of a caring neighbor who wanted to share not just a treat, but the joy that accompanies life’s little surprises.

On summer evenings, as the aroma of after-dinner coffee seeped through their windows, Ed, with shirtsleeves rolled up, would come out to hose down his lawn. As soon as he shut off the water, coiled up the hose, and sat down on the stoop, the neighborhood kids would converge on him, sprawling at his feet or dangling near his head from the iron railings. His playful sense of humor sent us into gales of laughter, as he had a never-ending supply of jokes just right for the youngest among us. (“When I get up in the morning I wash my teeth and brush my face.”)

Saturday evenings were different. At 7:20 sharp, Ed, dressed in suit and tie, would back the Pontiac out of the driveway and make a solitary trip to Holy Rosary Church, where he served as an usher at the 7:30 Mass.

It troubled us when he was diagnosed with cancer of the larynx, and we endured his absence while he recovered from surgery that replaced his voice box with a mechanical one. After that, our evenings with him dwindled down. But he never failed to smile at us, and he never failed to wave.

Westervelt Avenue Homes

The street was named for Jacob Westervelt, a mayor of New York City during the 1800s. His name reflects the enduring Dutch heritage in the city once known as New Amsterdam. Photo by A.F. DiSalvo, ca.1944.

A row of two-story attached houses, built of brick around 1930, lined the western side of the 2500 block of Westervelt Avenue. The row began at the corner of Mace Avenue but stopped six to eight house lots short of the corner of Allerton Avenue.

Although these row houses were not Craftsman homes in the strict sense of the word, certain features suggest that the builders had been influenced by Gustav Stickley and his American Craftsman style. Stickley, a furniture designer and homebuilder, observed the style of the Arts and Crafts movement popular in England during the late 1800s. His design aesthetic was an outgrowth of that movement.

The American Craftsman style enjoyed peak popularity from about the 1890s through the 1920s, setting trends in homebuilding and decorating. With an emphasis on simplicity, Craftsman homes offered a welcome change from the ornate Victorian era of the recent past. Placing great value on quality craftsmanship in both the exterior and interior details of a house, Craftsman builders chose natural building materials, including brick, tile, wood, iron, copper, and bronze. Characteristic details included stained woodwork, plaster walls, built-ins, and handcrafted metalwork.

Craftsman Details in the Westervelt Homes

The front doors were built from hardwood and varied in design. Ours was varnished to a burnt sienna shade, and featured a small, two-over-two, off-centered window. A knocker of forged iron, with strap hinges, mortise lockset, and mail slot crafted from brass, complemented the warmth of the wood they rested against. The interior side of the door was finished in a dark brown varnish that matched the woodwork in the rest of the house. The doorknob on this side was of faceted glass, larger and heavier than the more delicate glass doorknobs on the interior doors.

The foyer with its coat closet could be closed off by the French door that opened to the living room. With a brick surround and wooden mantel, the fireplace on the south wall served as the focal point of the living room. The staircase to the second floor dominated the opposite wall with its square-capped newel post with recessed panels set on a plinth base. Squared-off balusters complemented the newel post. On the living room’s west wall, a double-wide doorway opened to the dining room.

The walls were made of plaster, but in the living room, dining room, stairwell, and upstairs hallway the plaster was heavily textured, reminiscent of an impasto painting, and finished in a golden-amber varnish.

All the windows were the double-hung type, with six divided panes of glass in the upper sash over a single pane below. In the dining room, two side-by-side windows allowed afternoon sunlight to pour in while the living room’s three side-by-side windows flooded the rooms with morning light.

A common woodwork style unified the rooms: The wide trim on doorways and windows, the crown and baseboard moldings, the mantel, and the staircase components were stained with a dark finish in the foyer, living room, dining room, and upstairs hallway. In the kitchen and bedrooms, the woodwork was painted white. The recessed-panel, solid wood doors to the bedrooms and closets—also finished in a dark stain—all had faceted glass doorknobs.

The hardwood floors throughout the house were honey-colored, their pale expanse offset by a thin band of dark wood that ran along the perimeters of the rooms. Quarter-round molding along the baseboards anchored the flooring and made the rooms look complete.

The small kitchen off the dining room featured the latest in linoleum flooring. A wainscot of white subway tiles edged with black bullnose trim ran along the walls. The breakfast nook included two benches built to fit on either side of a table, and built-in shelving and drawers on one wall.

Three bedrooms and a bath comprised the second floor, with the bathroom and master bedroom at the back, or west side, of the house and the other two bedrooms at the front. In the bathroom, the wall treatment matched the kitchen’s with its wainscot of white subway tiles with black bullnose trim. White, one-inch hexagonal tiles, grouted in black, covered the floor. The small window featured a starburst-textured design on its lower sash for privacy. The wide pedestal sink, crafted from porcelain, had chrome faucets with porcelain handles. Above it, a porcelain soap dish and toothbrush holder were tiled into the wall. The cast-iron bathtub spanned the far wall under the window. Its chrome and porcelain fixtures matched those of the sink, but sized for a tub. A porcelain soap dish with washcloth bar was recessed into the tile under the window. A separate shower stall stood just to the right of the doorway.

The smallest bedroom with its unique feature—a cedar-paneled clothes closet—was situated directly opposite the bathroom at the end of the hallway. The master bedroom and another large bedroom flanked the hallway linen closet. In those bedrooms the clothes closets had been built side to side, creating a noise buffer between the two rooms. The closet in the large front bedroom had a unique feature too—a steel ladder to a trapdoor, providing access to the roof.

The steam heating systems in these homes were originally powered by coal, but eventually individual homeowners converted their furnaces to gas or oil. Radiators, a necessary fixture in every room, were typically covered with store-bought or custom-built cabinets.

References:

Crochet, Treena. 2005. Bungalow Style: Creating Classic Interiors in Your Arts and Crafts Home. Newtown, CT: The Taunton Press, Inc.

McNamara, John. 1991. History in Asphalt: The Origin of Bronx Street and Place Names, 3rd edition. Bronx, NY: The Bronx County Historical Society.