"You're going to come after all!" Ah, yes, the familiar theme of "Mary Tyler Moore Show", a hymn to young women in the 70, only dipping their toes in the River independence. That was me at 23, going to my first apartment, in the last mistress of my own destiny, an idealistic dreamer, embarking on a new life, taking the world with my smile (and some other parts, if not I will mind if I tell myself). But soon learned that the apartments the first is one of those life experiences not only build character, but they provide the opportunity to fulfill the prophecy repeated "Someday we'll laugh about all this." Section Holmesburg Philadelphia is decorated with a large number of old mansions, the remnants of its days as a farm. Like children, who were fascinated by these relics, and crouched inside a bush near a snowball and turn on the tragic stories we swore ghostly figure appeared in an attic in the dark and were confident that older women who inhabited them were witches. In May 1975, I moved my few possessions, my four year old and his truck loaded with goods, in a three bedroom apartment in one of these centuries-old mansions, supposedly the home of a former mayor of Philadelphia. Time and tide had dictated the end of the sanctuary he had sought in the house of my parents after my divorce, and when the real estate agent took me to a children's theater romanticism, visions dancing in Gothic novels my head. Never mind that the only furniture we had was two single beds and a dresser, a small kitchenette and a threadbare couch garbage collection of black leather. I took pride in visiting friends and family, that comes "What 'til you see this place!" Ignoring the raised eyebrows of my mother and father murmured, "Ay, Caramba." The three-story anachronism outweighed the concrete block buildings two years 60 of the apartments was flanked, and the shadow of a row of 50 bungalows of stucco at the time through the streets, offering a dramatic contrast between the ages 19 and 20. A wooden porch with faded green support columns imposing whitewashed wound around three sides, the railing is missing a post here and there. oaks and maples growing graced the front and side gardens, which were surrounded by hedges. Dutch doors leading into a foyer where French doors opened to reveal a wide staircase, very worn. The oak banister and wound around the third floor, making sculptures that adorn the poles of the stairs and floor molding and crown. You came into my apartment on the second floor through a large living room with linoleum flooring / kitchen with a brick fireplace on one side (they had to assure my child that Santa actually would find a way), and on the other living room curtain bar quarter, around a small stove lit match 1940, and a tub that serves as a sink fixed. white metal cabinets over sinks located my little collection of mismatched plates and cutlery. In my naivete, which rejected the statements as to its inadequacy in finding the kitchen to be "quaint." The two rooms on the left were wooden floor, and three steps below the back was the "sunken bathroom" which, to my delight and dismay of my daughter, which contains a foot tub. (Never mind that these steps were nearly fatal at times, and gave literal meaning to drink of choice at the time, "Harvey Wall Banger.") Each room had high windows, sitting sheet window and high ceilings ten feet were as precursors of heaven. Finally, screams echoed through the halls and traded hugs all 'round when I discovered that the girl in the room was a childhood friend whose husband happened to be the superintendent. Is there anything better than having a friend next door and a "in" with the super? I was delighted with my paradise Victorian and delighted with my newly acquired independence. I sat in the windowseats late at night when my cherub was asleep, and get some fresh air occasionally ruffled puff of air through the leafy branches of the maples, and they creaked against the house. Sometimes I would go to the porch, where "Old Bill" from the first floor, back of his bike night ride, I regale with stories about the good old days. When the weather is particularly unbearable, I take refuge in the hallway in the apartment of my friend's air conditioning when, newly married and eager to start a family, my son flattering mop of hair. With all the responsibilities of a single mother, work, food became an adventure in the economy and the regime depending on the variety and facilities. Before I learned to turn the old stove without singeing the hair, I immersed myself in "101 Ways to be creative with spam and get your child is to eat it." My daughter has become family tradition history time when glazed and fired a can of Spam and told her baby was a ham. House in the apartment, however, had to be cleaned. Thus, despite the heat wave that struck in early May that I embarked on a massive project for one week. These tasks are often pulled in midstream if the call came in the ad where the furniture used could be taken into account (usually the night before trash day.) The heat was relentless, but I was young and healthy, and "roll" and, while the world applauded the Flyers to their second Stanley Cup, who retired near my waist-length hair overnight and proceeded to attack the linoleum with a solution of Spic'N'Span, Comet, Clorox and ammonia. With what we know about chemical reactions, is a miracle that he lived long enough to disgust with the job. Sweat ran into my burning eyes, bare skin of my hands once delicate, and difficulty breathing reminded me that I was asthmatic. After an hour, my knees crying for mercy, I realized how large this room was, how tired I was, and that Spic'N'Span not going to make a minimal difference to the plant. I lay on my legs, he dropped the brush into the bucket, which had been explored "charming" A couple of weeks, and began to mourn in my cube. Or thought that the drops which disturbed the surface of the lethal mixture were tears. When something was dropped on my head, I looked up to find brown water leaking from the ceiling. That is when I learned the meaning of the term "superintendent." Now, the last two minutes of the last period of the seventh game of the second row of the Broad Street Bullies "Stanley Cup victory was not the best time to call the super's door. However, banking on my friendship with his wife, spent a few frustrating time tearing a rubber band in my hair, rinse the tear-stained face and called him. He glanced at the problem, with one eye constantly monitoring the TV through the open door (through which the aroma of an illegal substance derived), and said he could not do anything without the approval of the owner. When a meta-war cry echoed across the hall announced, gave me a beer, rushed to the door and shouted: "Put a bucket under it until tomorrow and we go!" In the three days it took the real estate agent to get back to me, my mansion in the sky began to self-destruct. The drain in my kitchen came from the bathroom on the third floor and had resulted in little brown cockroaches. One night he burst into a virtual waterfall, I not only flooding, but the stairs old Bill. The neighbors came running when a crash shook all the windows in place as the hinges to support my heavy oak door away from the jamb and fell into the apartment as a gateway. The tub backup set and no amount of subsidence or Draino that are free for more than a day or two. The old refrigerator, its engine rumbling in protest against the sweltering conditions, decided to self-defrost in an era before automatic defrost refrigerators and a pool ran out of the 'frig to living room real estate area.When finally appeared , hinted that the malfunction of the sink and the refrigerator is my fault, and was particularly rough on the door, do not believe that just "fell off its hinges," suggesting that one of the Lord had called me been impatient. Using what he considered an admirable job of self-control, assured him that I had not done anything to precipitate these deals, and finally promised to take care of things as soon as he could. When "as soon as he could" be extended until mid-June, I began to complain every day, and at the end of the month that I personally served with a notice of sixty days. Possess a temperament a little more fire then told the son of a bitch I could do with their roles and French doors closed on him, breaking one of the panels. Not a good way to win friends, influence people or maintain the security of your deposit.Heartbroken and distracted, my dreams shattered, I went hunting for apartments in July and August the steaming streets of Philadelphia, determined to never again let another owner take advantage of me. I finally found a place in an old townhouse Tacony with wall to wall carpeting, plumbing and a decent real kitchen. He lacked the charm and the location of the mansion, of course, but practical at this point had begun to jade my idealism. I informed the realtor who would be leaving "Dante's Inferno" during the weekend of Labor Day. Only in the event of any hint of Pollyanna optimism that moved in May that remained, the fates have conspired to cause breaking lovers' spat moving day to arrive without a boyfriend, ergo no trucks. And, of course, record high temperatures. With the help of my brothers and boyfriend to spare, "I managed to settle in my new place.Two apartments, a house and 33 years later, I still occasionally go by the old mansion. The porch and the trees and hedges are gone now, the sash windows have been replaced by the storms of Anderson, and has been painted a hideous yellow-beige. My friends have long moved away. I heard he finally had a girl. Old Bill is dead. The real estate agent has joined him (God rest his soul black). My four year old is now a 37-year-old mother of three children. His only memories of this place is "old nice on the first floor," how everything was high, "and the" steps going up to heaven. "The groom, who bailed on me the day of move, now my husband of 26 years, who never speaks of my "wild child" days. The time has served to help me put into perspective and experience, as I pass, look up on the second floor, a wry smile, and move on. But every year when the first warm spring breezes waft through the air, I longingly drift back and yearn for windowseats, high ceilings, the porch on a warm night, breezy, and all the beautiful old carved oak. Romantic We never learn.
