I grew up in Piqua, OH.
A town of 21,000 people, something of a factory town without a factory. I don’t go back often–I have been back once since Jack was born despite living 70 miles away.
I grew up in Piqua, an average town, smack dab in the middle of it. There were 3 major areas–at least in my perception–of the town.
There was “up the hill,” up Park avenue, high street, to the west of our town. These were the “desirables,” the nice houses, where the doctors, dentists and non-failed insurance salesmen lived. I’d guess that most of the houses were built in the 60′s, had probably 2300+ square feet, and backed to nice things like lakes and ravines.
There was “shawnee” which my mom taught me was undesirable. I don’t know why, but it was on the bank of the Great Miami River, it was more or less working class (calling anything in Piqua other than working class is a reach). The people there worked various factory jobs, and I’d guess it was cheaper to live there than it would be to live elsewhere in town. It wasn’t the cheapest area, and it wasn’t a trailer park. It was good, working class families.
I lived in between these areas. The “north end,” or oldest part of the town. I grew up, all my life in an old house on Broadway, which my parents sold (prompting this little indulgence on my blog). The “north end” had a mix of ritzy houses built around the turn of the century, and smaller houses, like ours. I think the lots were 45 feet wide or so, making for tight neighbors, and in the summertimes, you could hear kitchen conversatoin if the neighbors had their windows opened.
My mother, being image conscious, kept our windows closed and our voices low. Because what if the neighbors heard?
I had this perception of the kids that had gone to Washington Elementary that they were somehow a half notch above me, not just socioechonomically, but genetically, intrinsically. Something about the “up the hill” people and the easy idylic lives they led. I was average, in every way: My dad was an English teacher at the community college, my mom was a nurse in Dayton, OH at St. Elizabeths and then at the nearby mental hospital.
What’s funny is by both American standards and especially by world standards, I grew up with privelages. My parents–for whatever faults they have–both loved me. I had my own room, I went to private school. But there was a lunatic entitlementality: I wanted to go up the hill, I wanted to go to the catholic school, I felt (and, to be sure, at times, was) socially outcast.
It makes me wonder, though, what am I missing out on by wondering what’s up the hill…today? I’m sure that there is something I’m doing wrong, some grass is greener fallacy that I’m making. Some envy of a life that’s no better, just different from today.
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