Dogwood Hollow: 1954-'55
by Jay Dubya

New schools, changing environments, new towns and different friends can all be 
traumatic experiences for any kid struggling through maturation. From fifth 
grade through high school graduation I had attended six different schools and 
so, like a Darwinian chameleon, I had learned to adapt to new situations as 
second nature. I had discovered plenty about human "social survival," which can 
be just as treacherous as battling for physical dominance in the animal kingdom. 

Before 1954 my early youth was rather nondescript. At age ten I recall helping 
out with chores at my grandparents' farm market on Route 30 in Hammonton, 
playing Little League baseball for DiDonato's Bowling, and being very sad 
leaving childhood friends at St. Joseph's School.

I had just turned eleven in 1954 when my family moved out of New Jersey to 50 
Daffodil Lane in the Dogwood Hollow section of Levittown, Pennsylvania. My 
sister Annie was six and my younger brother Skip was an infant. 

My parents became friendly with Jack and Stella Burns, who looked almost 
identical to Fred and Ethel Mertz on the popular I Love Lucy Show. The Burns' 
lived next door to Sal Palermo, his wife Carmella and their beautiful daughter, 
Angie. Mom and Dad would return home from the Burns' in the spring of '54 and 
report tales of yelling, cursing, bullying and general mayhem originating at 66 
Daffodil Lane, the Palermo domicile, where Dad thought "the local Mafia" 
resided.

Levittown was designed to be a "middle-class community" but more specifically it 
was a "white middle-class community." Caucasian families moved there in quest of 
a better way of life free from the rampant social disorganization that existed 
in eastern U.S. cities. Levittown was an innovative experiment in suburban 
living where shopping centers, houses, highways, schools and recreation areas 
were engineered to mix together like a kitchen recipe to form a tranquil, 
harmonious physical environment. All in all it seemed like a great place to 
live.

In 1954 human interaction was stratified and compartmentalized in Levittown. The 
place was exclusively "white." I would come in contact with some black kids at 
St. Mark's School over in Bristol but most of them lived several miles away in 
that town and few blacks belonged to my Catholic faith. Blacks mostly interacted 
with blacks and whites stayed mostly with whites, and that brand of racial 
segregation was explained to young people as "separate but equal" by their 
parents.

"Ethnic and religious segregation" as well as racial separation was quite 
evident. The Kalens, who were Jewish, lived across the street from us on 
Daffodil Lane, and their neighbors, who were Irish and Scottish, wouldn't allow 
their kids to play with the Hebrew children. To avert neighborhood conflict Dad 
allowed my sister Annie to play with the Kalen children on Monday, Wednesday and 
Friday and she was permitted to interact with the Irish and Scottish kids on the 
other four days of the week.

Divisions along nationality and Christian religious lines also existed. 
Protestants did not marry Catholics and Irish Catholics did not marry Italian 
Catholics, and Baptists did not marry Presbyterians, and Christians did not 
marry Jews, and Occidentals did not marry Orientals. 

So to me looking back, Levittown, Pennsylvania was like a giant Bingo card with 
horizontal and vertical lines drawn in orderly rows to demarcate race, religion, 
culture, nationality and a person's economic status. Levittown reflected the 
rigid norms and standards of America that had been established by the 
predominance of White Anglo-Saxon Protestantism.

Before I could even talk about a girl the elders wanted to know about her 
family's economic level, their religion, their nationality, her father's 
employment and the ancestral tree. People were imprisoned in rigid general 
classifications. At least that is the way I recollect American society as being 
constructed in the 1950s.

I don't remember too much about 1954 except that Mom would faithfully watch the 
Arthur Godfrey Show and Betty Furness would always say, "You can be sure if it's 
Westinghouse," and if I was well behaved I was allowed to stay up and watch The 
Tonight Show with Steve Allen. Everyone was afraid of someone calling him or her 
"a Communist." And an American adult's greatest dread was to be called a 
"Communist" or "a Communist Sympathizer" on national TV by Senator Joseph 
McCarthy of Wisconsin. 

Twenty nine million American households had television sets in the mid-fifties, 
or about sixty percent of the national population. The new media was already 
anchoring itself as a powerful force in the marketing of products and in the 
forging of a new set of contemporary values to challenge the practices supported 
by WASP America.

In 1954 the Cold War was mounting between the United States and Russia and on 
the domestic scene, racial segregation in public schools was being challenged in 
the judicial system, with rulings outlawing the practice of "separate but equal 
schools" in certain parts of the United States.

Jackie Robinson had recently broken the color barrier with the Brooklyn Dodgers, 
and Little Richard, Fats Domino and Chuck Berry were about to do the same thing 
in the music world. The stage was set for massive and sweeping changes and 
Levittown was like a vast social test tube, ready to undergo cultural 
experimentation, upheaval and evolution.

In '54 at age eleven, like most starry-eyed boys, my aspiration was to become a 
professional baseball player. I loved athletics: baseball, football, basketball 
and running. In Little League I played second base for Meenan Oil and the coach 
was grooming me to be a pitcher for the team in 1955. 

I was thrilled with Willie Mays' over-the-head catch off the bat of Cleveland's 
Vic Wertz at the Polo Grounds and being a National League fan, I was elated when 
the New York Giants beat the Indians four games to zip in the '54 World Series. 
That was done in spite of Cleveland's awesome pitching staff that included Bob 
Lemon, Bob Feller, Mike Garcia and Early Wynn.

I was greatly influenced by long distance runner Roger Bannister who had broken 
the four-minute-mile with a time of 3:58.8. The circumference of Dogwood Drive 
was approximately a mile long so I would imitate Roger Bannister's feat by 
dashing and sprinting as fast as my legs would carry me. If I could have 
improved my training methods and my conditioning I might have been able to shave 
some time off of eight minutes and fifty-three seconds, my fastest lap.

The modest home at 50 Daffodil Lane cost Dad $10,000, a considerable sum in 
1954. As a rule I use the "ten times principle" because most goods, items, 
products and services are at least ten times as expensive today as they were in 
the 1950s.

Deliverymen were always prowling the Daffodil Lane neighborhood. Milk was mostly 
brought to the door in glass bottles. We got ours from Harbison's Dairies, which 
competed with Abbotts Dairy. I remember what a change it was when Harbison's 
orange juice was suddenly packaged in a waxed carton as opposed to the standard 
glass bottle and how reluctant Mom was to try the new product. 

And then there was the Bond Bread man, and the fruit and vegetable hucksters, 
and the three ice cream trucks that competed for business, O'Doyle's, Jack and 
Jill and Good Humor, all claiming to sell the best flavors in their mixtures.

When I think of the year 1955 my memory suddenly becomes more acute. I began to 
really enjoy music and when "Rock Around The Clock" hit the airwaves, that song 
by Bill Haley and the Comets became the new national anthem for young people. 
The lyrics said it all, a new generation with boundless energy, capable of 
partying all night, going far beyond the normal limits of fun. There was also a 
trace of rebellion in the song's words that was more than rhythm, that in fact 
was a statement of youth exploding out of our David Nelson stereotype and 
revealing to the world, "This is what we're really made of!"

"Rock Around the Clock" was my generation's version of Patrick Henry's "Give me 
liberty or give me death!" It was also my generation's Declaration of 
Independence to the adult world, saying "We the Teens of the United States," and 
my generation's Bill of Rights and United States Constitution all compacted into 
one refrain, "We're gonna' rock, rock, rock till the broad daylight." Bill Haley 
and the Comets, a little known Country and Western band from Chester, 
Pennsylvania performed summer gigs down at the Jersey Shore. But the group 
accomplished something magical when they bridged the gap between white country 
and western music and black rhythm and blues. Their hit song gained national 
attention in '55 when it was used as the theme for the motion picture Blackboard 
Jungle and it opened the floodgates for Elvis, Chuck Berry, Buddy Holly, Little 
Richard and the other founding fathers of rock and roll.

In the summer of '55 dances for teens in our area of Levittown were held in the 
outdoor basketball court, which was located in back of the Olympic-sized Brook 
Swimming Pool in the recreation area between the Farmbrook, Stonybrook and 
Greenbrook sections. I wore my standard attire of pegged pants with saddle 
stitching down each side and of course flaps on the back pockets were in vogue. 
A plain cotton short-sleeved shirt was worn and penny loafers and white socks 
completed the ensemble.

In 1955 I had a flattop haircut that was symbolic of being a jock as opposed to 
the James Dean greaser look of sideburns, long hair smeared with Vaseline, and 
engineer boots with rolled-up dungarees. And tough guys wore either a white or a 
black tee shirt, depending on whether one was a "good tuff greaser" or a "bad-
ass greaser."

Other songs in 1955 were played on the radio like: "Moments To Remember" by the 
Four Lads, "The Yellow Rose of Texas" by Mitch Miller and his orchestra, "Love 
is a Many Splendored Thing" by the Four Aces, "Mr. Sandman" by the Chordettes 
and "Autumn Leaves" by Roger Williams. Although I spent time listening to those 
other artists, "Rock Around the Clock" was the song that captured my 
imagination, stirred my soul, activated my spirits and made me think about 
evolving into a greaser.

What Bill Haley had done to my ears, James Dean and Rebel without a Cause had 
done to my eyes and it was the synthesis of those two magnificent cultural 
forces that affected my choice to "switch" from an avid jock into a prospective 
greaser. 

When I was twelve Mom took me to see The Wizard of Oz and a month later I 
painfully struggled through her favorite movie, Gone with the Wind, because Mom 
had almost memorized Margaret Mitchell's lengthy novel, which she had read it so 
many times. And after I became really friendly with Carnie we saw Walt Disney's 
Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea seven times, which was five less than we 
had seen Rebel without a Cause. Almost my entire allowance was spent on movies 
and theater popcorn.

Smoking was regarded as a glamorous activity in '55. Mom and Dad each smoked 
over a pack of cigarettes a day. Dad smoked Pall Mall and Mom puffed on the 
shorter Lucky Strikes. It's amazing that I don't presently have lung cancer from 
all of the passive smoking I experienced.

One time Dad drove us down to Baltimore to visit relatives and when we stopped 
at a traffic light on Route 40, the Pulaski Highway, I looked over to another 
kid, just like myself, traveling with his parents. The kid was enveloped in 
smoke and I was trapped in a thick cloud of tar and nicotine, and I truly 
sympathized with my unidentified colleague as we both endured our dense 
environments. I waved to the poor kid and he waved back in tacit acknowledgment 
of our mutual situations.

On the return trip from Baltimore I tried an experiment. I lit up a cigarette in 
the back seat and I signaled to Annie to remain quiet. I smoked the entire 
Chesterfield down to the bottom without my parents ever knowing, because the '55 
Chevy was so saturated with fumes that my additional puffs spiraling upward went 
completely undetected. It was then that I seriously contemplated becoming a 
greaser. 

The Philadelphia Athletics had left Connie Mack Stadium, moving to Kansas City, 
Missouri in 1955. Tinker liked the A's and he and I got into countless arguments 
as to which was the better team, the A's or the Phillies, and which league was 
better, the American or the National.

Some of my friends thought that Bobby Shantz was a better pitcher than Robin 
Roberts, and that Gus Zernial was a better cleanup hitter than Del Ennis, and 
that Ferris Fain was a better first baseman on the A's than Eddie Waitkus had 
been on the 1950 Whiz Kids. Tink did make a concession when it came to center 
fielders. The Phillies' Richie Ashburn was easily the winner, hands down. Richie 
Ashburn was my baseball idol and hero.

I fondly recall the 1950s. The Korean War had ended, prosperity was flourishing, 
Suburbia was expanding, and with the G.I. Bill war veterans like my father were 
able to obtain low interest loans to purchase homes. 

White families had evacuated the crowded cities in pursuit of a higher standard 
of living, cleaner air, better shopping centers, escape from urban crime, and 
most particularly, a brighter future for the baby boomer generation.  

The '50s decade was a less complicated era than the present computer age. 
Interaction between human beings was direct and personal. There were no ATM 
Machines, no Xerox machines, no fax machines', no telephone answering devices', 
no cellular phones, no compact discs, no video games, no personal computers, no 
databases, no 911, and no cable television. Strangely enough the Diablos lived 
perfectly well without McDonald's, Burger Kings, Pizza Huts, Denny's, Taco 
Bells, IHops or Boston Markets. All we needed were places like my hangouts the 
Feed Bag and the Dairy DeLite to satisfy our lust for food.

Most stores and restaurants were mom and pop operations or were family run, like 
Luigi and Domenic Amici managing the Feed Bag and Hal Irving overseeing Hal's 
Talk of the Town Delicatessen, where I was employed at age thirteen as a teen 
kitchen laborer.

The '50s decade was a much simpler and less chaotic period before the deluge of 
giant franchises, corporate conglomerates and the perils of an impersonal 
Megalopolis. And we got along pretty well with only one public telephone company 
serving our needs.

I nostalgically cherish that very special time before Rap Music, before The 
Eagles, before Fleetwood Mac, before The Doors, before the Beach Boys, before 
ABBA, before the Rolling Stones, before the Supremes, before the Temptations, 
and yes, even before The Beatles. 

Roller blades and skateboards were unheard of in Levittown, Pennsylvania in the 
'50s era. Hula-hoops, Davy Crockett coonskin hats, poodle skirts, saddle shoes, 
and black and white sneakers were "cool." Pegged pants, hangouts, saddle 
stitching, Edsels, white bucks, penny loafers, pedal pushers, sock hops, and 
American Bandstand were "boss." Passion pits, "submarine races," DA haircuts and 
multi-zipper black leather jackets were "not square." And finally 3-D glasses, 
the jitterbug, and "cruisin" around the main drag in a sleek convertible were 
the "in things" to do.

There were friendly greetings like "Boogety-boogety-boogety-shoo" and "Ootie-
ootie." There were fifteen-cent hamburgers, the Salk vaccine had been developed, 
roll-on deodorant was invented, Disneyland had opened in California and the Hand 
Jive had become a new dance sensation. And '50s teenagers were not haunted by 
the twin specters of drugs and AIDS. The '50s decade was a very special time for 
guys and gals to grow up', to share friendships, to fall in love and to 
experience life. The only real perils were neighborhood greaser gangs looking 
for vulnerable kids to pick in.

The a.m. dial dominated the radio waves and in the Philadelphia metropolitan 
area, the "in" station was WIBG, Wibbage Radio' 99. The biggest name DJ was Joe 
Niagra, whose "Niagra Calls in Philly" was a battle cry for great rhythm and 
lyrics about to be spun. Later there was Hy Lit, another popular WIBG disc 
jockey whose immortal refrain "Hyski-O-Roonie-McVouty-O-Zoot" captivated the 
hearts of millions of teen fans. Other great radio personalities like Jerry 
Blavatt, the "Geator With the Heater," also known as "The Boss With the Hot 
Sauce," soon would also appear.

Every once in a while my friends and I would tune in Cousin Brucie out of New 
York, or Alan Freed, a DJ transplant from Cleveland to Manhattan. Freed had 
coined the term "Rock and Roll" as a code name for "black rhythm and blues." But 
for the most part Philly' was where it was at, and Wibbage gave us Levittown 
kids our daily diet of Bill Haley and the Comets, Buddy Holly and the Crickets 
and Jerry Lee Lewis. 

Many of my friends and I despised "cover versions" of black rhythm and blues 
performed by such lily-white artists as Pat Boone. We didn't mind Pat Boone's 
original "white" melodies like "Love Letters In the Sand" and "April Love" but 
when he did "white cover versions" of Fats Domino's "Ain't That A Shame" and 
Little Richard's "Tutti-Frutti," the nice guy with the "white bucks" turned the 
"Dogwood Hollow guys" off from the first note.

Yesterday I was riding through downtown Hammonton and my car stereo picked up 
the familiar baritone of a Philly' DJ, "Let's take a walk down Memory Lane." 
"Born Too Late" by the Poni-Tails was played and I felt a degree of remorse for 
all of those twenty-first century kids who were not interacting with their 
peers, sitting in their bedrooms playing video games on their computers, living 
a lonely isolated existence, having machines as their best friends. 

Today "virtual reality" allows kids to function in an artificial environment but 
back in the '50s, we had "actual reality" where we experienced firsthand thrills 
and chills, not through a machine or floppy disc but through minute-to-minute, 
face-to-face contact with other human beings. I'm so glad that I had the 
opportunity to grow up during the nifty fifties.

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