Despite the fact that I grew up on the west coast, my childhood summers were spent mostly in Philadelphia (if you’ve been reading this here blog for a while, you know this). My mom, sister and I would pile in my grandparents’ apartment and spend three or four weeks eating out, going to the Jersey shore and doing our back-to-school shopping (financed by grandparental generosity).

One of the stores I always looked forward to visiting on these shopping treks was Levinthal’s. Located just a block from the apartment, we simply called it the handbag store. I rarely left Philly without some new item from them (and throughout the rest of the year, my grandmother regularly patronized their designer counter).

In the eight years I’ve lived in Philly, I’ve stopped in at least once a month and nearly every purse, wallet or suitcase I’ve acquired over that time was from Levinthal’s. The shopping experience there was an old-fashioned one. There were always two blue-smocked women who would help you as you shopped. When you made your selection, they’d write out a bill of sale on a carbon-paper pad in pencil and walk you up to the cash register, where one of the male owners would ring up your purchase. I imagine that the experience of shopping there was unchanged from the time the store opened in the mid-forties.

Two weeks ago, I walked by and caught sight of their going-out-of-business signs. I went in to peruse the heavily discounted merchandise and have one final wander around this beloved store. I didn’t buy anything, but before I left, I stopped briefly to offer condolences to one of the owners. I tried to express how much the store had meant to me, without monopolizing his time or sounding like a crazy person.

I’ve been trying to acquire fewer things, so there’s less need in my life for a dedicated bag store. However, I will always be sad that Levinthal’s isn’t in the world any longer.

I have mixed emotions about many parts of my apartment. I feel fortunate to have such a safe, comfortable place to live, but there isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t find myself wishing for a little pocket of outdoor space. I also frequently sigh in resigned frustration at the shabby, 22-year-old carpet and the bathroom that is serviceable but bordering on truly ugly.

However, there’s one corner of the kitchen that always delights me. This is the spot to the right of the stove, where I do the vast majority of my regular mealtime prep. There’s an Ikea butcher block there, as well as an assortment of salts, peppers and a 1 cup measure of garlic (the contents there ebb and flow, at the time when this picture was taken, I had just been to the farmers market and restocked).

The Art Deco style salt shaker was a birthday gift from my mom four years ago. She has one just like it that I have always loved, and so when she found a matching one at a Portland antique shop in July, she grabbed it and squirreled it away for the following May. I wept happy tears the day I unwrapped it. To the left of it sits a sugar bowl filled with kosher salt. It belongs to the set of fancy china that my grandpa Phil bought for my grandmother in the fifties. She never liked those dishes, but she loved Phil so used them until she died. I like having a little bit of them in the kitchen with me.

The two metal pepper grinders belonged to my Aunt Flora. My cousin Betsy gave them to me when I helped her clean out Flora’s apartment. The silver grinder is an ancient Peugot and it works like a dream.

The little shelf where everything is perched is half of an orange crate that my dad sliced in half to use as a spice shelf in my parents’ kitchen a couple of houses ago. It’s quite handy. It also helps keep everything within easy reach, which is the most important thing when in the midst of getting dinner together.

Yesterday felt like New Year’s Day. Starting at 7 am, we could hear the thousands of people already out lining Market and Broad Streets, waiting for the noon-time parade to start. They were hooting and yelling, screaming with voices hoarse with multiple days of victory celebrations. When I left for work at 9 am, everyone outside was dressed in red and were equipped with beer cans and bottles in hand, getting their buzz on early.

Most of my co-workers left for the day at 11:30 am to see the parade before heading down to the ceremony down at the stadiums. I headed out of the office a little while later, to snatch a glimpse of the parade and take an extra-long lunch (we got an extra hour). I had my camera with me and so wandered between 18th and 19th, taking pictures. While the parade was running, I wasn’t able to get within half a block of Market Street. I stood back, enjoying the energy and enthusiasm of the crowd. Some people tried to keep up with the parade and so ran along Ludlow Street, trying to catch multiple views of the players.

I slowed down, trying to make sense of what was going on. It was a cluster of young men, all of whom looked younger than me. Two were on the sidewalk, feet pedaling in an attempt to gain traction, while the other’s held on to arms or bit of clothing. It took my brain several seconds to realize that what I was seeing was a fight. Two guys were being beaten ten feet from me and I had nearly come to a complete halt. Stunned and uncertain what to do, I gaped for another moment. Suddenly, a movement from the scrum of bodies seemed to be headed in my direction and I realized that I needed to get out of there as quickly as possible. I pushed down firmly on the pedals and left the fight behind.

I felt shaken for the rest of the ride back to my building. As I put my bike away and lifted the food out of the basket (unharmed although a little soup did spill) I realized that I had never before seen a fight. Growing up, I went to schools where students were more concerned with the status of their GPA than whether or not they had been disrespected. I typically travel the safest streets Philadelphia has to offer and when I happen to pass through the less savory neighborhoods, I do so in a car or in the protective company of friends.

The experience hasn’t left me permanently rattled or questioning whether I still want to live in the city (I love urban life and hope that I never have to chose to give it up). However, I do think it’s interesting that due to lack of experience, I did not initially recognize what was happening. That innocence has made me to realize there was a huge hole in my instinctual flight trigger.

I also hope that no one was permanently hurt. I didn’t even realize until after I was home and unpacking the food that maybe I should have called the police. Although knowing the Philadelphia police department, that probably wouldn’t have done anything.

One summer when my mom and I were visiting my grandma Tutu (hawaiian for grandmother) in Philly, I remember my mom taking a utensil out of the drawer in the kitchen and bringing it back to Portland with us. She called it a chopped liver chopper (because that’s what Aunt Doris has used it for) and told me that she had gotten it at a garage sale for a quarter some years back. She had given it to Aunt Doris and when she died, it ended up in my grandmother’s kitchen. Since Tutu didn’t actually cook much of anything (she occasionally managed spaghetti and meatballs or a roast, but didn’t enjoy doing it) my mom figured it was time to take the chopper home.

Somehow that single chopper started a collection, and for years we scanned thrift and antique stores for unique and inexpensive choppers. We watched as they got more and more expensive, always commenting that we were glad we had gotten so many nice ones before the prices rose. My mom hung them around the kitchen, until a friend of hers made an off-hand comment that it looked like an arsenal. When we moved to the next house, they got packed away and most were never rehung.

However, over the years, we incorporated a couple into the regular kitchen utensils, pairing one with a wooden bowl that my parents had received as a wedding present. It became the nut chopper and I learned that when you chop nuts by hand, you are better able to control the size and texture of the pieces, something you can’t do nearly as well with a food processor or blender.

I also liked using the chopper and bowl because I imagined that it was how my great-grandmother, my Auntie Tunkel and Laura Ingalls Wilder would have done their fine chopping. Every year, in preparation for Christmas dinner, it is still my job to toast and chop the brazil nuts for the stuffing.

When I moved away from home, my mom gave me one of her choppers to take with me. It hangs on my magnetic knife strip even as I write. I used it today, to chop up some toasted almonds for a salad.

Last May, when I was back in Portland helping my parents clean out, one of the boxes that got put on the garage sale pile was the box of choppers. I opened it up and culled through it, pulling out the few I wanted to keep before putting the rest back into the pile. The one pictured above was one that I kept. It has an old wooden handle that is easy to grip despite the smoothness that age has worn into it. But the part that charmed me the most was the imprint.

HENRY DISSION & SONS
PHILAD’A

I loved the idea of bringing something back with me to Philadelphia that had been born here many years before (I was also tickled at how they abbreviated Philadelphia). It’s those connections to the past that get me every time.

I spent most of yesterday afternoon helping Cindy get ready to move all her worldly possessions to Pittsburgh, where she’s recently started grad school. I took her to pick up the rental truck and then ran off to Wawa to get some lunch, planning to meet her back at her house.  All of the free spots in front were taken, so I went a little further down, finding a metered spot half a block away.  I parallel parked easily and was grabbing my stuff when I realized that I had absolutely no money with which to feed the meter.  My practicality in emptying my wallet had totally failed me.

I dug around the car for a moment, hoping to find a spare quarter, but I knew that unless my sister left something around when she borrowed the car last month, I wasn’t going to find anything.  Living in the city, I try not keep anything in my car that would motivate someone to break into it and spare change is included in this category.  I did find a few pennies, but they were of no help when it came to the parking meter.

Getting out of the car, I walked over to the meter, hoping that by some miracle of timing, it would have something in the neighborhood of ten minutes, which would be enough time for me to run in and out of Wawa.  It had a single minute left of paid-for time, which was not enough for my purposes.

Parked behind me was an electrical repair van, with two guys sitting in the front seats.  Their windows were down, and they were finishing up a late lunch.  I debated for a second, before stopping beside the passenger window and said,

“Excuse me.  I hate to ask you this, but do you possibly have a dime or quarter I could use?  I have absolutely no change and really don’t want to get a parking ticket.”

Before I had even finished my request, they were both digging around the van, checking to see if there were any coins laying around.  The younger guy, who was sitting in the passenger seat closest to me said,

“Just a second, I think I have some change in my pocket.”

He levered his hips up off the seat so he could dig, and came out with a few quarters and a dime.

“Take a quarter.”

I thanked him profusely while he grinned at me shyly, deposited the quarter into the meter (glimpsing the parking authority man just up the street) and headed into the store for a turkey sandwich and a couple of bottles of iced tea.  While in there, I also grabbed a couple of peanut chews, as a thank you for the generosity.  Neither of the guys were in the van when I got back out there, so I tucked the candies under their windshield wipers and went on my way.

For a moment I didn’t feel like I was in Philadelphia I experience so often anymore, but instead in a city where people are generous and look out for each other.   It was a nice feeling.

As I walked past Macy’s (I still want to say Lord & Taylor’s), a homeless man called out to me from his spot on the pavement, “Honey, can you spare dollar?” I smiled at him, made eye contact and said, “No, I’m sorry, I can’t.”

He grinned at me, flapped his hand and said, “That’s okay, cause I love ya. I do, I love ya.” His response was so genuine and delightful that I couldn’t help but have a huge smile break out on my face. I was a couple steps in beyond him by this point, and I looked back at him. He caught me looking, waved and said it again, “You go on, pretty girl. I love ya.”

I smiled the whole way home, wondering who he was. An angel? A man who has an impossibly good spirit about being homeless? Or just someone who recognized that my appreciation and respect for his humanity was intact, despite my inability to give him a dollar. (I told this story to my mom later and she said, “That response was worth a buck. You should go back sometime and see if he’s still there).

When I first moved to Philadelphia I didn’t have a car. I didn’t know many people. I worked 13 blocks down the street from where I lived. My world was small in those days, both in the physical distance I traveled regularly and in the mental space I devoted to it.

Part of my small world was the intersection and CVS you see above. That first summer I lived in Philly, I would spend many nights sitting in Rittenhouse Square. On my way home I’d stop in to CVS to pick up a snack or a bottle of shampoo or a magazine. There was one Saturday night when I stopped in there, wandered around for fifteen or twenty minutes and came out with a pint of ice cream. As I walked down the block back towards my building, a man came jogging after me, saying “excuse me!”

He told me that he had watched me as I walked around the store and thought it was sad that such a pretty girl was all alone on a Saturday night. He told me that he was alone as well and would I be interested in meeting him at a bar down the street in half an hour for a drink. Because we were both alone.

He must have been twenty years older than me and despite the creepiness of the approach, there was something sort of pitiable about him. You could tell that it had taken a lot of risk on his part to approach me. I smiled at him, thanked him, told him no and went home to eat my ice cream.

I’ve often thought that if I wrote a play about my life in Philadelphia, that this corner would be the stage set. I used to take my grandmother into that CVS so that she could look at lipsticks and bottles of nail polish. For a while, it was my primary grocery store. I ran into my friend Sophie outside of it last Sunday. And back in the days when it was still a movie theater, I saw E.T. there.

Can you think of any one place that you would declare to be the set for the play version of your life?

She had a full shopping cart and was contemplating a package of sliced, dehydrated banana in the hopes of finding something to munch on at work. I recommended raw almonds as they are good, but not so wonderful that you can’t stop eating them.

It had been weeks since we had seen each other so it was terrific to have an unscheduled run-in. We started chatting away, when she looked at her cart and said, “I don’t know how I’m going to get this all home.”

“My car is here, I’d be happy to give you a ride.”

“That would be perfect! Thank you!”

Not being someone who often shops with friends, it was a kick to finish up the errand laughing and talking. I caught her up on some of the recent fun I’ve been having in the dating world and heard how things in her work and love lives were chugging along. Dropping her off in front of her house, the traffic patterns stayed clear long enough for me to hop out and give her a hug before she dashed for her door with three overfilled bags of groceries.

These moments of unplanned, unanticipated encounters with friends are part of what I live for. And part of why Philadelphia is home.