Pira

Call him venerable. In some societies the old are honored, survivors are honored, those with tenure are honored. Pira the younger is now the senior resident of the old neighborhood. He's the last of the old gang. Where's the cognac? He's outlasted them all.

The Piras arrived in Germantown in 1947. The kids had previous lives in Frankford and Mount Airy. The parents had theirs in North Philadelphia and Germany, and now they are in heaven.

Realtors didn't put many signs on houses in the forties. Chances were people stayed awhile in the houses they owned or rented. If a sign was displayed it likely announced the size of the block of ice ordered (for the icebox) or it warned the rest of the neighbors that measles or mumps had a kid in quarantine.

Now and then a house was vacated. All of the occupants disappeared. That meant nothing to us if no playmates went away. Knots of kids would speculate who new arrivals might bring with them.

No one ignored the moving trucks at the door of a once empty house. Older people might make cursory examinations of the furniture being unloaded. It said a lot of the owners, they supposed, and they might perceive what to expect from them in a social way. One's own taste would be a gauge of what went on behind closed doors and drawn curtains. That's probably rubbish but it serves as a reinforcement to curiousity...or it's the way of the snoop, according to opinion.

The moving van sent a different signal to kids. They (we, that is) didn't ignore what (who, that is) arrived at a once empty house. If someone our age moved in we might accept him into our tribe. If an older couple or newlyweds appeared we were disappointed and the house was crossed off our list of immediate interest; however, these people could be tapped later for chores like snow removal and errands to supplement our allowances.

Newly arrived children have a different feeling. They're at a disadvantage and some might entertain those apprehensions that beset them when they visit dentists. All things considered they'll soon be invited to someone's sandbox if they are little or fort-building if they are middle-aged. They might have to prove they have fists at any age.

From my window I could look out across our yard and beyond the alley to the houses on the next street with their yards facing ours. The one directly in back of ours was empty. Its previous immates were of no concern to me. They were old. Everyone's old to kids. Kids ignore them unless they have something to offer or if they are crabs. The latter type could be in for mischief, those useless small bad deeds met by a firestorm of punishment (because we always seemed to get caught or turned-in). Today, it's the reverse. Bad and harmful acts are met by slaps on the wrists of malefactors because lawyers and other aberrant sorts will protect villainy.

The new arrivals across the alley buzzed around. All of their windows were open to chase out the dust and stale air. From my own window I made a census: adult male, adult female, a girl (about sixteen — too old), a boy — my age. It was time to climb over the fence and greet the immigrees.

For kids, time and generations have different meanings than those that Webster proposes. Time to us was an everpresent now. A friend of five years and a friend for a week have the same credentials. Loyalty to each of them will inevitably find the same dimension. Friends generally are chosen because of age. A few years is another generation. Great importance is attached to age. A few month's seniority can be intimidating.

All of that was cancelled when those who swore that they would die for each other squinted at names at a thirty-five — or forty five — year reunion on another planet.

New kids don't jump over the fence or knock on doors to announce themselves. For a while they have to organize things. When I introduced myself the parents might have been relieved because their son now had a contact in the new world. They used that to advantage. I offered to help. Kids will help anyone at the risk of a hernia before doing minor tasks in their own homes. For my efforts, and indeed just for my presence in their house, I was fed: a sandwich, a glass of milk, cake.

Pira is not a common name in these parts. There are pages of Smiths and Joneses and Browns and Thomases and not a few Tompkinses. A Tompkins of old was Vice President: no Smiths or Joneses or Browns or Thomases, or Piras. The phone book in Philadelphia listed one Pira; there was another in Chicago.

My new friend had been christened William Louis Henry (Pira). He got stuck with "Henry" in childhood, those days of sandboxes and forts and minor hell-raising. When he grew older and took charge of his own affairs he preferred to be addressed as "Bill."

His father was much older than mine. He emmigrated from Germany before the Great War. After a third of a century he still had ties to his older home on the Rhine where his heroes of another time might have been Frederich the Great and Kaiser Bill and Goethe and Schiller and Wagner and Richard Strauss. He had been christened Wilhelm Frederich but in affection was known to all as Fritz. He married an American, a daughter of the artist, Thoenebe. Soon after they moved into the house on Washington Lane, her sister and widowed mother gave up their too large house in North Philadelphia and moved in. Henry's aunt Caryl worked when she was a young girl as a film cutter at Lubin studio before it moved to Betzwood and Philadelphia surrendered the film industry to a more comfortable climate. Later directors would go to Hollywood.

Grandmother Thoenebe was ancient of days. When she was young, as she related to us at the pinochle table (countless times), she had heard Adelina Patti sing "The Last Rose of Summer." (Who was Adelina Patti?) Madame Patti certainly knew some of the crowd at the coronation of Napolean Bonaparte. Mrs. Thoenebe would have to be satisfied with knowing people who voted for Abraham Lincoln...and maybe Millard Fillmore. At ninety she was still a wizard at pinochle.

It was notable in my own life that I was exposed to their likes. I would be invited to dinner. ("Put on your tie.") Their table was often graced by guests: friends of Fritz's, relatives of Minna and Caryl, or their circles of friends, and, me. The plates were placed on linen cloth, the napkins in silver rings. Wine was poured, not from jugs but corked bottles shipped from France and Germany. At fifteen, I knew what good wine was.

We would sit at the table of civility. After meal and dessert and coffee — or tea — the women might go to the parlor for talk. The men might stay at the table. More wine might be brought out. I could have another glass of wine. I did. The men lit up cigars. I didn't. In a haze of blue smoke I sat among men with knowledge that they would share. I gathered up what I could.

In summertime families in our world disposed to vacations at the seashore would go to places like Ocean City and Wildwood. The Piras went to Cape May, a place that in great affection I've grown to respect as The Last Resort.

Henry, who is really Bill, and Auntie Caryl still lived in the house on Washington Lane in 1993. In forty-five years everyone else in the known world had moved away or died. He's the only Pira in the Philadelphia phone directory and has had no issue. How is it in Chicago and in Remagen on Rhine? It's a fragile name, now. For the moment, there are still a lot of Tompkinses...and Smiths and Browns and others. I regret there has been no further issue of mine that could have had the benefit of the table of civility.