Page 29 - Philly Girl

Philly Girl 13

You Can Cross

In the summer of 1955, the “Whip” came around our neigh-
borhood once a week. The Whip was a truck with a rear flat-
bed converted into an amusement park ride. It cost a nickel,
and I begged my mother to let me ride on it. My mother was
reluctant. She was afraid I would throw up on it and choke.
Finally, I convinced her, and she gave me a nickel to give to
the operator. The ride was exhilarating and it gave me a rush.
The man gave me a free second ride. I got off the truck and
saw my mother across the street. I waited for her to say “It’s
okay, Jan, you can cross.” My life was full of safety guards.
There was Mildred, the lady, and Charlie, the kid—both
crossing guards whose authority I respected. I always knew
to wait for their okay. My mother said, “Okay, Jan” and I
ran into the street, right into the path of an oncoming car.
The car sped off.
I was bloody—and crying. My mother wasn’t wearing
her glasses and hadn’t seen the moving car. We went to the
hospital. She couldn’t cope, and I had to reassure her. The
doctor bandaged me up and told me that I would be okay.
At that point, my mother said that the car may have been
driven by the teenage son of her hairdresser, Lillian. This
turned out to be correct.
How she knew the car and the driver, but didn’t stop
me from crossing into it, will remain a mystery forever. Her
conscience bothered her for weeks. In the end, she decided to
donate twenty dollars to our synagogue, out of gratitude that