Reading, PA, is a highly hierarchical little city. Geographically that is quite literal. The city grows along the banks of the Schuylkill River, which meanders through a valley created by a series of mountains. To the west there are several mountains—Cushion Peak, South Mountain, State Hill. To the south lies Highs Hill and Neversink Mountain. In the north Seidel’s Hill, Topton Mountain, and Irish Mountain straddle the only major, relatively major, road north from the city, Route 222.
But the city is built at the foot of the mountain that dominates its geography, Mount Penn. The entire east side of the city rises from the Schuylkill Valley to the top of Mt. Penn.
Maybe needless to say, but sociologically interesting nonetheless, the further up towards the top of the mountain, the more expensive the houses. That is particularly the case in the north-east section of the city, where beginning at 13th street the geological rise of the landscape begins to gather momentum. West of 13th street there are row houses; duplexes line 13th street on the west side, and single homes on the east side. Past 13th street single homes are the rule.
The superiority of the east becomes crystal clear once the rising ground reaches Hampden Boulevard, the Boulevard. The area between 13th street and the Boulevard is called College Heights. The area between the Boulevard and the mountainside itself, a park of sorts, is called Hampden Heights. East of the Boulevard, in Hampden Heights, huge homes, some of them grand indeed, are standard.
There are also quite odd phenomena associated with the sociological differences in housing. For a quarter century we lived in a row house west of 13th street. Something we took for granted was the swarming of pigeons all around us. They were everywhere, shouldering out almost all other varieties of birds. Oh sure, there were some house sparrows, but few of them. About ten years ago we moved into College Heights, into a single house. And the pigeons disappeared. There were mourning doves a-plenty, and swarms of sparrows of all kinds; but there was not a single pigeon to see.
Having noticed the avian divide, I studied the phenomenon—or rather went walking and noted that pigeons would regularly perch on trees and electric lines along the west side of the Boulevard. But they would not cross the Boulevard to its east side. Never did I see even an attempt to fly over to the east side. The only exception to the rule that pigeons exclude themselves from the Heights, College and Hampden both, is a small flock of almost pure white pigeons that regularly fly around a tree situated squarely in College Heights.
There are no white pigeons elsewhere in the city.
Trees also represent a significant feature of the hierarchy in Reading. West of 13th street there are no trees to speak of. The city has a very generous tree-planting offer for its residents. So long as a resident pays to have the sidewalk cut so that a tree can be planted, the city will supply the tree small enough so that its leaves do not cause problems in the gutters of nearby homes. We got a beautiful flowering cherry tree in front of our row house. When we asked neighbors if they wanted one as well, the response was . . . curious: “Trees are dirty,” they would regularly say. So our tree remained the sole green on our block. And of course, in the summer time the favorite place to park was under that tree.
The tree-exclusion zone continues all along the west side of 13th street, but not on the east side. On that side of the street, and really throughout College Heights, trees grow in abundance. With some exceptions—a pine here, a flowering cherry there—all the trees in College Heights are sycamores. Sycamores are particularly messy trees. They lose branches in the lightest of winds; they shed thick, heavy pollen in May and June; they drop bark in July and early August; they give a deluge of leaves in the fall; and in winter the branches are wide enough so that they retain snow, which then drops in big gobs on the heads of passersby once the snowstorm ends.
Some sycamores line the west side of the Boulevard. But the west side of the Boulevard grows oaks. In fact, the whole of Hampden Heights, from the Boulevard up to park on the slopes of Mt. Penn, is almost all oaks. There is a pine here and there, maybe a stray sycamore or even as aspen—one house has a bamboo thicket growing alongside its south side, which cleverly hides the tennis court that lies on the other side. But oak is dominant, so much so that the last city street, abutting the park, is called Oak Lane.
In short, moving west to east: row home becoming duplex becoming single house becoming near-mansion; pigeon becoming mourning dove; no tree becoming sycamore becoming oak.
No comments:
Post a Comment