we all stopped what we were doing and played innocent. Thereâd be some stop and go, as the driver inched toward the water stream and we pretended to be ready to blast him. When the driver felt it was safe and that we were just faking, thatâs when one of us would put two hands at the bottom of the gush of water, sending a spray through the windows of the car. Usually the driver would get out and chase us, unless he wasnât from the neighborhood, in which case heâd rather speed off than get into trouble in Old Colony. Most people from the neighborhood knew better, and simply kept their windows closed, getting a free car wash. Unlike outsiders, they thought nothing of showing us kids that they didnât trust us, rolling up all windows before going forward.
The hydrant provided about a half hour of entertainment until the cops came to chase everyone away and to shut the hydrant off. Usually someoneâs mother would yell from the window to warn us that the cops were coming. Everyone ran in all directions. When the coast was clear, after thereâd been about two minutes of silence on the street and the police officers had paced in circles around the hydrant to make their presence known, everyone came running out again, one kid carrying the firemenâs wrench to turn the hydrant back on. This went on for hours, between the cops chasing us away and shutting off the hydrant, and us turning it back on again. If they ever got hold of the wrench we used, that would be the end of it all, until we found someone else with connections at the fire department to steal a wrench.
There was always something to do in Old Colony, and it seemed a much bigger place than the six or so blocks it actually was. In fact, it seemed bigger than the whole outside world, bigger than Broadway, the beach, downtown, and Jamaica Plain all put together. When you walked into the maze of red bricks and tunnels after being on the outside, it was like walking into another world. We had our own beachesâplastic wading pools and lawn chairs on the cement in front of the buildings. And we had our own friendships and fights. At the edge of the project, Old Colony even had its own corner stores that would cash welfare checks, and liquor stores for anyone who needed a drink. The liquor stores even delivered to some of the older people who didnât come out of their houses much. We had a church on the corner that would fill on Sundays, mostly with second graders preparing for First Communion and elderly women. Carson Beach was right down the street, but most people didnât bother with that. Many of the teenagers and young women lay their beach chairs out on the roofs of the project, and you could smell the tanning oil and hear groups like Earth, Wind, and Fire blasting from radios all tuned to the same station. Old Colony was all ours, and we never wanted to leave.
The kids in the neighborhood created every bit of fun that we had. Mothers never had to find something for us to do. Sometimes weâd get bored, but thatâs when weâd go up to the rooftops and throw splashes of pebbles down onto the heads of outsiders passing by the outskirts of the project. Weâd duck then, and they wouldnât dare come after us, unless a car window broke and weâd have to run before the cops came.
On summer nights, after the hydrants were abandoned, it was time to set the dumpsters on fire. We knew that this would bring the big red fire trucks out from Engine 6. As the trucks came roaring down Patterson Way, sirens and lights and all, you could feel the excitement like electricity. Kids appeared from hallways and tunnels, chasing after the fire trucks. The firemen clambered out to extinguish the dumpster fire, with flames that reached as high as the second-floor windows, while we climbed on top of their trucks, hanging from the ladders and ringing the bells.
There was usually one fireman still left to mind the truck, and
The hydrant provided about a half hour of entertainment until the cops came to chase everyone away and to shut the hydrant off. Usually someoneâs mother would yell from the window to warn us that the cops were coming. Everyone ran in all directions. When the coast was clear, after thereâd been about two minutes of silence on the street and the police officers had paced in circles around the hydrant to make their presence known, everyone came running out again, one kid carrying the firemenâs wrench to turn the hydrant back on. This went on for hours, between the cops chasing us away and shutting off the hydrant, and us turning it back on again. If they ever got hold of the wrench we used, that would be the end of it all, until we found someone else with connections at the fire department to steal a wrench.
There was always something to do in Old Colony, and it seemed a much bigger place than the six or so blocks it actually was. In fact, it seemed bigger than the whole outside world, bigger than Broadway, the beach, downtown, and Jamaica Plain all put together. When you walked into the maze of red bricks and tunnels after being on the outside, it was like walking into another world. We had our own beachesâplastic wading pools and lawn chairs on the cement in front of the buildings. And we had our own friendships and fights. At the edge of the project, Old Colony even had its own corner stores that would cash welfare checks, and liquor stores for anyone who needed a drink. The liquor stores even delivered to some of the older people who didnât come out of their houses much. We had a church on the corner that would fill on Sundays, mostly with second graders preparing for First Communion and elderly women. Carson Beach was right down the street, but most people didnât bother with that. Many of the teenagers and young women lay their beach chairs out on the roofs of the project, and you could smell the tanning oil and hear groups like Earth, Wind, and Fire blasting from radios all tuned to the same station. Old Colony was all ours, and we never wanted to leave.
The kids in the neighborhood created every bit of fun that we had. Mothers never had to find something for us to do. Sometimes weâd get bored, but thatâs when weâd go up to the rooftops and throw splashes of pebbles down onto the heads of outsiders passing by the outskirts of the project. Weâd duck then, and they wouldnât dare come after us, unless a car window broke and weâd have to run before the cops came.
On summer nights, after the hydrants were abandoned, it was time to set the dumpsters on fire. We knew that this would bring the big red fire trucks out from Engine 6. As the trucks came roaring down Patterson Way, sirens and lights and all, you could feel the excitement like electricity. Kids appeared from hallways and tunnels, chasing after the fire trucks. The firemen clambered out to extinguish the dumpster fire, with flames that reached as high as the second-floor windows, while we climbed on top of their trucks, hanging from the ladders and ringing the bells.
There was usually one fireman still left to mind the truck, and
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