Noisy Town
My grandfather’s name for our home
When I think of the word family, the first word that comes to mind is fun. In childhood, I was the youngest of seven children and my parents were happy together and loved to laugh. If the walls of my childhood home in Philadelphia could talk, they would produce the sound of laughter. And maybe my Uncle Danny’s banging on the piano in the dining room.
My parents were from Ireland and we — their children — were born in Philadelphia. We lived in a lovely tree-lined neighborhood in Philly called Chestnut Hill. My parents didn’t own a car, but The Hill provided shops, public transportation and a small-town feel. My siblings and I attended Catholic school, and the community was closely-knit and friendly.
Many relatives lived close by. Our maternal grandparents lived up the street and we had regular contact with them and our aunts and uncles. With seven children, two parents, and friends and relatives visiting from Ireland, our house was a lively place. Our grandfather called it “Noisy Town.”
In the early days, there was one phone in the hall near the front door. It rang constantly for my parents’ first-born twin daughters. They made friends easily, and one of their friends was often calling them. Most friends asked for Twinnie as they really were two people cut in half. Absolutely unique…
