A Full Childhood

Passaic General Hospital, the place where I was brought into this world; Passaic General Hospital where they should have a plaque with my name hanging in the emergency room for the record for the most visits in any category, Passaic General Hospital where I spent a good deal of the first half of my Junior year in High School, Passaic General Hospital a place that everyone in the area knew.

To the kids in the neighborhood, Passaic General Hospital was much more than I have described. For us, it was our “Olympic” playground that sat high on a hill that was known to us as “Hospital Hill”. It was a hill for all seasons, so to speak.

In the winter months, Hospital Hill became Squaw Peak. Covered in snow, it was a sight to behold; especially to those who dared take on the hill with their sled. The most daring started at the very top and got a push start from a friend. The thrilling ride took them down the steep hill as they maneuvered between the two hug Oak trees on either side of their path. Those Oak trees and some of the kids carried the scars of failed attempts to make it down the hill and across Crescent Avenue and into the neighbor’s fence that would sometimes shoot you back toward the street when you hit it just right.

As kids will do, we looked for ways to make our ride more daring and exciting so we dug out a hole in the middle of the hill and that hole became known as the “ski jump’ because if you were brave enough to take it on it launched you into the air and sent you ten feet from take off like a ski jump would do in the Olympics. Hospital Hill provided us with hours of daring fun whenever it snowed and became our Winter Wonderland.

But, the Hill would not be outdone by the winter festival it provided because when the snow cleared and the balding hillside showed its true colors, we became inventive. Spring, Summer, and Fall provided more thrills as we collected old refrigerator and washing machine boxes and used them as vehicles to slide down the hill, usually coming to a sudden spot when we hit those bald spots. When the boxes broke, we just tore them up and sat on a cardboard square, and rode it to our destination at the bottom of the hill.

For some of us, the thrill of a ride on a cardboard square was not enough. So, I devised a plan that would make Evel Knievel proud.

I would take my red English Racer to the top of the hill and ride it down to the bottom. I had lookouts to make sure the cars were not coming down Crescent Avenue in case I made it that far.

The big day came, and I lugged my Racer up the steps and across the top of the hill as the kids in the neighborhood gathered to watch. I have to admit I did think of abandoning my attempt once I looked down the hill and saw the two huge Oak Trees looming near my proposed path. But how could I disappoint those who gathered to see “The Ride”? I got a push from a friend to get an extra speed at the start and I was on my way at break-neck speed. As I passed the Ski Jump, I gained my confidence and knew I would make it and as I hit the first sidewalk I applied the brakes and turned the skinny racer wheels, and skidded sideways to a stop, with everyone cheering and my heart still pounding. This was a ride that was legendary in the neighborhood and talked about often and I am not aware of anyone that attempted to take on Hospital Hill on a bicycle after my ride, at least from the very top.

Then there was the one comical moment that stands out in my mind.

My neighbor Henry had just gotten a brand-new Radio Wagon. It was extra large and shiny and got the wheels turning once again in that kid’s head of mine. It didn’t take long to convince Henry that we needed to hit Hospital Hill and see what his wagon could do.

We took turns going down the hill turning the wagon over often and rolling the rest of the way down the hill with the wagon close behind. We did this for what seemed like hours. When we were done, we looked at Henry’s once shiny red wagon that was now all scratched up and dented from our escapades. As Henry walked away, with me following, all four wheels on the brand-new red wagon wobbled in every direction.

Remembering this and picturing it makes me think that this was a Norman Rockwell moment; we were covered in dust and dirt and poor Henry dragging this wobbly wagon home where he would have to hide it from his parents.

So, you see Passaic General Hospital was where I was born and it became a place of great memories with great friends over the years. It’s a place that I will never forget, “Hospital Hill” is in my memories forever.