‘God’s Country’ is no more

My first case as a lawyer took me to the Probate Court of Mahoning County. That was nearly 25 years ago. I was sitting second counsel with a more experienced attorney at the time. The Honorable Leo P. Morley was presiding judge. We were called into his chambers for a status conference on our case. I was introduced by my mentor as one of the newest members of the Mahoning County Bar Association. Judge Morley offered his congratulations and directed me to one of the vacant chairs in front of his wooden desk. He inquired of my background. I sat down in the chair and remarked that I was from the West Side of Youngstown. “The West Side,” he said. “That’s God’s country.”

“God’s country,” I remember those words as if they were spoken to me only yesterday. Perhaps no better words could describe the West Side community where I was raised. My own neighborhood was nestled beneath the twin bell towers of Holy Name Catholic Church. The lives of those in my community were inextricably tied to its presence. Church bells called us to Mass in the morning hours before the start of school. Church bells announced my impending arrival home from school for lunch at noon. And, at 6 p.m., church bells warned that dinner was fast approaching and that I’d better hurry home from the neighborhood baseball game at the nearby ball field.

Those same bells joyfully blessed the marriage of our parishioners. And, they tolled with a somber monotone at the end of each funeral service as a procession of cars escorted departed loved ones to a final resting place in Calvary Cemetery. On Sundays, the sound of Holy Name’s bells beckoned families to church. Most everyone answered that call.

My neighborhood was joined together by a belief in God, and by the work in the steel mills just a few blocks away. Our belief in God nourished our souls. The work in the steel mills put food on our tables. God and steel were as much a part of our lives as the air we breathed. Bells called our families to worship. Mill whistles called the men to sweat and labor at the open hearth furnaces.

No crime

Somehow it all seemed to work for us. Everyone watched out for one another. In the hot summertime we often slept on the open front porch. We never felt the need to lock our doors. Crime was virtually non-existent. I could ride my bicycle as far as my legs could pedal me without worry that harm would come to me. I don’t believe that I was ever so free as those days growing up on the West Side.

This past 4th of July weekend, I returned for a reunion of the alumni of Holy Name Parochial School. A special Mass and dinner was offered in celebration. As I drove along familiar city streets I despaired at the condition of the neighborhoods I knew so long ago. Houses had fallen into disrepair. Some were vacant and diminished shells of the happy homes where families of friends once lived. I could see the work of vandals and arsonists dotted across the landscape. All but gone were the flower beds and backyard gardens that had been the pride of West Side residents.

Shootings

I parked my car in the church lot. As I walked to the church entrance I could hear the sound of firecrackers auditioning throughout the neighborhood for Independence Day. I thought of the recent shootings that have marred the West Side community. I thought to myself that somewhere through the years we’ve forgotten what independence is really all about. Somehow we’ve come to believe that independence is nothing more than every man for himself. Such thinking promises little more than anarchy. That is evidenced in neighborhoods throughout our city.

But independence with a shared sense of responsibility for the common good joins us together as a community, and in turn blesses us with freedom. I know because I lived that life long ago; in a time when the bells of Holy Name called us to worship God, and the whistles of the U.S. Steel mill called us to work.

David Bobovnyik is a Youngstown area resident with fond memories of growing up on the West Side, which he shares from time to time.