We are all in this together

Dolak’s Grocery Store was only a block away from my home. It was one of those small neighborhood stores where people gathered on Saturday mornings with their shopping lists. They discussed the past week’s events as they perused the produce together. My mother often sent me there for milk or bread. I remember walking down the tree-lined streets in the lazy summers. The sun’s rays danced through the leaves of the tall silver maples and touched softly upon my tanned face.

There was a small bell inside the entranceway of the grocery store. It jingled when the heavy oak and glass door was pushed open. Decorations in the store front window announced the holidays or the change in seasons. A large red, white, and blue ribbon proclaimed when the Fourth of July was near. I recall one such errand just before the approach of an Independence Day weekend.

“Hello, Mr. Dolak”, I said as the bell signaled my arrival.

“What can I do for you today?” he asked.

“Just milk and bread”, I answered. I grabbed a loaf of white bread off the metal shelf and walked across the creaking hard wood floor to the dairy cooler for a half-gallon of milk. I placed a Hostess cherry pie on the counter with my other items. Those little pies were my favorite. Mr. Dolak rang up the groceries on his old fashioned cash register. It chimed with every sale.

“Have a good Fourth of July”, he said as he handed me the bag of groceries.

“Thanks, Mr. Dolak”, I replied, “You do the same.”

American flags

I walked back up the street with the bag of groceries in one hand, the unwrapped cherry pie in the other. I would finish that sweet cherry pie before I made it back home again. I remember seeing American flags hanging from front porch banisters from the start of one city block to the beginning of another, their stars and stripes waving in the warm breeze. Neighbors swept their sidewalks or tended to their lawns. Mr. Sheronovich listened to the baseball game on his radio as he trimmed his side bushes with hedge clippers. “What’s the score”, I hollered. “Three-two, Yankees”, he yelled back. I walked past the Olsavsky’s residence. Old Mr. Olsavsky was fiddling with his sprinkler hose. My younger brother and I helped him plant his vegetable garden in the early spring. He shared the dividends of his garden with our family late into the summer.

All these years later, I can still remember the contributions those neighbors made to my life. They were of the generation that preserved our freedom in the Second World War. They struggled for labor unions so that men could earn a fair wage in decent working conditions. Their taxes funded the student loan program that helped make my education possible. They were happy knowing that their sacrifices provided better opportunity for the next generation.

When I think back on those times, I’m not so sure that it was independence that we celebrated on the Fourth of July so much as it was just being part of a community. I think somewhere through the years we Americans have lost that sense of togetherness. We’ve replaced it with the notion that what is best for our own individual interest matters more than the common good. And that’s a shame. It’s a shame because a new generation is depending on us to uphold our end of the bargain. And we seem to be letting them down.

And so, I’ll unfurl the flag this Independence Day and place it on the front of my home. But it won’t be the independence of individualism that I’ll be celebrating. I’ll mark the independence of a community that once dared to believe that all men mattered; that all men were created equal. I’ll celebrate because in the end we Americans are all in this together. Just like in 1776 — when our forefathers declared their stand for freedom, justice, and for each other. And just like a time, not so long ago, when a young boy shared American ideals in a small neighborhood in Youngstown with family and friends.

David Bobovnyik is a Youngstown lawyer who works for the state and writes from time to time about his memories of growing up during the post-war years on Youngstown’s West Side.