Part of my childhood was spent in Boston. It was a different world, a different America. Neighborhoods, usually referred to as squares, were the principal anchors of your life. Ethnicity was identity and you usually lived with “your own” in your own square. I lived in Hartnett Square- mostly working class, shanty Irish. In school we celebrated St. Patrick’s day as a major holiday. My father, no lover of the Irish, would tell me the same joke every year- St. Patrick drove the snakes out of Ireland and they all came to Boston and became policemen.

Hartnett Square had two pharmacies, three grocery stores (the ubiquitous A&P and First National were the major players), a clothing store, a hardware store, a tailor, a butcher, a cobbler, a news-stand, a 5&10 (thank God), and seven bars. Our little community was a self contained enclave. Its men built the bridges and buildings of Boston; the woman were mostly housewives. Roles were well defined- change did not come easy.

For children, it was a large, safe playground and we ran feral and free. At eight years old I was a seasoned artful dodger. We stole donuts and pastries from the Happy Home bakery, candy from Murphy’s newsstand and tonic (carbonated beverages) from the groceries. This world was our oyster. I had six or seven relatives (most with families) within a half a mile radius who doted on me and demanded nothing more of me than I be a kid.

Going “in town” to the heart of Boston, Washington Street and its tributaries, was a weekly affair. The major draw was Filenes and Jordan Marsh, the Gimbels and Macys of Boston. Each building was six or seven stories of old fashioned department store and it was like a Turkish bazaar for a young kid. Lunch was either at the Prince Spaghetti House or at Ho Sai Gai in mysterious Chinatown. To be young was very heaven.

This was the glory time: post-war America of Trumpean greatness with every industrial nation lying prostrate. America hid poverty fairly well and African Americans were literally in ghettos; in Boston it was Roxbury. I don’t remember seeing a black person until I was ten or twelve. It was a cook at the Embers, a chicken joint in Mattapan Square.

How was life in Boston in the 50s? If you were white, male, middle class, straight and liked Ike, it was the best of days. It was a special, unique time in the American journey. We were innocents who thought our world of privilege and abundance would last forever. It didn’t.

from Robert Valliere on Quora.com