The lore of Pickle Block lives on

Two words catapulted me back into my childhood…

Pickle Block..

I thought every town and borough in the United States had “Pickle Block.” I also grew up thinking every town and borough in the United States had its own zoo, since I was at the Elmwood Park Zoo just about once a week when I was little. Who knew zoos were not considered part of Everytown USA?

Anyway, growing up in Norristown also afforded me things that residents of other towns, sadly, missed out on.

My freshman year of college, in the bustling metropolis of Kutztown, Sue Mig (my best friend as well as roommate that first year until she decided the food at Lycoming College was definitely

worth a transfer) ventured to Main Street for a nice dinner. We ended up at a sandwich shop that was standing-room-only (a true testament to the quality of food at the time served in KU’s dining hall). It was finally my turn, and I ordered what I always ordered in sandwich shops – a zep.

I wish I had a smartphone then and could have taken a photo of the sandwich maker’s face. I’m pretty sure I’ll never see anything like that again. It was a contortion of “what the hell did you just say,” and “what the hell are you trying to say,” and “I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.”

So, I repeated the word zep.

Gosh, you might have thought I asked the guy to severe his right hand and use the flowing blood as a condiment on my sandwich.

Rather than repeat zep, I said the sandwich I was sure was universal – hoagie.

Turns out Kutztown residents and students who didn’t grow up in the Philly region (which, obviously included this kid working the sandwich counter) never heard of hoagies either.

By this time not only was the guy behind the counter annoyed, so was Sue. She was starving and I was standing between her and real food (rather than dining hall delicacies).

So, I took a quick peek at the menu hanging up over the kid’s head, and ordered the first thing I saw. A submarine.

And what he handed me was – a hoagie.

And for the uninitiated reading this column who have the misfortune of never eating a zep but think you know what it is – read on.

A zep most certainly IS NOT a hoagie but without the lettuce.

It is not anything close to a hoagie, except maybe the oil.

A zep is perfection in a most simple form – just six ingredients, seven if you count a fresh Kaiser roll -cooked salami, provolone cheese, tomato, onion, oil and oregano. That’s it. Easy peasy. But to the kid in Kutztown, I was asking for boeuf bourguignon.

If this kid never heard of a zep, I wondered back then, then what else is native to Norristonians but foreign to others?

That thought lingered in my mind for about 10 seconds, then my sandwich was ready. And then college life happened. And then, well, just life.

And the more I think back on growing up in Norristown, I realize just how very unique the borough (yes, borough, not municipality) was.

But now, everywhere I look in Norristown, something from my childhood is gone. And I’m not quite sure if that’s a testament to the evolution of the town, or my age.

When I was a student at St. Patrick’s Grade School, there were two Ys within walking distance. The YMCA was at DeKalb and Airy streets – where the county parking lot is now. It was situated next to the county prison (and I’m almost positive I’m not the first person to question the wisdom of that.) The kids from St. Pat’s would walk down there for gym or swimming lessons. It’s where I learned to do a the three-step dive (an Olympic feat for my Mark Spitz inspired efforts) off of a diving board.

At DeKalb and Chestnut, where CVS is now, stood the YWCA. That’s where the girls’ basketball team practiced every evening. We also had gym class there, as well. That site was also home to the Arther Miller Dance Studio (yes, you read that right, a dance studio). The only thing the Kehoe family used that site for was parking on Sundays for church. And we were in that parking lot for hours on end because conference calling had not been invented and this was the best way for my mom and 3 or 4 of her friends to “catch up.”

Logan Square was just being built when I was a little and now the only thing recognizable is the building that formerly housed Sears’ Garden Center. The Christmas after my dad died my mom did the smart thing and bought an artificial tree from the garden center. The memory of my dad’s last Christmas was way too fresh for my mom. She remembered that he got a tree with “a crooked spine,” and could only right the tree after putting it in a bucket of cement and then securing it to fishing lines that were nailed into the plaster walls.

Yeah, no way she was going to deal with real trees on her own.

Everything that I remembered and loved about Logan Square is gone. The soft pretzel stand, Cork and Crown, Sun Ray, Blocks, Ice City.

Make way for Royal Farms – which I’m sure is quite terrific, but it can’t possibly have the charm – let alone the banana splits – of Woolworths.

Montgomery Hospital is gone. Rittenhouse Junior High, at least how I loved it, is gone. Norristown Sports Goods on Marshall Street, Chaitlin’s, Brock’s shoes, the New York Store (the only place my grandmother bought her underwear and “housecoats”) -- all gone or repurposed.

The Jewish Center was reinvented several times over, and is now vacant. I hope the kids of the neighborhood now are able to take advantage of the sledding potential there. We were always kicked out by the rabbi.

Over the last few years I’ve been dabbling in my family lineage. The Kehoes established roots first in Bridgeport and then Edward T. Kehoe moved his family to the 200 block of Cherry Street in the 1800s. I can only imagine what the town looked like for that Kehoe family, and the change that’s taken place since. I’m pretty sure, though, that my ancestors’ played Pickle Block. Cause it’s a Norristown thing.

The second I saw those two words posted by Joe McMonagle on the “You Know You’re From Norristown” Facebook page, my mind immediately thought of my childhood best friend, Denise Vargo. Denise and I played Pickle Block every day – well, when we weren’t riding our bikes. If we were on foot, we played Pickle Block (for those who didn’t know what a zep is, you probably don’t know this one, either. To master the art of pickle block, avoid stepping on pavement squares that have the mason’s mark -- usually shaped like, well, a pickle).

When I thought of Denise, I smiled, and remembered that because of her, and the great neighborhood we grew up in, I really did have an idyllic childhood.

So Matthew and I play Pickle Block every time we go out for a walk. And I’m forming new memories with that old game. The difference though is that playing against Denise, I was on an even playing field. This time around I don’t stand a chance of winning. Matthew cheats. Cheryl Kehoe Rodgers is a content editor at The Times Herald. She can be reached at crodgers@ timesherald.com.