Every August throngs of runners storm the main drag of my old neighborhood in a race called the Brookline Breeze -- an apt name for a three-mile jaunt up Brookline Boulevard, down Pioneer Avenue and back. No treacherous hills, no convoluted turns, no insurmountable obstacles -- a genuine breeze!

Come to think of it, that describes what it was like growing up in Brookline, too, decades ago. The living was easy and life was a breeze -- from a child's perspective.

Strolling on the sidewalk, I watch the runners surge by, intent on the competition. They move forward in distance and I move backward in time, retreating to the past and reminiscing.

In the 1960s, Brookline was a peaceful haven of hilly streets and red-brick houses untouched by the turmoil gripping the rest of the nation. While other cities grappled with civil unrest and political assassinations, my neighborhood seemed safely tucked away in the South Hills, protected from society's strife. No angry mobs, no bloody riots, no violent demonstrations -- Paradise Central!

Yet Brookline took a backseat to other locales considered more hip, such as Shadyside. Perhaps it was too quiet and conventional. Dads labored at work, moms toiled in the kitchen, and kids played kickball in the alley until the streetlights came on.

Nobody was rich. Everybody scrimped to make ends meet. "We're going to the poorhouse" was a constant refrain. But Brookline's inhabitants were content to reside in their secure enclave, conducting their lives out of harm's way.

An endless stream of runners sweeps past as I wonder why my neighborhood was so serene in such a turbulent time. Was Brookline truly idyllic? Or did I just lead an exceptionally sheltered life?

As a child, I played with Barbie dolls and danced to Beatles records. I attended Resurrection School, where Catholic nuns in black robes imposed strict discipline harder than our wooden desks. But on carefree summer days, I swam at Moore Park and jumped rope on the sidewalk, putting school days to flight.

As a teenager, instead of hitchhiking to Woodstock or protesting the Vietnam War, I sat on the front porch strumming my guitar and listening to my transistor radio -- tuned to KQV -- grooving to songs like "Light My Fire" and "Incense and Peppermints." You might say I was a stay-at-home hippie.

While I saunter along, racers rumble by and engulf Brookline Boulevard, heart of the community, where every spot triggers vivid recollections.

Nicknamed simply "the Boulevard," this broad commercial strip thrived long before suburban malls sprawled. Going to the Boulevard was a daily ritual -- to buy a newspaper, browse at the record store, shop at the meat market or hang out with pals.

The swell of runners recedes, and I ponder the fate of places I knew. Few remain.

Whatever happened to Towne & Country, a children's clothing store, where my mother took me to buy dresses? In the windows, child mannequins posed demurely in chic attire. Inside, garment racks lined walls adorned with characters from nursery rhymes. That winsome world became a pizzeria.

What about Blue Bonnet Bakery, where friendly bakery ladies chatted with customers while tying strings on boxes of jelly doughnuts? Or Isaly's, where we flocked after basketball games to sip milkshakes? Vanished.

Newsies is gone, too, another youth magnet that sold magazines and comic books. It burned down in 1973.

When did Bryant's Hardware close? That's where I bought pots and pans as a young bride in 1978. Now it's home to a politician's office.

Suddenly I spy a familiar sight. The Cannon. A place to rendezvous with friends. The war memorial still stands on the corner near vacant storefronts. "I'll meet you at the Cannon" echoes in my ears.

It's comforting to see one more survivor, the Carnegie Library, down the block in a new location. In the old library, I was a fixture in the children's section on Saturday afternoons.

Runners ripple in, cutting a swath to their final destination -- Brookline Memorial Park, the recreation center where boys pitched balls on the baseball field and girls pitched lemonade at concession stands on sunny days long ago.

Some runners explode at the race's end, erupting with force across the finish line. Others collapse with exhaustion, buckling under with muscle cramps.

Brookline, too, conquered a race today -- a contest to renew itself. Maybe my old neighborhood is tired, just like the runners. Events like the Brookline Breeze help rejuvenate it. Brookline envisions its future, but embraces its past, bridging the gap in the present moment of unleashed memories forever etched in my mind.

Who cares if Brookline isn't cool like Shadyside? It's plenty breezy for me!

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