Fosky properties windows#

Thirty-seven families took a $150,000 buyout, an amount Street said then was 'far, far, far in excess of the value of the properties.' Street declared the houses unsafe and halted repair efforts. Goode's successor, Ed Rendell, pledged to fix the mess. Many of the homeowners say they cannot afford to remedy the problems. One developer landed in prison for skimming millions off the project. Neighbors stomp on uneven floors and knock on hollow walls to show just how shoddy their houses are. Stained and buckled ceilings still leak when it rains. (In 2000, Ernest and Ester Hubbard's house burned to the ground because of faulty wiring.) Yet resident after resident testified to roofs collapsing, floors separating from walls, nails dropping from the ceiling, sewage backing up in kitchen sinks, and electrical problems. The city spent more than $16 million to rebuild and repair the properties, which had a 10-year warranty. 'They gave us these little dollhouses made with balsa wood and Krazy Glue,' said Fosky in disgust. They looked nice at first, until they started falling apart. Residents returned a year and a half later to new houses. Wilson Goode promised to rebuild the homes by Christmas.

As time goes on, it's even more unbelievable.' 'I saw my house burning on television,' Wilson said. The next day, the bomb and the six-hour, six-alarm fire destroyed everything else. But what they carried would be all that remained. Police told residents to pack a bag for overnight. On Mother's Day 1985, MOVE was finally being evicted. 'Like living in a war zone,' said Lucretia Wilson, 62, sitting in her modest house, next door to the MOVE house, where she has lived since 1976. Then came MOVE, with its dreadlocks and militant philosophy the raw meat piled outside the rotten stench the children rummaging for food the incessant tirades and threats over a loudspeaker and the constant tension that something bad was going to happen. The neighbors, a working-class community, held picnics and cookouts and shared their lives they watched one another's children and enjoyed Carrie Fosky's golden fried chicken. 'We had a beautiful block,' she remembered. Said Renfro: 'We still have not been made whole.'ĥ0 years on Osage, Earnestine Rice has lived on Osage Avenue the longest, 50 years. Renfro lives four doors down from Rice and serves as president of the Osage-Pine community association, which last month rallied outside Mayor Nutter's office, demanding some type of justice. 'Twenty-five years later, we still have not gotten closure,' said Gerald Renfro, his face tight with anger. 'We didn't ask the city to bomb us out.'įor other neighbors, the symbolism of a quarter-century carries added weight. 'I would love to see the city open these houses up, do the repairs on them, and either sell them or rent them.' 'The blight is really what bothers me,' Rice said. There have been graduations, vacations, and family reunions. Rice's four children have married and blessed her with 10 grandchildren.

'I can come in my house and close my door and do what I want to do.' 'I ain't going to let it eat me up,' she said. She has watched worry rush others to their graves. Cyprian School, decided long ago - when her blood pressure 'shot up' - not to dwell on the ugliness of that day, or the failed redevelopment efforts and legal challenges, or the millions of dollars wasted to rebuild. Since the May 13, 1985, MOVE disaster, the residents here have been victimized over and over again, their homes destroyed, their community devastated, their lives upended.īut Rice, a petite woman with short graying hair who works part-time at St. There are times to celebrate and mourn, and remember.

There are moments seared in a life's story - a graduation, a wedding day, the birth of a child.

Fosky properties windows#

Their windows and doors are boarded, some marred by graffiti, with ominous, padlocked bars across the doors.Īt 6221, the former MOVE house, yellowed junk mail lies on the small patio, and insulation flaps in the breeze. Thirty-seven of the 61 homes here, including those on either side of her redbrick rowhouse, sit dark, bought up by the city and left abandoned. Then, a fiery confrontation between MOVE and Philadelphia police left 11 people dead, and Rice's 6200 block of Osage and neighboring Pine Street in ruins. The chore is a small effort at normalcy, but the horror that happened here 25 years ago remains palpable. Flowers and bushes decorate front patios, and neighbors look out for one another.Įarnestine Rice keeps the place neat by sweeping her sidewalk. On Osage Avenue, trees stretch into a green archway.