You need a detailed map of the Blackhorse Pike to find it. I knew just about everyone and those I didn’t know, they knew me. My dad had been the pastor at St. Luke Baptist Church since I was three. He always said a good shepherd never leaves his flock. Although time had changed, everything in Smithtown always remained the same. There was a town picnic every summer and everyone served Kool-Aid. New homes were built by successive generations that had come to appreciate the old hominess of Smithtown after realizing there really was no place like home – especially to raise children. Most Central High graduates still went to Rutgers, the University of Pennsylvania, Temple or Rowan University. Smithtown was a step back in time. Community and family values were not just slogans or campaign issues, they were truly the way of life – even if only pretentiously. During the sixties and seventies places like Smithtown flourished with African Americans who were free to cross the tracks. Those who couldn’t afford homes in Martha’s Vineyard settled for small town life that mirrored Ward and June Cleaver.
