It's amazing how many places one can live and never really feel like they fit in. Oh, the furniture fits and the years pass with neighbors, workmates, and maybe a coffee buddy, but fitting in, knowing and living the historical culture, understanding how the puzzle covers the table, they still feel like that piece that fell on the floor, leaving a big hole in the puzzle. Interesting questions, Paul.
Lots to think about. I'm an Army brat so I've never really had a specific house or a city or town that I call home. When people ask me where I'm from I say Alabama because that's where I was born, but my home town on FaceBook is Columbus, GA because that's where I went to high school. My adopted home town is definitely Grand Junction, Colorado because that's where I decided to move in 1987 at an important time when I was in my 20's. I've spent a lot of time on the road, too, and that's where I seem to be happiest these days. My wife and I put our house up for sale in March and have been living in our new fifth wheel since then, but we need to stay pretty close as long as the house is for sale. Even though we're planning on RV'ing full time, we still plan to buy a place to use as a home base whenever we figure out where that is. Looking to the future, there is the reality of aging as well as the possibility that we might want or need to go back to work. And there are always family considerations for both our older and younger relatives. Well, these details are mostly just an outline and don't really get to the heart of the matter. I'll enjoy pondering these questions and might even try to write something down. Thank you as always for such great writing!
Thanks Jeff. This seems to be a preeminent theme in my life. And yet, I have been rooted in one place for a long time. I think of Hank Williams songs and the urge to wander. Don't know any answers. We're also trying to figure out where is "there." It could be right here. Then again, I have not had coffee yet, so this is all fairly nebulous.
Great story Paul. In fact, I drove up to Yonkers last week to meet with some old Roosevelt HS friends for some pizza at Carlo’s. It took me an extra hour to drive over the George Washington Bridge from my home in suburban Philadelphia. Traffic was murder as they say. I still had 2 hours before meeting my friends, so I decided to just drive around the old neighborhood. First up Primrose Avenue from Central to my family’s home at 25 Bradford Blvd where my grandfather bought the house in 1934 and my dad moved back into in 1963 and moved out of in 1993 to retirement in Charleston SC. I must have rode my bike up this hill a million times growing up to go to Chris’s Deli for some candy. Now driving took too fast, I wanted to look around and see every house, every tree, every kid’s bike laying in the driveway but I couldn’t so I slowed down until I reached my old home. But something was all wrong. The big canopy of maple trees were gone. Growing up the whole street was shady, not a ray of sun could penetrate the thick tree cover, which was great as a kid to climb every tree or play kickball in the shady not sweltering street. I didn’t recognize where I was. I was completely lost. As I drove up to the house, it was also unrecognizable. There were solar panels on the roof, all the azalea bushes around the house were removed, and the beautiful cherry tree on the side of the house was gone. Every year I’d climb this tree to the very top and pick the ripe cherries and eat them until I was sick. You had to pick the cherries when they were ripe but before the birds got to them. I knew exactly when to pick them. It was one of my super powers as a kid. All of these thoughts ran through my head as I sat in shock in my car in the rain across from my old home. No, you can’t go home again Paul. That home was gone.
Thanks, Doug. So strange, isn't it? I wander back up there every once in a while and am not even sure what I'm trying to figure out, but that time and place is truly gone. Or it lives in another dimension maybe. I remember those walks home from 28 with that heavy briefcase of books.
On my trip, I drove around the neighborhood trying to remember where all my old friends lived… on Outlook, Mohawk or Carver Terrace. I drove up your street, Iroquois, to see Kevin Cox’s house, Felice Schwartz and Kevin Glynn at the end of your street. Many kids called Kevin the mean nickname “Gleep” because he was big and fat. The Romano boys probably named him that. I never called Kevin that, he was a nice kid who was always picked on. He was 6 years older than you, so I don’t know if you even remember him.
Your street was so narrow, 2 cars can’t drive by at the same time. It never seemed that narrow to me growing up. A lot of life is like that.
This is a wonderful piece, Paul. I am very often imagining where you are on the road, and how it's going. For all of your readers and viewers, we do get to truly enjoy the trips. As far as Manhattan being my homeplace, I'm constantly trying to understand how change effects me, especially in my neighborhood. Somethings look the same but are not. Billionaire foregin owned rows of village townhouses, reconstructed, but not lived in. Space-savers for what? Others look different but are still whole, if not better to me for the lasting and improving part. The skyline and views, constantly change, a challenge. Losing one's view anytime is not fun. We did 4 years ago. A lot involves noise volume. Where my sanity goes out the window. At least with congestion pricing, the obnoxiously loud sirens get close and move away. I worry less who might not make it to the hospital, stuck for hours in traffic. Siren bullies do exist. The dining sheds, narrowing our streets to one lane. Who with a brain would dine on the sidewalk or worse in the road way? Me, unbearable sense of shuffling over my plate. On the menu: Tailpipe-exhaust-soaked-bread. We find a way to turn off and tune out, and in that space we can find peace, music, creative work, time to play with our cats and each other, and to create nice meals for ourselves and good friends and family. I am always rewarded by your forever powerful relationships to Elko and Santo. Home is wherever our pets' hearts are, their health and happiness, and of all our loved ones, too. See you all soon.
Thanks, Connie. I'm with you on Manhattan, a place I will always love, no matter how I may gripe about it. It could be I need to be somewhere else on that small island off the coast of America, maybe uptown. Either way, life is precious and I'm trying to find my way. See you all soon, hopefully.
Such a memorable & beautiful piece, Paul. "Home is where the squeaky ball is" is one of those glorious lines that holds up as fact & metaphor. I have two true homes of my life: my former ancestral row house in Bayside & the sanctuary apartment I inhabit today. Other places hold sweet & sour memories & I cherish them, but I am happy to have two true homes of the heart. ✌🏼❤️
It's amazing how many places one can live and never really feel like they fit in. Oh, the furniture fits and the years pass with neighbors, workmates, and maybe a coffee buddy, but fitting in, knowing and living the historical culture, understanding how the puzzle covers the table, they still feel like that piece that fell on the floor, leaving a big hole in the puzzle. Interesting questions, Paul.
I keep trying to figure it out, Sue. Maybe that's the wrong path, trying to figure it out. Maybe just need to feel my way through it.
Lots to think about. I'm an Army brat so I've never really had a specific house or a city or town that I call home. When people ask me where I'm from I say Alabama because that's where I was born, but my home town on FaceBook is Columbus, GA because that's where I went to high school. My adopted home town is definitely Grand Junction, Colorado because that's where I decided to move in 1987 at an important time when I was in my 20's. I've spent a lot of time on the road, too, and that's where I seem to be happiest these days. My wife and I put our house up for sale in March and have been living in our new fifth wheel since then, but we need to stay pretty close as long as the house is for sale. Even though we're planning on RV'ing full time, we still plan to buy a place to use as a home base whenever we figure out where that is. Looking to the future, there is the reality of aging as well as the possibility that we might want or need to go back to work. And there are always family considerations for both our older and younger relatives. Well, these details are mostly just an outline and don't really get to the heart of the matter. I'll enjoy pondering these questions and might even try to write something down. Thank you as always for such great writing!
Thanks Jeff. This seems to be a preeminent theme in my life. And yet, I have been rooted in one place for a long time. I think of Hank Williams songs and the urge to wander. Don't know any answers. We're also trying to figure out where is "there." It could be right here. Then again, I have not had coffee yet, so this is all fairly nebulous.
Great story Paul. In fact, I drove up to Yonkers last week to meet with some old Roosevelt HS friends for some pizza at Carlo’s. It took me an extra hour to drive over the George Washington Bridge from my home in suburban Philadelphia. Traffic was murder as they say. I still had 2 hours before meeting my friends, so I decided to just drive around the old neighborhood. First up Primrose Avenue from Central to my family’s home at 25 Bradford Blvd where my grandfather bought the house in 1934 and my dad moved back into in 1963 and moved out of in 1993 to retirement in Charleston SC. I must have rode my bike up this hill a million times growing up to go to Chris’s Deli for some candy. Now driving took too fast, I wanted to look around and see every house, every tree, every kid’s bike laying in the driveway but I couldn’t so I slowed down until I reached my old home. But something was all wrong. The big canopy of maple trees were gone. Growing up the whole street was shady, not a ray of sun could penetrate the thick tree cover, which was great as a kid to climb every tree or play kickball in the shady not sweltering street. I didn’t recognize where I was. I was completely lost. As I drove up to the house, it was also unrecognizable. There were solar panels on the roof, all the azalea bushes around the house were removed, and the beautiful cherry tree on the side of the house was gone. Every year I’d climb this tree to the very top and pick the ripe cherries and eat them until I was sick. You had to pick the cherries when they were ripe but before the birds got to them. I knew exactly when to pick them. It was one of my super powers as a kid. All of these thoughts ran through my head as I sat in shock in my car in the rain across from my old home. No, you can’t go home again Paul. That home was gone.
Thanks, Doug. So strange, isn't it? I wander back up there every once in a while and am not even sure what I'm trying to figure out, but that time and place is truly gone. Or it lives in another dimension maybe. I remember those walks home from 28 with that heavy briefcase of books.
"Or it lives in another dimension maybe." Great line. Why maybe? Definitely.
On my trip, I drove around the neighborhood trying to remember where all my old friends lived… on Outlook, Mohawk or Carver Terrace. I drove up your street, Iroquois, to see Kevin Cox’s house, Felice Schwartz and Kevin Glynn at the end of your street. Many kids called Kevin the mean nickname “Gleep” because he was big and fat. The Romano boys probably named him that. I never called Kevin that, he was a nice kid who was always picked on. He was 6 years older than you, so I don’t know if you even remember him.
Your street was so narrow, 2 cars can’t drive by at the same time. It never seemed that narrow to me growing up. A lot of life is like that.
This is a wonderful piece, Paul. I am very often imagining where you are on the road, and how it's going. For all of your readers and viewers, we do get to truly enjoy the trips. As far as Manhattan being my homeplace, I'm constantly trying to understand how change effects me, especially in my neighborhood. Somethings look the same but are not. Billionaire foregin owned rows of village townhouses, reconstructed, but not lived in. Space-savers for what? Others look different but are still whole, if not better to me for the lasting and improving part. The skyline and views, constantly change, a challenge. Losing one's view anytime is not fun. We did 4 years ago. A lot involves noise volume. Where my sanity goes out the window. At least with congestion pricing, the obnoxiously loud sirens get close and move away. I worry less who might not make it to the hospital, stuck for hours in traffic. Siren bullies do exist. The dining sheds, narrowing our streets to one lane. Who with a brain would dine on the sidewalk or worse in the road way? Me, unbearable sense of shuffling over my plate. On the menu: Tailpipe-exhaust-soaked-bread. We find a way to turn off and tune out, and in that space we can find peace, music, creative work, time to play with our cats and each other, and to create nice meals for ourselves and good friends and family. I am always rewarded by your forever powerful relationships to Elko and Santo. Home is wherever our pets' hearts are, their health and happiness, and of all our loved ones, too. See you all soon.
Thanks, Connie. I'm with you on Manhattan, a place I will always love, no matter how I may gripe about it. It could be I need to be somewhere else on that small island off the coast of America, maybe uptown. Either way, life is precious and I'm trying to find my way. See you all soon, hopefully.
Such a memorable & beautiful piece, Paul. "Home is where the squeaky ball is" is one of those glorious lines that holds up as fact & metaphor. I have two true homes of my life: my former ancestral row house in Bayside & the sanctuary apartment I inhabit today. Other places hold sweet & sour memories & I cherish them, but I am happy to have two true homes of the heart. ✌🏼❤️
thanks, El...