You Can/Can't Go Home Again
Jun. 21st, 2020 05:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
vanillafluffyNostalgia has overtaken me of late. Today I began by reminiscing about my Dad...who'd be 110 this year if he was still around. He was 50 when I came along--I blanche at the thought of having a ten-year old on my hands at this stage of my life, but he was a good dad. He took me along with him for things like going to pick up his weekly paycheck from Gulf Oli (this was back in the days were a fellow could work for the same company for thirty-five years and retire with an actual watch, a Seiko), or to the driving range to watch while he shot buckets of golf balls relentlessly toward Jersey.
He golfed in a league over at Latourette Park, The Early Birds. He almost made it seem as if the crack of dawn was the only sensible time to play golf...his hardy Norwegian soul didn't mind a nip in the air or a little dew as the world awoke around him.
I never thought to ask how he got into golf in the first place, but I rather imagine it was my Aunt Ruth's husband, a Norwegian rug merchant. My uncle-in-law grew up in Norway and always had an accent. He and Dad played together often--in fact he and Aunt Ruth retired to a lovely neighborhood only blocks from a gorgeous golf course bordered by a green belt where Day and I went for long walks through the woods looking for stray golf balls.
When Dad retired to the Sunshine State, of course, they came down to visit most winters. Most of the Northern relatives stopped by at least once, although I wasn't enamored of all the cousins. Too damn prissy. Most of my aunts' offspring were much older than I--they were in college when I was in elementary school, so I never got that cousinly clique thing.
But knowing how much my dad and uncle-in-law hung out, I can imagine my uncle sawing to my dad, "Harry, you'd be good at this, you should give it a try." Because my dad was an athlete--he was scouted by a pro sorts team in his youth--but because he was a minor, his parents had to consent, and his minister father refused. Said he'd be sinning by playing baseball on Sunday, oh the horror! So golf? Yeah, sure. I never actually went along for a game, but I knew how far he could whack those balls on the driving range!
And then, because the nostalgia was still upon me, I went into Google Earth and looked up the street where I grew up til I was 13. First I had to find it--I haven't been on Staten Island for any length of time since the 90's. Finding landmarks was crazy! There's the Expressway!...follow that...aha! PS 44! Okay, we're getting close! There! That's St.. Michael's! Meaning we're on Harbor Road...okay, wide street, big traffic, that's Forrest Avenue...back up a block. I observed a swathe of green, and clicked.
I was sickened; most of the trees are GONE. What's left is about 40%...still, it's providing a lot of canopy in an otherwise barren street. It looked so tiny for the Kingdom of Childhood. The house, always white trim on grey slate sliding, is now cream on putty. No cars in sight...I wonder who got the house? Who's left of the dynasty I grew up among? Would anyone who lives on the block remember any of the folks I do? Who owns? Who rents?
Of course, the logical next stop was Florida, which was so much easier to find! Highway 528, so south, there's the school, the church...that's where the roads S-curves, I could drive that blind-folded!
Now, here's the thing. Friends have texted me pix of wht it looks like currently. The new owner ripped out every scintilla of vegetation, fruit trees, jasmine vine, ferns--everything! But when I went in for ground view, I felt a spasm of joy. The street-level pix they have are OLD. I can't say with certainty how old, but definitely prior to 2013, because my old Honda is in the driveway. Looking at the jasmine, I'm guessing summer, as it's past blooming. Studying the lighting and taking into account the clouds banked down south, it looks like afternoon cloudburst is due soon. Likely taken right around this time of year...
Yes, the paint was peeling off--was down to the cinder-block in most places...but the foliage was still there--the lotus bush, the jasmine, the loquat, the ferns. There was the brink wall I installed to expand the front porch! Yes, the lawn needed mowing--it always did!--and the trashcans were in plain sight--but even though it was junky, it was my junk. It was HOME in a way this sardine can will never be.
I know the neighborhood was pretty sketchy by the time I left, but I remember the glory days. before it fell to flippers, back when I knew the names of my neighbors because they owned their houses and weren't renters running meth labs and chop shops.
Here the temps are predicted to be in the 90's-100's this week, of joy. The trouble with the desert is, lack of rainfall. I've taken to playing YouTube meditation/music. Most nights I set it to 'Rainfall With Thunderstorm' and let it run for ten hours. Whoosh! Dreamland. How many thousands of tropical nights have I fallen asleep to the sound of rain coming down?
Swamp Thing is getting a house call tomorrow--it's leaking! I suspect it needs new pipes in addition to new pads. I hope it's not going to break the bank! One thing about quarantine--I'm not going anywhere to spend money, so I'm not panicking much.
Apparently, I talk in my sleep--the other day, I woke myself up shouting at someone that "I'm not the US Post Office!" because they asked me to forward something to somebody...I'm still getting junk mail and bullshit addressed to the people who owned this place prior to me--and I've been here for going on four years...ok, three and a half, but still. A while. I wonder if the new tenants of Shadyhill are wondering WTF I am? I'm bound to be on a random mailing list or fifty....
Anyway, here I am. Love to all. Live long and prosper!
...
He golfed in a league over at Latourette Park, The Early Birds. He almost made it seem as if the crack of dawn was the only sensible time to play golf...his hardy Norwegian soul didn't mind a nip in the air or a little dew as the world awoke around him.
I never thought to ask how he got into golf in the first place, but I rather imagine it was my Aunt Ruth's husband, a Norwegian rug merchant. My uncle-in-law grew up in Norway and always had an accent. He and Dad played together often--in fact he and Aunt Ruth retired to a lovely neighborhood only blocks from a gorgeous golf course bordered by a green belt where Day and I went for long walks through the woods looking for stray golf balls.
When Dad retired to the Sunshine State, of course, they came down to visit most winters. Most of the Northern relatives stopped by at least once, although I wasn't enamored of all the cousins. Too damn prissy. Most of my aunts' offspring were much older than I--they were in college when I was in elementary school, so I never got that cousinly clique thing.
But knowing how much my dad and uncle-in-law hung out, I can imagine my uncle sawing to my dad, "Harry, you'd be good at this, you should give it a try." Because my dad was an athlete--he was scouted by a pro sorts team in his youth--but because he was a minor, his parents had to consent, and his minister father refused. Said he'd be sinning by playing baseball on Sunday, oh the horror! So golf? Yeah, sure. I never actually went along for a game, but I knew how far he could whack those balls on the driving range!
And then, because the nostalgia was still upon me, I went into Google Earth and looked up the street where I grew up til I was 13. First I had to find it--I haven't been on Staten Island for any length of time since the 90's. Finding landmarks was crazy! There's the Expressway!...follow that...aha! PS 44! Okay, we're getting close! There! That's St.. Michael's! Meaning we're on Harbor Road...okay, wide street, big traffic, that's Forrest Avenue...back up a block. I observed a swathe of green, and clicked.
I was sickened; most of the trees are GONE. What's left is about 40%...still, it's providing a lot of canopy in an otherwise barren street. It looked so tiny for the Kingdom of Childhood. The house, always white trim on grey slate sliding, is now cream on putty. No cars in sight...I wonder who got the house? Who's left of the dynasty I grew up among? Would anyone who lives on the block remember any of the folks I do? Who owns? Who rents?
Of course, the logical next stop was Florida, which was so much easier to find! Highway 528, so south, there's the school, the church...that's where the roads S-curves, I could drive that blind-folded!
Now, here's the thing. Friends have texted me pix of wht it looks like currently. The new owner ripped out every scintilla of vegetation, fruit trees, jasmine vine, ferns--everything! But when I went in for ground view, I felt a spasm of joy. The street-level pix they have are OLD. I can't say with certainty how old, but definitely prior to 2013, because my old Honda is in the driveway. Looking at the jasmine, I'm guessing summer, as it's past blooming. Studying the lighting and taking into account the clouds banked down south, it looks like afternoon cloudburst is due soon. Likely taken right around this time of year...
Yes, the paint was peeling off--was down to the cinder-block in most places...but the foliage was still there--the lotus bush, the jasmine, the loquat, the ferns. There was the brink wall I installed to expand the front porch! Yes, the lawn needed mowing--it always did!--and the trashcans were in plain sight--but even though it was junky, it was my junk. It was HOME in a way this sardine can will never be.
I know the neighborhood was pretty sketchy by the time I left, but I remember the glory days. before it fell to flippers, back when I knew the names of my neighbors because they owned their houses and weren't renters running meth labs and chop shops.
Here the temps are predicted to be in the 90's-100's this week, of joy. The trouble with the desert is, lack of rainfall. I've taken to playing YouTube meditation/music. Most nights I set it to 'Rainfall With Thunderstorm' and let it run for ten hours. Whoosh! Dreamland. How many thousands of tropical nights have I fallen asleep to the sound of rain coming down?
Swamp Thing is getting a house call tomorrow--it's leaking! I suspect it needs new pipes in addition to new pads. I hope it's not going to break the bank! One thing about quarantine--I'm not going anywhere to spend money, so I'm not panicking much.
Apparently, I talk in my sleep--the other day, I woke myself up shouting at someone that "I'm not the US Post Office!" because they asked me to forward something to somebody...I'm still getting junk mail and bullshit addressed to the people who owned this place prior to me--and I've been here for going on four years...ok, three and a half, but still. A while. I wonder if the new tenants of Shadyhill are wondering WTF I am? I'm bound to be on a random mailing list or fifty....
Anyway, here I am. Love to all. Live long and prosper!
...