I have always been sentimental, I take after my grandmother,
but I find I have become even more so since I have been sick.
I have been thinking a lot about growing up
in the Bronx and also in Manhattan, where my grandparents lived and where I spent so, so
much time. The city was an ideal place for a child like me, independent and
curious.
There was always something to
do and, luckily for me, there was usually someone to do it with.
Two of my childhood cohorts, Hank and Mary, are easily my oldest
friends, going back well over 55 years.
It is amazing how an accident of geography placed us together and yet we
were such a perfect fit. Mary was one
of only a handful of children who lived in our large apartment building, but we
were made for each other, both of us mad for animals, horses especially, and yet content
to spend an afternoon reading side by side or playing paper dolls, even if the
weather outside was fine. She lived on the top floor, I lived on the ground floor. I was sturdy
and tough, she was tiny and delicate and we were inseparable.
Hank’s aunt lived in the building next door and every summer
he was sent to stay with her. He, with
his chipmunk cheeks and adorable, mischievous dimple (which he still has),
arrived in late spring and left in the fall, but oh the fun we squeezed in for
those few weeks every year!
We all
romped, first, directly in front of our respective apartment buildings. Then, as we got older, we branched out to frolicking
around the entire block and into the wilds of the space in the center of that
block, behind the buildings. We called
it the Back Lot and I have to laugh at how barbarous and rough that sounds,
because this was a lovely, middle class neighborhood. It makes us sound like grubby, neglected urchins, when we truly
were closely supervised and strictly raised.
But children love leafy, mysterious places and that is what the Back Lot
was. It was filled with boulders,
ailanthus trees and weedy shrubs, shot through with rocky paths, shortcuts
through the block from one street to another.
A perfect setting for all sorts of adventures. When I think of the kind of misadventures we could have encountered
I shudder. But we never did. It was our own personal playground. The park was off limits for us at that time,
too far for us to go alone (although I, defiant and fearless, frequently sneaked
down to the park that bordered the Harlem River, often dragging my hapless
brother along). The Back Lot suited us
just fine for the most part.
(All the greenery in the middle is our "Back Lot", the wilds of University Heights. The yellow line is the route I took every day from my front door to school.)
There were actually four of us, not just three. Our dear Noel rounded out our particularly
close quartet. He was in my class at Holy Spirit. He was quiet, smart and
made funny faces that made me laugh. I
adored him. We adored him. It is one of
my life’s great sorrows that none of us have seen or heard from him in over
forty years. We have searched online and
found no trace. There have been tantalizing
clues here and there, including the possibility he entered the priesthood, but
otherwise there is nothing. His full
name is relatively common in England, where he was born, and in Ireland, so
that complicates things. We miss him
terribly.
One of our favorite games was acting out scenarios based on 1950’s TV shows, especially the Superman TV series. (We watched A LOT of
television!) It is so funny to think of
now, because both Noel and Hank were sweet and gentle little boys, certainly
not aggressive or in any way dominating, but they were our Supermen, taking
turns in the role. And Mary and I would
take turns as Lois Lane. Maybe I am
being overly nostalgic, but I don’t remember ever quarreling in our weeks and
weeks of playing together every single day.
When the other kids were added to the mix there was inevitably rivalry
and, sometimes, tears. But the four of
us always got along on our own.
Both apartment buildings had roomy courtyards ideal for running
around in and my building had a vast lobby and great open hall on the first
floor that we also took great advantage of.
We always had some fantasy we were acting out, we were a particularly imaginative and creative bunch. We also were
bookish dreamers, which is why I think we were so close. The other kids on our block were not bad, but
they could be bullying and bossy. The
neighborhood at large had a hefty population of Irish Catholics with big
families, but, ironically, our side of the block had a very small proportion of
children, I can only think of maybe ten all together, including our siblings. That was it for two large apartment
buildings.
Our building alone was a great big
L-shaped that contained probably about 50 apartments. My side of the L had the address of 106 W.
179 Street and the other side of the L was 1944 Andrews Avenue. But the majority of tenants were older
people, primarily Irish Catholics and Eastern European Jews, and many of the
later were Holocaust survivors. When the
1940 Census was first available online, you could only access people by
address, not name. So I looked up my Bronx
address because it was easy to find.
Incredibly, several of the wonderful older people I grew up knowing had
lived in the building since 1940, including the couple who lived in the
apartment over ours, the Hartmans. I was
so lucky, because these were like an extended family and they were all very,
very kind to me. They really shaped the
person I became.
The 1940 Census shows our upstairs neighbors, Mr. & Mrs. Hartman, were living there 14 years before my parents moved in. Mrs. Hartman's mother was gone by then and they had no children. They were very, very nice to me, and I shamelessly dropped by for visits with embarrassing frequency. They always treated me to cookies and milk.
Mrs. Clune lived upstairs with her little dog, who she walked, it seemed, constantly. She was a teeny, delicate lady, very sweet, always with a smile. I have no memory of Mr. Clune, who must have died before I was born. Their son was probably in his thirties when I knew him, but I thought he was an old man.
But back to us...our idyll only lasted until we were about 12. My parents moved our family to the wasteland of rural
New Jersey in 1966, where there was literally nothing but our hideous, cracker
box development and cornfields. My
mother didn’t drive and there was nothing within walking distance, not friends,
school, shops or, worst of all, the library.
I don’t think I have ever gotten over it, going from independence and my cherished friends to trapped isolation.
I wish I had pictures of Hank, Mary, Noel and I together,
but we don’t. Almost all the pictures I
have of the neighborhood are as it is today.
A few exceptions are snaps of me in my mother’s arms outside our
building, but facing the apartment house across the street. That was a sumptuous complex with gardens,
sunken living rooms and multiple bathrooms.
Now it is boarded up. Although now
the neighborhood is more family oriented again, the terrible, crime-ridden days
seem to have passed, they left an appalling legacy. The courtyards where we ran and played our
games are locked up, with some gates topped by barbed wire. The cement steps between the buildings that
we used to access the Back Lot have crumbled.
The decorative limestone balustrades that lined the front steps of our
apartment building have been demolished and replaced with cinder blocks. Crime is less, but shabbiness and poverty
exist where pride of place ruled before.
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| The building I grew up in; no gate or barbed wire in my time. The first two windows to the left were my bedroom. |
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| The other side of the building. There used to be grass and decorative wrought iron fencing where those concrete slabs are now. |
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| The space between our building and Hank's; the steps are all crumbled and broken now. |
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| The gate enclosing the courtyard of Hank's building. |
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| The beautiful building across the street from ours, the gardens are now all boarded up. |
My mother and I took a trip in to see the old neighborhood
about 14 years ago, with a friend from the Internet who had gone to my grammar
school and his wife. We had such a nice
day exploring, even got to go into Holy Spirit school, as CCD was being taught
that day and the school was open. It was
like a time capsule, absolutely immaculate, from the shining wood floors to the
bright, windowed classrooms. It was so
good to see, and I am glad I had the chance, as the Dicosese of New York is
shutting it down this month. It is a
disgrace that a school which has been in operation for almost 100 years is
being closed and the education of inner city children, who are the most vulnerable, is being
sacrified. For shame.
It goes without saying that Hank and Mary grew up to be just
as wonderful as they were when they were kids.
Mary is a devoted mother of a large extended family.
She still has a big, sensitive heart and a special love for animals.
Hank is a loving, loyal friend and he works
hard to make a difference in this world (here is a
link to his website).
Life and geographical distance prevent us from seeing each other as we
would like, but, especially since I have been sick, they never fail to remind
me how important I am to them and how I am in their thoughts and prayers.
One cannot ask for much more than that.
I am so grateful for how my sweet friends enriched my life and I thank you all, Hank, Mary and Noel. I believe somewhere in the universe there is a faint echo of
the laughter and pure delight in life that four children shared together a long
time ago. There is no way that joy, that
simple pleasure in each other’s company, could ever fade away.
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