Last month, the eldest child turned sixteen. Years old. Not days or weeks or months, but actual whole years. ‘How is this possible?’ I asked him. ‘Only yesterday I was changing your nappies.’
Son gave me pitying glance and carried on studying the meaning of life, the universe, and everything, though really he knows most of it already. I’m sure that when I was his age, I was completely ignorant in comparison.
His actual birthday coincided with the school district’s March Break, so we decided, pretty much at the last minute, to drive to New York for a few days' mini-holiday.
On our last family trip to the big apple, we stayed in Manhattan, but I remember that as we drove away westward across the George Washington Bridge into New Jersey(thanks, Chris Christie, for leaving it open that day), I related tales of my own childhood visits to New York, to grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles, mostly in Brooklyn. When can we see Brooklyn, children (and husband) asked. So for this visit, I found us a charming apartment in a brownstone house on a quiet street in Bedford-Stuyvesant. I had no preconceived ideas of the place, since during my childhood visits, I never navigated, and only recognized the actual streets on which my grandparents lived. Hancock Street in Bed-Stuy turned out to be lovely, with free parking, the flat three short blocks from the subway. And we saw a lot of cousins.
The actual day of son’s birthday was spent, at his request, touring the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island, which involved taking the subway to Battery Park and showing us one of the reasons people prefer to live in Manhattan. The C train did its job of getting there, but kept us waiting for some time, time enough for youngest child to start counting the rats running past under the rails. Native New Yorkers with tails.
Wonderful day, sunny blue weather, perfect for sitting on the top deck of the ferry. The kids loved it all, the statue, the Liberty Museum, the Ellis Island tour. For me, Ellis Island was a sort of pilgrimage site. My maternal grandparents alit there as children coming from Eastern Europe, from Russia or the Ukraine. The story my grandfather told me is that he crossed the Atlantic on the Lusitania, but that would have required him to embark from Liverpool, which seems unlikely. I have not yet traced his landing but my grandmother’s arrival and transit are documented. Their names are both on the Ellis Island Wall of Honor. New York is part of my life history. One of the pleasures of living in Toronto (I keep having to count them) is that New York is now a (long) day’s drive away.
We also spent a couple of hours at MoMA, which conveniently is open late and is FREE on Friday evenings. (I heart New York.) From there, we eventually found a legitimate taxi, narrowly avoiding kidnap by one of the meter-less shiny cars that scoop you up and demand an exorbitant fee, which took us to a great Spanish restaurant on the Upper East Side, one recommended by cousins, and at which we were joined by another cousin and my niece. The birthday concluded with a stop at Dylan's Candy Bar, a colorful emporium with every sort of sweet imaginable, and handily open until 11:00 pm.
We began that next day with a perfect brunch in my niece’s charming apartment in trendy Williamsburg, and then a guided wander through her neighbourhood. After that, just the five of us again, we embarked on a trip down my Brooklyn's Memory Lane, making a pilgrimage to the two apartment buildings where my grandparents had lived during my own childhood. The first, 781 Eastern Parkway, is where my mother grew up. Lately I’ve been spending a lot of time thinking and writing about my mother’s childhood and my grandparents’ experiences. My own children and husband were more mildly interested, but kindly humoured me. On Eastern Parkway we met a woman who now lives in my mom’s former apartment building, a lovely Russian Jew who tried her darnedest to lure us to the Lubavitcher Purim festivities. She wanted to know what my grandparents were called, and in which apartment they had lived. I didn’t remember, but I described it, the long wood-plank hallway running from front to back. ‘Oh, it must be one of the ‘A’s, on that side, she said, gesturing. ‘I’m over there, in B. So, how much rent did they pay?’
The rent, my mother tells me, was ridiculously low, due to municipal control, but eventually, her parents had to move out as the building had no elevator. The new apartment was on Washington Avenue, across from the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens, and that was our next stop. This building, a lovely one but in a dodgier neighbourhood, I remember with much greater clarity, since my grandparents lived in it during my teen and early adult years. In fact, in my senior year of university I made a snap decision to visit them there on my own. They sent me the money for plane fare. At least, I believed that was what they intended me to do with the check. I remember that I either called them or asked my mother to call, telling them of my plans. I'm sure of it; I’m almost certain. However when I arrived on the red-eye from California, it turned out they were definitely not expecting me. Fresh from a year abroad studying in England, backpacking around Europe during the breaks, I had lost the habit of advance planning, and perhaps of courtesy.
When my grandparents did not turn up at the airport to meet me (as they had always done in the past), I found a bus to Brooklyn,but had no clear idea of exactly where I was going and had not thought to bring a map. When I descended from the bus, in the predawn dark, the streets were deserted. (And they were mean streets.) No convenient subway entrance presented itself, but a taxi did. I gave the address but also warned that my funds were limited, so the taxi dropped me some distance away from my destination and pointed out the route. ‘Be careful,’ the driver warned. At least by then it was light. I lugged my suitcase and myself to 1035 Washington Avenue. The doorman was not on duty that morning; the building could only afford to hire him a few days a week, giving the burglars free reign the rest of the time. (My grandparents were either mugged or burgled almost monthly in the last year or two they lived in Brooklyn.) I rang the buzzer to my grandparents’ apartment. ‘Who’s there?’ a scared voice demanded.
‘It's Leslie!’ I said. ‘I’m here!’
‘Go away,’ my grandfather’s voice rattled tinnily. Or maybe my grandmother’s. ‘Leave us alone.’ I stood, puzzled, shivering (it was December) and tired, with my luggage, uncertain what to do, when a woman approached the building and opened the door with a key. I must have looked pretty dishevelled, but also harmless, or just pathetic, because she allowed me in. I found my way to the fourth floor, and knocked on their door.
Now they really sounded petrified. ‘Who is it? Go away!’
‘It’s me! It’s Leslie! Let me in, please.’ By then their near neighbours were roused and one of them came into the corridor, echoing my plea that my grandparents let me in, and allow the rest of the building to breakfast in peace. Emboldened or perhaps embarrassed by the presence of others they finally undid the bolts and opened the door. Two more incredulous faces would have been hard to find. To their credit, they welcomed me and begged forgiveness. The boot was on the other other foot, I came to realize sometime later, but then I graciously accepted their apologies. I was a young idiot.
On that trip, I discovered for the first time how remote Brooklyn was from the island of Manhattan, which, on my several previous visits hadn’t seemed to matter; I went where I was taken, and visited whom I was told, and it was all delightfully exciting and fun. Now, I had become an independent soul and wanted to come and go and see whom I pleased, and my grandparents spent the week beside themselves with worry and responsibility. I can pity them now, but at the time I merely shrugged and laughed and demanded a doorkey.
It was good, this time, with my own family, to go back to Brooklyn and see it afresh. We wandered through the still barren Botanic Gardens in spring sunshine, and I remembered walking there with my grandfather, when the roses were in bloom.
My lovely cousin invited us to dinner at her lovely apartment on the Upper West Side. It is the only family home in New York that is still the same from my childhood. Nothing else remains but the buildings themselves. And the Botanic Gardens. A strange realization.
It was a long, long time ago.
