Not Quite a Room… But We Lived There

{Lent always brings the daily discipline of writing for me. Just because. And it’s personal, yet very public. My topic this year: room(s).}

The entry hall as we left the home for the last time

As I was sorting through photos and slides for yesterday’s entry here, I ran across some pictures that reminded me of an odd “room” in our 1820s Liberty Ave. home in Endicott, NY. It wasn’t on my list of rooms when I planned this series (yeah, some of it was planned). But there it was: the un-named room in the front entry hall of the house. Realtors wouldn’t have counted it as an actual room, but with six kids in the family, we spread out through the whole 13 room (not counting this one) house.

The most unique architectural feature of this home was unsupported winding stairway. The entry hall then was two stories high, and while the upper level contained only a spinning wheel, the lower level just inside the front door (and leading to the dining room I described yesterday) served variously as 1) a TV room, 2) Dad’s “office,” and 3) a play room. Not all at once, of course, but over the years we lived there.

I have two memories related to my Dad that spring from that “room.” It was in the hallway there…I remember us standing near the front door…when Dad told me that Grandpa Kellam had died. Dad’s father had been hospitalized for some time, but still… And all I could think of to say (idiot!) was, “No kidding.” Lord, that’s probably one of maybe three things I’ve said that I’d love to go back and erase permanently.

Dad, understandably, was upset at that thoughtless remark. Sternly he replied, “No! I’m not ‘kidding.’ Why would I kid about that!?” I apologized, red-faced. I guess it was probably the first time I’d ever been told of a family death and had no script to follow. But I was a senior in high school and should have had a far more sensitive response.

Dad at his desk in the entry hall

The second memory is related to that one. This was the era of Dad’s desk being in that downstairs hallway, just under the stairs. He was going to call his mother to tell her the news. Now, my grandparents had been divorced since Dad’s childhood, so Dad was trying to put his sorrow into words before he made the long-distance call to Nana. He sat at his desk, and I saw that he had written his script for the call. “Mom, I have some bad news. Dad died this morning.” It wasn’t that he didn’t know how to say it; he was trying to say the sentence without losing his composure, and having a script would help. I saw what he had written and left him to the difficult call. At that point, I did have some sense… finally.

Steve and Kim watching TV, with a view into the dining room from the hallway.

Other days in that non-room, that hall space, were more pleasant. The TV was in there during one period. It kept us kids out of the more lovely living room. I guess Mom and Dad must have watched some programs in there, but I can’t remember any chairs! We kids were used to sprawling on the floor, not only for TV, but for board games too. And homework.

A couple of years ago, I was invited to go back to that home while part of it was being renovated, and I saw the way the winding stairs were constructed. Someone should have gotten a genius award for that design. Awesome.

I guess something to consider beyond my nostalgic look back is this: what have you said in a fleeting moment that you wish you could erase? The wonderful singer/storyteller Steve Goodman wrote a song called “Videotape.” In it, he mused that if his life had been on videotape, he could rewind it and erase his regrets. I know what he was singing about. And you may too.

Note Mom’s caption: Jan and Jill in unusual staircase

Jancye peers from her room at the top of the stairs

 

On the Street Where You Live

[Day 8 of Lent 2022 brings another in my series centering on “place.” It’s my own sense of place, but maybe you will identify. Or, sympathize?]

I know some folks who have lived on the same street or road their whole lives. Or close to it. Most people, however, have moved around, and some so frequently that they might have trouble recalling every address they have called home. Think military families.

My childhood (considered “birth to leaving for college”) was spent along four streets, and three of those addresses were literally within a few blocks of one another. The longest span was a decade on South Liberty Avenue in Endicott, NY. The house was built around 1820 by one of the founding families of the community, and I will write more about in coming days. But today, I just center on the street itself. Here’s what it looked like one winter day, as captured by my childhood Ansco Color Clipper 120 camera.

South Liberty Avenue

Yes, it’s Upstate New York, so there’s that snow. Our house was to the right of this slide. As was common at the time (1950s- 1960s) we knew most of the neighbors. The Stahl family three houses down on the right hosted pick-up softball games on summer nights. Yard clutter made up the bases, teams were most certainly co-ed, and no equipment was necessary, except for a beat-up ball and some old bats.

The Weiss family across the street included a couple of really cute girls. My Mom would encourage me to ask the younger one out, but something told me she was, well, unattainable.

My paper route ran along the left side of the street and extended a few blocks to the east. (Why I had no customers on our side escapes me. The Binghamton Press circulation department had its reasons I guess.) One afternoon as I tossed papers onto porches, two teenaged guys I didn’t know, started a conversation that led to an unpleasant boxing experiment after supper that night. (Looking back, I realize I was being bullied, but it didn’t occur to me at the time.) The guys had some boxing gloves and asked if I’d ever boxed. Nope. You want to learn? “I’ll have to check with my Dad; he might need me to mow the lawn.” Go ask him. OK.

I’m sure I worried about that encounter as I finished up the route. Dad was mowing the backyard, and I told him about the two guys’ invitation. Or dare. “Sure, if you want to,” Dad said. Gulp. Now, I could have just forgotten the whole thing and hoped I’d never, ever meet up with those guys again, but I figured I might as well get it over with and walked down the block. They were waiting for me. They put the gloves on me — in more ways than one. I got hit in the face a couple of times and started to tear up. “Oh, oh. He’s crying,” one guy said. “Are you crying?” The rest of the episode is a blur. They took their gloves back and I went home, physically unscathed, but hurting inside. I’d rather have mowed the lawn.

Looking at the wintry view of the street, I see something you may have missed. See that tree on the left. Or, what’s left of it? Liberty Avenue was lined with huge old maple trees. (I guess they were maple; I was a kid and didn’t know a maple from a myrtle!) Anyway, it made for a lovely streetscape. Until a tree-trimming crew arrived one day and started butchering the branches, leaving many of the trees looking like the massive stick on the left. Dad was incensed. My Dad was a letter writer from way back. He wrote letters to “the editor,” to government officials, even to Thomas J. Watson himself. So, when those trees were so thoughtlessly and amateurly “trimmed” Dad wrote letters. A local newspaper columnist called Dad Endicott’s chief tree lover, something like that, agreeing that the village should set up some sort of tree commission. They did. And shortly thereafter, Dad ran for a local office. Being a Democrat, he lost.

As I reminisce about that street, I realize I could write pages and pages about my neighborhood. But I mention just two things more. One, we lived three blocks north of the Susquehanna River. Dad never learned to swim, so we kids were forbidden to go near the river. I was an obedient son, and regret I never got to explore there or simply watch the river run. And second, just across the street was Union Presbyterian Church. My parents had married there. It was so convenient we couldn’t escape being Presbyterians. My wife and I are active there even now. But that’s another story.

For now, since it seems this whole writing exercise could be a royal waste of time for anyone who’s not me, maybe we can redeem this nostalgic journey with a couple of things to ponder. What was (is?) your favorite street or address or home place? What makes it so special or memorable? Perhaps less positive, do you recall being bullied? Or being a bully? (Maybe you didn’t look like Disney’s skinny Ichabod Crane like I did, and so escaped the abuse, but pushed others around a bit.) How have neighborhoods changed since the days of pick-up softball games? If we have some “mean streets” in our communities, how can we redeem them? Finally, would you be more prone to complain about something on social media, or write a personal letter to a politician, an editor, or some corporate honcho.

Do you even know who Thomas J. Watson was?

 

More on My Home Place

[This is another in my series of reflections on a sense of place, as I write my way toward Easter. I’ve been many places, but it all started in what I know as my “home place:” Endicott, NY.]

This is day 5 of Lent 2022. I’ve previously written of my first homes, and I have more to share about the places I’ve lived. But today, just a note about the neighborhood where (and when) I grew up. I was a block from a lighthouse. Pretty cool, huh? There we were maybe three blocks from the water’s edge. And a lighthouse is always a good thing near sometimes raging waters. Then again…

The photo is one I took recently. The place looks landlocked, doesn’t it? It is. The water I mentioned above isn’t the ocean. It’s the Susquehanna River. And not the wide Susquehanna emptying into the Chesapeake Bay. We’re not far from the headwaters, so the river certainly needs no guiding light for sailors. In fact, I recently read that at 444 miles in length, in the 21st century ours is the longest river in the continental US with no commercial boat traffic. But Endicott has an attractive lighthouse anyway. Since before I was born, that light has been flashing and guiding no one night after night.

My Mom would send me over to Sawicki’s Bakery to bring home some cheese bread or creamsticks before lunch, and right across the street, there was the lighthouse watching. I’d walk past it to the Elvin Theater or to the Union Pharmacy, and the light loomed overhead. As we drive to church now each Sunday, or anytime I happen to be in “the old neighborhood,” there is the lighthouse still standing after all these years — but repurposed.

You see, it used to be a mere gas station. Turns out, the Beacon Oil Company was formed in 1919 in Boston, and named for the city’s Beacon Hill. Their service stations were built with beacons on the roofs. Clever, huh? Eventually, some stations were built to expand on the theme with tall lighthouse features to draw further attention to the beacon symbol, and then Esso took them over.

One night as I walked by, camera in hand, I tried a handheld slow exposure, and this is the result. Our local Esso station is at work, pumping gas, handing out free maps, changing someone’s oil, and giving S&H Green Stamps for one’s purchases. The shutter clicks. And I walk on to peek at a Playboy at the Corner Drug Store magazine rack. (My boss at the rival drugstore didn’t stock “adult” fare. Good thing, or I’d have gotten caught there for sure.)

At one time, many hometowns in New England and New York State had these lighthouse service stations. Most are gone now, but one internet source (always trustworthy <snicker>} says there might be one or two still operating as gas stations. Ours has long since pulled the pumps out, sealed the bay doors, and dispensed with dispensing maps. Nonetheless, look! It still shines!

The staunch architecturally significant Merchants Bank is gone, the theaters demolished, Sawicki’s bakery ovens hauled off, the clothing stores shuttered, and the other imposing tower in the village, the Union Fire Station– razed. But there’s the lighthouse.

As I thought about this post, about reflecting on the neighborhood that sourced my sense of place, I realized that except for that quick moment when I pointed my camera at the local gas station, I hadn’t given much thought to the architecture. It was just there. A thing to pass by on the way to the next thing. I don’t remember my Dad even stopping there for gasoline or an oil check. I paid no more attention to that place than I did to the insurance agency next door or the woman’s clothing store across the street. Hey– I was kid.

But now? That old building is a kind of anchor (seems apt, doesn’t it, that sea reference?). It stands guard over the surviving businesses: the corner drug store, the bike shop, the post office. It stands as a beacon to my childhood, a light still shining over familiar streets, even a landmark. I have no idea who keeps that light blinking every few seconds now. But I am thankful for their stewardship.

Something to consider: was there a landmark or special place that once was home to your childhood? A monument? A big old building you passed by without thinking but now treasure? A pier or park, a view or tree or schoolhouse? I heard on NPR recently that rekindling good memories can help us “deal with the present blues.”

So, enjoy looking back. It’s apparently good for you.