Bronx Nostalgia

Julie and I moved into our Bronx apartment mid-August, 2002. Three years ago - hard to believe it's been that long. Reflecting back alerts the realization that time passes quickly, yet holds so many moments. Like the dreams you have during the seven minutes between hitting "snooze" and actually getting up: behind closed eyes for a brief rest, a lifetime may course.

Here are some snipets of memories:

Move in day. August 16th. It was a steamer. And not clean, backwoods New Hampshire steam. New York City sweat. Bronx sweat. Garbage in the street, urine in the stairwell sweat. The apartment was nice: newly renovated and we were the first to move in with brand new appliances. Tiny, but nice. Fresh paint, new cabinets and linoleum. New bathtub and toilet and little white tiles on the bottom half of the bath walls: as new and naive as we were.

Julie drove out from Oregon with her boyfriend James (from CA) who would be starting at Fordham University in September. Their car broke down somewhere in the midwest and so mom and I moved in solo duo. Man, that was a day. We were in apt. 5D: fourth floor with no elevator. I imagine we were quite the spectacle to the neighbors sitting on the steps at the corner store. Two women hauling mattresses, bureaus, chairs, a table, boxes and boxes and boxes... So many trips up and down, but we managed to finish before sundown. Strong women, we are. Strong and determined. :) J and J made it a couple days later and settled in.

One memory-scent sticks with me, in particular. Julie and I called it the "almost home smell." Walking up Hoffman Street from Fordham Rd, this aroma was always there waiting right at 188th. Maybe it was a combination of the laundromat and the Chinese restaurant, both on that block. In NH, I inhale and smile as I jog past the hay field (especially after a rain or mowing); in NY, I inhaled and smiled walking past 188th. It was a sweet smell. A cozy, fresh-baked bread kind of smell. We loved it, and hopping off the bus or walking back from the train, looked forward to being almost home and smiling.

Our apartment truly became home - a restful place from an often unrestful city. In December Julie found a miniature Christmas tree at the dollar store with white lights built right in. With "A Deep Still Christmas" in the player (lovely Celtic hymns and holiday tunes), I strung a garland of fresh cranberries, and dried clementine slices in the oven. We couldn't afford fancy ornaments, but nature provided just perfectly. We made a small batch of gingerbread to make mini-men ornaments, but ended up eating the dough instead. Our tree would have been crowded by them, anyway, and we both enjoyed the molasses yumminess. I wish I had borrowed a video recorder to capture our little oasis, but it's only in my mind.

Climbing out onto the fire escape easily claims the favorite-wake-up-method award. Originally Julie moved into the room with the escape, but when my dancer friend Megan came to live with us, we traded so that Meg and I could share the larger room. Incidentally, Megan moved to Queens shortly, but anyway, I ended up with the escape and Jules with the cozy nook. Once spring came, the mornings were welcoming, and I would sometimes crawl out the window onto the platform with a pillow to sit on and an afghan to wrap in. There, I'd find an early quietness to rest in before the children woke for school and parents got off to work.

Finding quietness was a definite priority for my sanity in NY. I did grow to love the many people, the rhythms of their movements (particularly of the subway flow: subway rolls, slows, stops; ding, doors open, people walk off, people walk on, ding, doors close; subway rolls), the lights at night, the buildings and architecture, the availability of art and culture, the sound of the cars and voices and music. But I needed quiet moments to just be. In the city you cannot just walk outside and be. Not if you're from the country, anyway. Perhaps city-born folk are so accustomed that they can. But for me the constant presence of others exhausted me. I couldn't walk outside barefoot and do my stretches in the morning air. I couldn't throw on sweats and sneakers and jog along the field.

I went for a run in the Bronx once - carefully dressing so as not to invite anyone, and heading for the paved path along the Zoo and parkway. I was honked at, stared at, whistled at, yelled at, glared at in those few miles more than anyone needs to be in their whole lifetime. (Julie is braver and tougher than I in this regard. A marathoner, she ran the parkway and various other paths several days a week. For me, once was too much.) I quickly learned that it didn't matter how I dressed (whether in sweats, jeans, a dress, or a suit), I was going to be stared at and hollered at. I would be eyed up and down by some, invisible to others. I would be pursued and I'd be avoided.

One group of men brightened my morning walk to the train, actually. They were painters, freshening the facade of an apartment building on 189th, and as I walked toward them one began singing, "Heaven..." the others joined in, "...must be missin' an angel..." and I had to laugh and say good morning. They asked my opinion of the choice of color, and I complimented their work and chatted a moment before walking on. Their attention was gentle. So far from the usual.

Julie and I were the only white girls in our area not affiliated with the university (except through James). We were always met with a, "You mean you just live here?" when we said, "No, we're not Fordham students." Most of the college kids stayed on campus, or took the Fordham van to the train station. Constantly standing out could be tiring, but it also proved useful in getting to know people. They always recognized us. One day I happened to catch the same bus coming home from the train and going to the "big" grocery store later with Julie, and on the second time the driver said, "Hey sweetheart! You're out again?" A tip for getting to know your drivers: greet them with genuine hello and smile, and always say thank you when you get off. Being polite goes a long way. (as a deli server, I know how much a simple please and thank you mean. I truly appreciate customers who have respectful manners.)

There's so much I could share, and I'll write more later because it's good to remember. Let me know if you're curious about anything specific.