"The Times They Are A Changin'"

It's a quiet neighborhood, so even a soft whisper becomes noticeable.  And since the vague breeze of the whisper had repeatedly come to my attention, I investigated the source of the sound.

I drove down the road and looked at the cause of the murmurs.  The neighbors were right.  The once prime piece of real estate with the extraordinary backyard facing the magnificent woods adjoining the Bethpage Parkway had been totally cleared.  There was no longer a reminder of the trees or vestige of the foliage that once graced the land.  You could now view the traffic on the parkway directly from the road in front of the lot.  Amazing and another sign that "The Times They Are A Changin'."

Immediately, I remembered the first lines of an article I had published over twenty years ago.

"Our house is near the woods, or are the woods near our house."

While my husband and I both loved the home we bought that day so long ago, we also realized that the prime real estate lots, those with the incredible land that flowed into the woods would have been our first choice.  Unfortunately, all that property was sold by the time we arrived in the neighborhood.

The lush woods were a place all four of our children enjoyed.  The two older ones had the pleasure of walking down to "The secret bridge" with their Grandfather whenever he visited.  The younger ones used the trail as a site to build their forts in early years, and later on as a shortcut to school when they missed the bus.  The trail that wove through the woods was a mysterious part of nature changing with each season, and seemingly belonging to all the families whose homes bordered on them.

But things change and so do people.

As I sat in the car gazing out at the now empty lot, I remembered a gift I gave to my Mother when her neighborhood had changed, and she had  been forced to relocate.

Mom was an incredible and complicated lady.  Giving her a gift was always a mixed experience.  I loved pleasing her, but it wasn't easy.  That year I felt I had succeeded.

The gift was an oil painting of the street where I had grown up, and she had spent most of her life.  The picture showed a light in the window on the fourth floor of 450 West 58th Street, and I knew she would recognize it immediately.

It was one of the last years when our extended family was still intact, and holidays were still being spent together in our Massapequa home.  The painting had been framed in Paul Gatto's Studio, and now it was wrapped in gold tissue as I anxiously awaited my Mother's opening of her present.

She removed the tissue, looked at it, closed her eyes briefly, and handed it back to me, saying "I don't want it.  You keep it."

I was hurt, and I didn't understand, but I didn't argue.  And then she said,

"Anne, I don't want to remember."

That was even more confusing, but the remainder of the Christmas afternoon was spent quietly without any mention of the painting again.

That was so very many years ago, and it is difficult for me to realize why it has taken me this long to understand her feelings that day.

But now I sit in my car and stare at the vacant lot that undoubtedly will house a magnificent new home with exquisite landscaping.  I finally realize that if and when the time comes that the home I have loved is gone, I will not want an image of it.  I will not want to look at a location that once was, and remember the life that went on inside.  Rather I will cherish the memories in my heart and prefer not to look back.

Finally, I understand what Mom knew that day, and I was yet to learn.

The heart does have its reasons.