A View From

I can’t remember when I didn’t look out a window.

I know it is something few may remember about NYC in the mid thirties, forties and possibly even early fifties, but the west side streets in the city were populated with open windows resplendent with pillows.

Residents routinely enjoyed the not so innocent pastime of people watching. It was an accepted routine especially during the spring and summer months, not ceasing until the cold chill of autumn arrived.

Of course, during those years, there were few telephones, no internet devices and most importantly, no FaceTime and even more importantly than that, no air conditioning during the sweltering summer months.

Window watching was also like the clarion call of communication. Who was home on a weekday, not working? Who was pregnant. Who didn’t appear on the streets at all. Had they unexpectedly moved away? Was someone ill?

There was a tinge of innocence to the activity, and if there were objections from any source, I never heard them.

And yes, as I child. I, too, watched from the fourth floor window as did my Mom and Aunt. My dad, however, never, nor did many of the other men.

Then I moved away, and for decades never looked out a window. I was far too busy inside the house, and had little interest in the outside world.

Our little White House was situated on a small piece of land originally called Triangle Place because of its location. It was an ideal spot for looking out the window when that time in my life arrived.

However, I never opened the Anderson window and no longer leaned out on a pillow. Instead when the loneliness invaded the once overcrowded Cape Cod, I gazed directly out the first floor window at the park across the street.

I began to live vicariously again as I had done in childhood wondering about the constant stream of families, athletes and dog walkers that entered the tree lined path into the woods directly across from my home.

I watched elderly couples holding hands and walking slowly not so differently than the neighbors had on the city streets of long ago.

I saw a young man arrive daily before noon, and worried that he had lost his job.

I watched a young pregnant Mother with a toddler and when she no longer appeared, wondered if she had a boy or another girl.

Was I a voyeur or an interested bystander? I guess that depends on your viewpoint.

Then eventually, I moved away, and for a long time stopped looking out any window. I lived in a different climate, not a foreign land, but a remote village where I had never anticipated having a home.

But with another of life’s wonderful and unexpected adventures, suddenly the strange terrain became my refuge. Winter arrived with me and I soon found myself lonely for the strangers I had enjoyed watching coming and going from the park across the street.

Eventually as always spring did arrive, and one sunny morning I pulled up the blinds on the multi paned historic windows lining a wall of my apartment. That’s when I found myself gazing once again at pilgrims enjoying life in my field of vision. There were children tossing a ball, something I remembered from my own childhood, and an elderly couple sitting nearby on a bench quietly holding hands.

And I realized the scene from my window wasn’t really very different than the one on 58th Street half a century ago, or the more recent one on Triangle Place in Massapequa. Just different people; all enjoying the beauty of the world God gave us to share and giving me just a brief glance into their pleasure.