Who Says You Can't Go Home?

I’ve lived in New Hyde Park for over twenty years but part of my heart still belongs to the neighborhood that I grew up in. I come from Ridgewood, an area that lies mostly in Queens but also has a few blocks in the borough of Brooklyn. I grew up on one of those few blocks.

I recently decided to do some shopping back in my old neighborhood. I enjoy browsing the outdoor vegetable stores that carry a wide variety of all the Italian specialties that I enjoyed as a child. The produce is farmer’s market fresh and the prices are reasonably low.

On this one particular trip to Ridgewood, I asked my husband to make a stop down the old block where I was born. I lived across the street from a hospital so I was literally born on that block.

As the car slowly rolled down the street I turned my eyes towards the space where my house used to be. I already knew that I would not find my childhood home still standing since my brother had told me that it, along with several of my neighbor’s homes, had been torn down a few years earlier. The hospital where I was born, needed additional parking facilities for its many employees and visitors and several homes on the block were bought up only to be then torn down for the parking lot.

The car came to a stop directly in front of the small booth that housed the security guard. I turned towards my husband and told him that that was just about where my house would have been. As we were gazing at the open lot, the security guard approached the car. He asked if we were looking for a place to park. When my husband explained that I had grown up on that block and his small booth had replaced my childhood home, the guard looked sadly at me and expressed his condolences. I quickly assured him that it was quite alright and I had known for several months that the house was no longer there. And then we drove down the rest of the block.

I blinked back tears as I thought of my grandfather, who lived on the first floor and my family, who lived on the second floor. A rush of memories followed. The grapevine that hung over the backyard table. The fig tree that was always carefully wrapped to protect it from the winter's cold. The old black tire that hung from the tree when I asked my dad for a swing to play on. The many family barbecues with aunts, uncles and cousins, some of whom are gone.

The house that I grew up in is no longer standing but it lives on in the memories of childhood. Can you ever go back home? Yes, when you walk in the past sweetened by time.