You can't go home again, Part I

You can’t go home again, so the adage goes, but you can sure as hell try. I’ve observed and experienced a sort of disconnect when someone or someplace ceases to be part of your life for a while, only to re-enter it at a later date. There’s the familiarity, but it’s not the same. Your life has moved on, their life has moved on, new friends have entered your inner-sanctum, replacing those who have left your orbit. Places change, whether it be in terms of demographics or ceasing to exist at all. Perhaps the closest example would be a child who goes off to college and returns home for a visit, only to find that their parents have turned their old bedroom into a den or worse, some sort of S&M dungeon. Sure, that’s the space you’re familiar with, it’s just not yours anymore—you’re on your own.

I’ve written before of my life living on Long Island before my family moved to Georgia (you’re going to have to look into my blog’s archives to find it). But I have yet to write about returning to Long Island for a visit after thirty years. For many years I had wanted to go back, but never did. I don’t remember what spurred me on to seriously consider going back a few years ago, perhaps it was my desire to show my daughter the places where I lived and roamed about as a kid. What I do remember was the initial idea that set my mind in motion about a visit.

My grandfather played any sport that ended with –ball at Baldwin High School on LI. In particular he excelled at playing football and baseball. He died before I was born, but I do have a scrapbook full of old newspaper clippings and other items from his playing days. He was good enough to entertain offers from the Brooklyn Dodgers and the New York Football Giants (not to be confused with the baseball team at the time). Recently my uncle sent me one of my grandfather’s varsity letters and a knit cap of blue and gold (the school’s colors), which have quickly moved into the “most cherished possessions” category as they’re the only items I know belonged to either of my paternal grandparents. After he was killed in a train crash in 1950, Baldwin High began offering an award in his name at their varsity sports banquet at the end of each school year. My aunt and uncle had both attended in the past to present the award, but in 2008 nobody from the family would be going. That’s when I decided it was my turn to do so.

By February, 2008, things were all set: I had made the flight reservations, reserved a car rental, the school knew I’d be on hand to present the award. I wasn’t sure about lodging, but my aunt was gracious enough to let my wife, daughter, and me stay at her place for our week long stay. The morning of June 12 broke early, and I do mean early. My wife had everyone up at 2:30 in the morning to be sure we got to Hartsfield-Jackson International in plenty of time for our flight, which was scheduled to leave at 8 am. Needless to say we got there with plenty of time to spare.

On an aside, if you ever fly on AirTran, be sure to check which gate your flight is departing on when you get to the airport. They’re apparently notorious for changing gate assignments at the last moment from what is listed on your reservations. Because of this, we had to haul ass from one terminal to another at practically the last minute.

My daughter was quite looking forward to the trip, especially the flight—her first. Speaking for myself, I was looking forward to being back in New York, though not necessarily thrilled with our method of travel. Flying combines some of my worst fears, those of heights and dying. My first time flying was back in 1993 traveling from Atlanta to Dallas…through a storm front. Half an hour into that flight we hit a downburst, and you could feel yourself going weightless as the plane was pushed downwards. So my experience with flying wasn’t reassuring prior to our flight to New York.

We pushed back from the gate after a not too long wait after boarding, a wait which still managed to bring protests from my ever patient daughter. The wait on the taxiway was short, too, and before we knew it we were airborne. My daughter loved watching things on the ground get smaller and smaller as we climbed to altitude. Me, not so much. I think I may have asked her to close her window for a little bit. I’m okay once were at 35,000 feet, as you can’t see any details that giveaway how high you are. The flight landed at LaGuardia a little earlier than scheduled. As we rolled down the runway, we passed the “Welcome to New York” embedded in the grass on the right hand side. I turned to my wife and quietly said, “I’m home,” and it felt good to be back and under happier circumstances. My prior visit to New York was for my grandmother’s funeral in May, 1978.

While planning our trip, I made a vow to avoid the Long Island Expressway at all costs. It seemed that every other day there was a story on Newsday’s web site (back when they didn’t charge you for their crappy content) about yet another serious accident. Not long after we got our rental car, while looking for the Northern Boulevard, I made one wrong turn and wound up, of all places, on the LIE. Crap. It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. Sharing the roads with crappy drivers in a college town more than adequately prepared me for New York traffic. I followed the signs to Uniondale, the place where my family had lived. After stopping for lunch, we found ourselves on a road I was finally familiar with: Front Street. I knew that road would take us right to our first destination, that being California Avenue School. I hadn’t been inside the school since I walked out on the last day of class in June, 1974. It was very nice to be walking the halls again, but everything was so much SMALLER than I remembered. From there we drove over to my old neighborhood, and got to see not only our old house, but one of our neighbors who still lived next door. She didn’t recognize me at first, obviously, but once I told her I had lived next door her eyes lit up. We had a wonderful time talking and getting caught up, and my daughter enjoyed playing with her Scottish terrier, Angus.

From there we visited the park where the school I attended kindergarten once stood. It was torn down in 1972, a year after I finished there. I had heard stories that the park’s main building had pictures inside of the old school, but that wasn’t to be. The afternoon was getting away and it was time to drive to Long Island’s north shore to my aunt’s house. We passed a Modell’s along the way, and I made a mental note that we needed to stop there before we left. My aunt was waiting for us when we parked in front of her house. I hadn’t seen her in thirteen years, and, again, this time was for a happier reason. The last time I had seen her was at the end of 1995 for my father’s funeral. We unloaded our bags, and walked a block to the beach, which is different than what you’d expect. Instead of sand, the beach is covered in small but smooth rocks. The current there doesn’t bring sand to the shore as it does on the southern side of LI. I took a number of pictures on the beach as the sun began its descent to the horizon. I was also planning what I wanted to see and show my family, and where to go.