Tag: home

The suitcase retrieval

Nor’easter

NEWLY-PLANNED: Sunday, September 27 – On Friday evening, after I called my wife, my daughter called me to ask what I was thinking about regarding the suitcase retrieval. I had left it on the bus from Syracuse to NYC when I got off in Binghamton.

I thought that there should be a way to send the luggage up by bus, but this would mean more work for Andrea. So I decided I should take a bus to New York City.

My wife and daughter had been in NYC Wednesday through Friday, having seen School Girls or, the African Mean Girls Play (which they loved) and Two Strangers (Carry a Cake Across New York) (great acting, but plot holes).

So, my daughter offered to come to NYC (drive to Poughkeepsie, Metro-North train to Grand Central Station) on Sunday. Wonderful. There was only one potential downside: a Nor’easter was racing up the coast. So, it’s settled; the plan is on.

The point of it all, apparently

On Saturday, I had called my father’s first cousin Ruth, who witnessed firsthand my father coming up my name shortly after I was born. She offered to pick me up Sunday morning and take me to the bus station.

As she and one of her daughters had picked me up quite early,  we talked about family lore, about Raymond Cone, and the resilience of my paternal grandmother Agatha, Ruth watching Leslie and me when we were little, and my father’s amazing creativity, coupled with his utter lack of fiscal restraint.

REALIZATION: Suddenly, I realized why I needed to be in Binghamton the weekend of my dad’s 100th birthday: to share Les stories with people he’s related to.

But what about not seeing 5 Gaines Street (42.107838 latitude, -75.915621 longitude), the house I grew up in that’s now for sale? I had friend Cee and spouse keep the 12:30 pm appointment and share the intel with sister Leslie and me. (Thanks!) I’m not saying either of us would move there, but it is an intriguing concept. Especially for my sister, since the housing costs are so much greater in SoCal.

It’s too bad I didn’t get to go to church at Trinity A.M.E. Zion, the church I grew up in, but I got to ride by it a couple of times; it’s less than two blocks from 5 Gaines. When I went by there on Friday night, a bunch of kids from the church were playing on the lawn, which I found oddly comforting.

Big Apple

NEW PLAN: The bus station in Binghamton does NOT announce or display arrivals or departures. So at 7:45, I went out to look for my 7:55; yup, it was just about to board.  I said my goodbyes and got onto a Trailways bus to the Port Authority Bus Terminal in Manhattan, which, not incidentally, was MUCH more comfortable than those Flix buses I rode to Syracuse and Binghamton. It rained intermittently on the trip, but it wasn’t bad.

Around the same time, my daughter was driving from Albany to Poughkeepsie. It turns out that, because of the counterclockwise winds, the rain from the Nor’easter was worse on the trip down than on the return trip, especially around Woodstock and Kingston. She almost stopped for a time but persevered, reaching Poughkeepsie and taking the Metro-North to Grand Central.

My sense of direction was all out of whack, and I couldn’t figure out how to reach Grand Central. Some official sent me to Penn Station on the 7 subway, but my daughter directed me back.

Suddenly, I wandered to an S shuttle that took me to Grand Central, and my daughter found me. We took the Metro-North. My daughter has quickly become an expert. We needed to take the New Haven line, but really the Stamford subsidiary line to Westchester County.

The ‘burbs

While we waited for Andrea and my suitcase, we overheard a couple of friends who had met at the train stop.  She was a trained dancer hired by a rich Manhattanite to perform at the wealthy lady’s two-year-old’s birthday party. But there were so many other people and stuff that there was no room to dance. The hired Santa assured her that it was a weird, albeit well-paid, gig. The friends realized we had been eavesdropping on their conversation – they were only about ten feet away – when I couldn’t stifle a laugh. They were cool about it.

Finally, Andrea figured out where we were and got me the suitcase. She suggested I be more mindful; noted.  My daughter gave her the wine and chocolate she had bought on my behalf.

We ate at the station, took the line back to Harlem, then took the Hudson line back to Poughkeepsie. My daughter drove us back to Albany. We arrived at 6:40, less than 20 minutes later than I would have if I had taken the bus back to Syracuse, then Albany; oh, yeah, that bus was canceled. How WOULD I have gotten home?

I was exhausted, but still wired. After my wife and daughter went to bed, I noticed I had recorded Sunday Night Football, the match betwen the Los Angeles Rams and the Denver Broncos. About halfway through the first quarter, I fell asleep on the sofa and woke up for the last three minutes, which I watched. It was a great ending to an interesting weekend.

No place like home

1977

The AmeriNZ guy Arthur wrote about No place like home. A core paragraph: “For 24 years, my home wasn’t really a physical place—after all, Nigel and I lived in five different houses in three completely different areas in New Zealand. Instead, for me, ‘home’ was wherever Nigel and our furbabies were. That began to unravel when Nigel died.”

This got me thinking. I’ve lived in 30+ different places. How many of them were actually home? I’m leaving off a few places where I stayed anywhere from four days to two months except one.

5 Gaines Street, Binghamton, NY: the home I grew up in. Even though my room was defined by a partition, the ceiling was a painting of the solar system I commissioned my father to create. HOME.

Scudder Hall, New Paltz, NY (1971-72). A dorm is NOT HOME, though it was a pleasant enough experience. 29 Ackley Avenue, Johnson City, NY (1972). My parents moved there during my freshman year. NOT HOME.

New Paltz

The roach-infested place the Okie and I lived for two months in Kingston, NY (1972), assuredly NOT HOME. Colonial Arms, New Paltz (1972-1974). The Okie and I had people over. My neighbor Debi and I went grocery shopping together. On the other hand, the Okie, without my knowledge, let alone consent, invited people to crash with us for extended periods. HOME-ISH.

13 Maple Street, Binghamton, NY (1975). My grandma’s house, where I had no heat: NOT HOME. Three or four places in New Paltz (1975-76): NOT HOME.

The 1977 sojourn: my parents’ home in Charlotte, NC; my sister’s apartment in Queens, NY; Candid Yam’s sofa in New Paltz; my friend’s place in Schenectady. NOT HOME. The place on Eastern Parkway, Schenectady (1978-79), with two roomies. It may have been Sheila’s home, but for me, NOT HOME.

Albany, NY

First apartments in Albany (1978-80). It had a great sunken living room. But then the house was sold, and we had to move upstairs. NOT HOME.

223 Lancaster Street, Albany (1981-1983). I was working at FantaCo, a short distance away. My hangouts were Washington Park and Lark Street. My neighbors were great, including my friend Jessica and a couple of octogenarians, who gave me their 78s. At least a few times, I threw parties. HOME.

Madison Ave. I moved in because the Lancaster landlord threw everyone out to refurbish it. NOT HOME. 264 Western Ave. with the gospel writers Mark and John. HOME-ISH. The now-boarded-up 437 Second Street I wrote about; that, and the next place, HOME. The first time on Hudson Avenue and Hackett Blvd.: we could not have many guests for reasons. NOT HOME.

Home stretch

I especially liked the second time on Hudson Avenue, where I stayed for over four years. I actually carried petitions for my local city council person and worked the polls. My church and the YMCA, where I played racquetball, were within easy walking distance. Work was easy to get to. And my late friend Raoul had lived in the identical building next door until he died in 1983. HOME.

340 Manning Blvd. This is where my wife and I lived when we first got married. It had been her place before that. One of the rare, valuable things our pastor told us was that we ought to get a place that was ours. I always felt that my stuff, and therefore I, was being squeezed into that place. NOT HOME. Fortunately, I was there for only one year.

My current abode, since 2000. we took months to find a place we liked and could afford. It’s convenient. On ZOOM calls, you only see a small portion of the built-in bookcases. And, of course, our daughter was raised here. Fer sure, HOME.

Home, or the lack of it

what is required

homeI have long had this peculiar ambivalence about the idea of home. It started as a kid. Our dwelling seemed so small, the first floor of a two-story house.

I seldom had my friends over, though I’d go to several of their homes. My bedroom was carved out of the dining room with two walls my father built. When we visited my mother’s first cousins in St. Albans, Queens, NYC, their house seemed like a mansion.

But that wasn’t it, really. My grandma Williams house was hardly roomy. Yet it was the headquarters where her family would congregate. Based on photographs, this was the case for a number of generations.

It may be that my father and mother didn’t own our house, grandma Williams did. And while this didn’t faze me, I think it ate at my father. Why didn’t he buy a house? Was it that he was shut out of the GI Bill’s provisions, as many black veterans were? Could he not find a house to buy in Binghamton?

I have since found out my parents were barred from renting some places there because they were (incorrectly) perceived to be an interracial couple. Or was his upbringing such that he never thought of himself in that role?

Inkwell

Two things brought this to mind. One piece in my brain is this Boston Globe article, “Claiming land and water on Martha’s Vineyard. Inkwell, a historically Black beach in Oak Bluffs, is a resistance.” It’s about a young black woman who bought a home with her brother. And one of the things she wondered about was whether she was worthy to own a house. And not just for her, but for future generations.

Since I never owned a house before my current address – and I lived in 30+ apartments before that – I totally get that vibe. Add to that all of those stories of people who lose their homes, often to fire or flood. I see them on TV. They almost always say, bravely, “At least everyone’s safe,” if that’s true. “We can always buy more stuff.” Except that the loss of a homestead is more than “stuff.”

Or maybe not. Several years ago, there was a young woman on JEOPARDY who noted that she lost her possessions in a fire. She felt liberated. Alex Trebek appeared aghast.

OT

Another stream in my consciousness was a lectionary reading from December 20.2 Samuel 7:1-11. In part: “Go and tell my servant David: Thus says the Lord: Are you the one to build me a house to live in? I have not lived in a house since the day I brought up the people of Israel from Egypt to this day, but I have been moving about in a tent and a tabernacle.”

In our Bible study, we kicked around the idea of what is required in a physical structure, whether in a home or a church. Someone commented, “There is something to be said about the church as ‘home.’ To strike the balance of Church as a welcoming architecture of physical materials, comforting relationship, sense of belonging, and vessel for the holy, is I believe the challenge we face.”

Of course, we haven’t been IN our church building for over nine months. The early church was in people’s homes. So do we need a fancy structure? Surely we mourned when Notre Dame burned in Paris. Or when racists torch black churches. These are not just buildings, but symbols of something greater. My previous church burned down twice in a 30-year period, and they rebuilt the current cathedral-like structure in the midst of the Depression.

In conclusion… well, I have no conclusion. I just have musings about the importance and impermanence of place.

Harriet Tubman Home, Auburn, NY

“The best part of the experience was the gentleman that provided the overview of Harriet Tubman’s life and conducted the tour.”

Vacation, July 18, 2016

The final stop on our summer vacation last year was to the Harriet Tubman Home. You are probably familiar with the heroics of arguably the country’s leading abolitionist. But the house, and its use, is an interesting story too.

“In 1858 New York Senator William Seward” – the future US Secretary of State who helped the US buy Alaska from the Russians in 1867 – “made Harriet Tubman a proposition. He would sell her his property in Auburn, NY for a reasonable price and flexible terms.” This transaction was technically illegal.

“Auburn had a strong abolitionist group and Seward was a well known supporter of the Underground Railroad who Harriet could depend on for funds and shelter for her people.

“Before the Civil War about 500 slaves passed through Auburn on their way north. Tubman knew Senator Seward well as she had used his house as a station many times. She was encouraged to move to Auburn [from St. Catharines, Ontario, Canada] by a long time friend and supporter, Lucretia Mott.

“In 1886 her house was destroyed by fire, none were hurt. Nelson Davis, Tubman’s second husband, was a brick maker and helped rebuild her house. He replaced the original wood structure with brick, making it stronger and longer lasting.

“In order to fulfill her dream to build a home for the elderly Tubman purchased additional land. In 1896 Tubman bought at auction 25 acres of land adjacent to her property located at 182 South Street. The land was sold for $1,450. The AME Zion Church raised funds and with the support of a local bank providing a mortgage Tubman was able to complete the transaction.”

We agree with most of the folk on Trip Advisor, that “The best part of the experience was the gentleman that provided the overview of Harriet Tubman’s life and conducted the tour. He was so very well informed and you could tell truly enjoys what he does in sharing her life with everyone that visits. The tour of the home was good; however, his presentation made this terrific.”

Of course, Harriet Tubman is scheduled to be on the $20 bill at some point before 2024. Harriet died on March 10, 1913, and March 10 is a minor holiday, especially in New York State.