Indian Summer, 2016
It's probably not a politically correct term (cultural appropriation?), but, to my generation it is an irresistible reminder of autumns past, when walks home from school turned too warm to wear a jacket and the only question was whether to tie it around your waist or stuff it into an already overstuffed book bag.
For the last six years it has meant the time of year when the neighborhood around Mom's nursing home - a convergence of retired whites and prosperous immigrants from Asia - explodes in an array of pumpkin-colored decorations and scary, "Walking Dead" inspired dolls, trolls and mannequins. My favorite last year as I was walking along the far side of the street, was not much more than a black hat the size of a sock with matching cape hanging beneath It, nailed to the side of a tree. The miniature legs and broomstick were enough to read as a witch crashed in mid-flight.
I woke up this morning curious to return to the old neighborhood. The mild weather had conspired to stimulate some inner circadian clock that demanded I "visit" Mom, or failing that, to at least simulate the experience. I already knew I would not be invited into the nursing home itself. Mom is not there anymore. The staff has moved on. Survivors have no standing. There is no duty to entertain me or make me feel comfortable or to even sit alone in the garden where Mom and I shared so many hours sitting quietly together. I realized even as they were spinning by that those moments would eventually represent our halcyon days.
To put this into perspective, I have to explain that the trip to Flushing typically takes an hour and a half each way. So, basically, for three of the approximately four hours Sis and I were spending each day after work to visit Mom were spent looking out the window of a moving conveyance. I can't speak for Sis, but, I grew to look forward to the trips. They were an adventure. The #7 train, in particular, is a lively and efficient theme park ride that whirls its way through a part of the city I would not otherwise have taken the time to see.
From the moment I got on the train to the moment I left whatever bus line that took me close enough walking distance to the nursing home, I was in a world populated almost entirely by Asian immigrants and their school-aged children. The other large cohort were Mexican-Americans who shared the #7 in nearly equal numbers for much of the way. The Mexican boys were almost indistinguishable from the Asian boys, particularly if you viewed them from the back: brown-skinned youngsters with thick shocks of black hair sticking straight into the air.
The Mexican kids slowly thinned out along the way. They chatted and grinned easily among themselves, almost entirely in their native languages. They would occasionally break out in English. There was very little intermingling, nevertheless, it was always a safe and dependable trip. I never had to change cars because of a bad smell; there was never a "Show-time-Show-time" performance. In six years, I can count the number of performance artists (mainly, mariachi bands) on the fingers of one hand.
All of this took place hundreds of feet above the streetscape below as the #7 was elevated on trestles that spanned the largely low-rise neighborhoods of Woodside, Sunnyside, Corona, and Rego Park before running to ground at Willets Point, home of the old 1964 Worlds Fair grounds.
More often than not, my face would be planted in front of the window of the lead car, looking straight ahead, past the conductor's booth, at the winding track.
I repeated the trip this morning and it was exactly as I'd remembered it. By the time the train arrived at Flushing station I was already experiencing the same emotions: the overwhelming desire to get to the nursing home to maximize my time with Mom. My muscle memory kicked in and I found myself climbing the exact same escalator for the exact same reasons I had begun climbing it this time last year, to be on the same side of the street as the #15 bus. The #15, as I'd discovered some five years into Mom's stay, left more frequently, but let me out a little further away than the #16. So, to minimize my waiting time I had begun the habit of checking the #15 bus stand first.
I did it again this morning even though there was no earthly reason for me to be in a hurry. No earthly reason.
As it happened, the #15 was still loading passengers and I ran a little bit to take up the rear. As I've mentioned elsewhere, this new bus route was a little less scenic than the normal one. But, I justified it on the basis that even fifteen more minutes at Mom's bedside before a PA came in to change her diaper or to give her a bath was well worth it. The fact that there was no longer the same justification did not register with my lizard brain. As far as it was concerned, Mom was still alive.
I marveled at the familiar landmarks: The little Murray Hill railroad station, not much more than an excavation dig in the ground that I'd figured out years before stood almost exactly midway between the nursing home and Flushing Hospital, the scene of so many emergency room visits; Bayside Avenue where the #15 and #16 intersected; and, finally, Willets Point Avenue, one of the northern most east-west crossing points in Queens.
From there it was a brisk half-mile walk through a well-kept, lower middle-class neighborhood of ranch-style homes. I seldom saw people on the street. Occasionally someone would be walking a dog. This morning was no different. Through the trees, I could see the outer edges of the nursing home's beige brick façade and remembered that Mom's last room faced the street side of the building.
I wondered if I could recognize which window it was. But, I never got that far. It was too soon. There were still people there who would recognize me and I would have to talk to them; I could see one of the old geezers now in his familiar wheelchair from half a block away. I thought about taking a snapshot, just of the old neighborhood. But, for some reason it had lost its old festiveness. Sure, there were a few pumpkins strewn around and a Jolly Roger flag flew inexplicably from one doorstep, but, nothing like the old gung-ho spirit that used to mark them. Maybe, the children of the families had grown up or become too cynical for these conspicuous displays of Americanism.
I settled for a quiet take-out of MacDonald's fries and two cheeseburgers and sat on a bench in front of the garden apartments across the avenue. From there, I could see whoever entered or left the old neighborhood without being seen myself, sharing practically the same breezes and sounds overhead as Mom and I would have had on a day like this. I contented myself with watching a young Asian mailman making his deliveries. He was still wearing his summer uniform consisting of walking shorts. He had enormous calves and didn't seem to mind my staring at him as he went from door to door in the apartment complex. A flock of pigeons appeared out of nowhere above the trees. I knew exactly where they were heading. Someone was throwing breadcrumbs in the nursing home courtyard.
For the last six years it has meant the time of year when the neighborhood around Mom's nursing home - a convergence of retired whites and prosperous immigrants from Asia - explodes in an array of pumpkin-colored decorations and scary, "Walking Dead" inspired dolls, trolls and mannequins. My favorite last year as I was walking along the far side of the street, was not much more than a black hat the size of a sock with matching cape hanging beneath It, nailed to the side of a tree. The miniature legs and broomstick were enough to read as a witch crashed in mid-flight.
I woke up this morning curious to return to the old neighborhood. The mild weather had conspired to stimulate some inner circadian clock that demanded I "visit" Mom, or failing that, to at least simulate the experience. I already knew I would not be invited into the nursing home itself. Mom is not there anymore. The staff has moved on. Survivors have no standing. There is no duty to entertain me or make me feel comfortable or to even sit alone in the garden where Mom and I shared so many hours sitting quietly together. I realized even as they were spinning by that those moments would eventually represent our halcyon days.
To put this into perspective, I have to explain that the trip to Flushing typically takes an hour and a half each way. So, basically, for three of the approximately four hours Sis and I were spending each day after work to visit Mom were spent looking out the window of a moving conveyance. I can't speak for Sis, but, I grew to look forward to the trips. They were an adventure. The #7 train, in particular, is a lively and efficient theme park ride that whirls its way through a part of the city I would not otherwise have taken the time to see.
From the moment I got on the train to the moment I left whatever bus line that took me close enough walking distance to the nursing home, I was in a world populated almost entirely by Asian immigrants and their school-aged children. The other large cohort were Mexican-Americans who shared the #7 in nearly equal numbers for much of the way. The Mexican boys were almost indistinguishable from the Asian boys, particularly if you viewed them from the back: brown-skinned youngsters with thick shocks of black hair sticking straight into the air.
The Mexican kids slowly thinned out along the way. They chatted and grinned easily among themselves, almost entirely in their native languages. They would occasionally break out in English. There was very little intermingling, nevertheless, it was always a safe and dependable trip. I never had to change cars because of a bad smell; there was never a "Show-time-Show-time" performance. In six years, I can count the number of performance artists (mainly, mariachi bands) on the fingers of one hand.
All of this took place hundreds of feet above the streetscape below as the #7 was elevated on trestles that spanned the largely low-rise neighborhoods of Woodside, Sunnyside, Corona, and Rego Park before running to ground at Willets Point, home of the old 1964 Worlds Fair grounds.
More often than not, my face would be planted in front of the window of the lead car, looking straight ahead, past the conductor's booth, at the winding track.
I repeated the trip this morning and it was exactly as I'd remembered it. By the time the train arrived at Flushing station I was already experiencing the same emotions: the overwhelming desire to get to the nursing home to maximize my time with Mom. My muscle memory kicked in and I found myself climbing the exact same escalator for the exact same reasons I had begun climbing it this time last year, to be on the same side of the street as the #15 bus. The #15, as I'd discovered some five years into Mom's stay, left more frequently, but let me out a little further away than the #16. So, to minimize my waiting time I had begun the habit of checking the #15 bus stand first.
I did it again this morning even though there was no earthly reason for me to be in a hurry. No earthly reason.
As it happened, the #15 was still loading passengers and I ran a little bit to take up the rear. As I've mentioned elsewhere, this new bus route was a little less scenic than the normal one. But, I justified it on the basis that even fifteen more minutes at Mom's bedside before a PA came in to change her diaper or to give her a bath was well worth it. The fact that there was no longer the same justification did not register with my lizard brain. As far as it was concerned, Mom was still alive.
I marveled at the familiar landmarks: The little Murray Hill railroad station, not much more than an excavation dig in the ground that I'd figured out years before stood almost exactly midway between the nursing home and Flushing Hospital, the scene of so many emergency room visits; Bayside Avenue where the #15 and #16 intersected; and, finally, Willets Point Avenue, one of the northern most east-west crossing points in Queens.
From there it was a brisk half-mile walk through a well-kept, lower middle-class neighborhood of ranch-style homes. I seldom saw people on the street. Occasionally someone would be walking a dog. This morning was no different. Through the trees, I could see the outer edges of the nursing home's beige brick façade and remembered that Mom's last room faced the street side of the building.
I wondered if I could recognize which window it was. But, I never got that far. It was too soon. There were still people there who would recognize me and I would have to talk to them; I could see one of the old geezers now in his familiar wheelchair from half a block away. I thought about taking a snapshot, just of the old neighborhood. But, for some reason it had lost its old festiveness. Sure, there were a few pumpkins strewn around and a Jolly Roger flag flew inexplicably from one doorstep, but, nothing like the old gung-ho spirit that used to mark them. Maybe, the children of the families had grown up or become too cynical for these conspicuous displays of Americanism.
I settled for a quiet take-out of MacDonald's fries and two cheeseburgers and sat on a bench in front of the garden apartments across the avenue. From there, I could see whoever entered or left the old neighborhood without being seen myself, sharing practically the same breezes and sounds overhead as Mom and I would have had on a day like this. I contented myself with watching a young Asian mailman making his deliveries. He was still wearing his summer uniform consisting of walking shorts. He had enormous calves and didn't seem to mind my staring at him as he went from door to door in the apartment complex. A flock of pigeons appeared out of nowhere above the trees. I knew exactly where they were heading. Someone was throwing breadcrumbs in the nursing home courtyard.