Reflections on Throop St (3/19/10)

(These are the notes I took when I visited the house my Grandmother lived in, on Long Island. I'm writing a whole piece that requires research on her life in New York, which I never asked her about. It was a strange moment. Shout out to the kids who so generously took the time to drive me there. I feel like a detective, or a ghost whisperer, or a jigsaw puzzle piecer...)

Red shutters. The paint looks fresh-ish, but since the pictures are black and white who can tell. There's a porch and bench that weren't there. Additional. New.

The neighborhood feels quiet and safe, just what first generation Americans would want. It's miles away from the city. Wide streets, lawns with scratchy grass. They didn't have a dog here yet, so it was more about appearances. The next logical step. A roof that covered just your space, and not dozens of other apartments. Something that was yours. There is a garage, but I don't know if they had a car. It's small. Maybe one bedroom. Four kids here. Maybe they rode bikes. Was anyone old enough? Did she make my pillowcases on this island, the other, or was that all much later?

The shift from the city is extensive. From here to Delaware was probably easier. Of course it wasn't easy moving pregnant. How do you make love in a one bedroom house with four kids under the age of 10? It's nice here. Maybe what she always wanted.

Ghosts here. Ghosts of what I never didn't remember. It's lingering, but mostly its faded and quiet now. I'll ever really get the answers I want.