The home I lived in from age 10 through high school was in Buffalo, New York. Once I left for college, I didn’t return to live there for any time longer than school breaks. When my parents bought the house, it was a financial stretch though it was a relatively modest home, but it was in a solid neighborhood with a good elementary school. Our family had rented a flat up until that time.
The house, built in 1910, was three stories with a basement. The basement was old and dingy with a cement floor and peeling walls. There was a ‘fruit closet’ that was mostly empty, an ancient, enclosed toilet that I never tested whether it worked or not, a poor attempt to make a little playroom in the front with linoleum on the floor and paneling on the walls. It was so unappealing that not much activity went on down there except the usual laundry that arrived through the chute from the second floor.
Another feature the house had was the small door that opened from the outside for the milkman to deliver the milk. It would be left on a shelf between that door and an inside door. In those days we weren’t aware of security issues.
The first and second floors were characteristic of that time. On the first floor there was a bright, windowed sunroom, a large and gracious living room and dining room, a relatively small kitchen with basically no updates before or while we lived there and a cozy dinette area that looked out onto the tiny backyard. Tiny is a relative word because it didn’t feel that way when I was a kid…especially when I mowed the lawn with the rotary mower. Thinking of the backyard reminds me that there was a small patch of four-leaf clovers; I guess it was symbolic of how fortunate I felt to have grown up in that house! The second floor had a small central hall with three bedrooms off it, a tiny master half-bath, and a full bathroom.
On the third floor was a bedroom with its full bathroom, the tub being the original one on feet. My sister, who is just 14 months older than I, occupied that floor, which also had an eaved storage area. We would sometimes explore the things in that space and found treasures like our father’s World War II Eisenhower jacket, our mother’s fencing sword that she used on her college team, elaborate costumes from unknown occasions. It even had the heavy living room window valances that were taken down when we moved in, as well as the glass French doors that separated the front sunroom from the living room. I always felt it would have been special if they had remained on the first floor instead of the attic.
My sister and I had our own bedrooms for the first time. My first-generation maternal grandmother lived with us so we were a three-generation household. She emigrated from Russia around 1900 and only spoke Yiddish and, of course, my mother did, too. It wasn’t always easy since my father and my grandmother couldn’t communicate; not only was language a barrier, but the cultural differences were vast. It was many years later that my mother shared how difficult it was for her to be in this situation. For me, the experience of having had my grandmother in my everyday life brought a richness that I appreciated later in my life.
It was a home in which I always felt safe and loved. Holiday meals with extended family were always hosted by my parents. In retrospect, however, I am not sure I felt comfortable having my friends over since my grandmother was so elderly and so different from their grandparents who were born in this country.
When I was 14, my father died suddenly during the night from a heart attack and things certainly changed. Though this was life altering in many ways, my home was my refuge during those early days of loss. I couldn’t wait to return to it each day after school and feel comforted just by being with my mother and sister.
Three small family weddings took place at that home. My first cousin was to have a large wedding in Buffalo but, tragically, her brother was killed by a drunk driver just days before. A very small ceremony took place in our living room, since our religious tradition encourages those involved to go on with the wedding. My sister was married in the house and my wedding followed two years later under a tent in the small backyard.
Once I was married and moved away, I would return with my family for visits. It always felt welcoming and familiar since my mother had made no real changes over the years. I could see, though, how it had aged. My mother lived alone and was aging as well. I felt some sadness with these visits and hoped she would move to an apartment where she was able to be safer, perhaps. She refused to make the change and remained there until she was 95 when a stroke forced her to give up the house.
The house had years and years of memories for me but when it was time to sell it, I was ready. I understood that it was the end of a chapter. Each time I return to Buffalo to visit the cemetery, I drive down Chatham Avenue and pause to ‘pay my respects’ to the place that was also a family member!
I have always been a homebody and maybe it is because of those early years when I felt so safe and secure in that house.
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