We chose the lot in Village on the Green because it sat across from the park, right in the middle of the row of flat-roofed attached houses in Haverstraw, New York.
“Wings are like dreams. Before each flight, a bird takes a small jump, a leap of faith, believing that its wings will work. That jump can only be made with rock solid feet.” –J.R. Rim
The year was 1966. Ernie and I were young marrieds with two sons—Ernie, 4, and Randy, a few months old. One weekend we drove about forty minutes north of where we grew up and now lived to look at houses.
It was love for me the minute I walked into the model and saw all the windows—back and front. And the newness of it all. Bright, shiny, open, airy–$18,990 the brochure said. Three bedrooms, 1 ½ baths. Patio homes encircling a four-acre park. The green-and-white brochures showed neighbors gathered around a BBQ—a promise of friendliness, children playing, family, happiness.
After we made the purchase, I was excited each weekend when we drove up the Thruway, across the Tappan Zee Bridge and a half hour north to Haverstraw to see the builder’s progress: foundation, bricks, floor, walls rising up before us.
I have a picture of our four-year-old in his chesterfield coat and little fedora hat, walking through the partially finished house, two-by-four framing separating the rooms, holding a rolled-up paper in his hands as if he were the architect inspecting his creation.
Each time I walked through the rooms, I decorated them in my mind’s eye.
Our first real home together, and we were only twenty-three. The future was all before us—flawless, ideal. We would be free to live the way we wanted, without the encumbrance of Ernie’s parents’ interference and the stigma of my parents’ alcoholism. Free.
We had only seen a lot number on the map. It wasn’t until later that we found out that the house number was 138—the same exact one as where we lived now. Surely a good sign. We had been happy in our cozy little one-bedroom apartment on Alexander Avenue in Yonkers.
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We lived in Village on the Green for thirteen years. Memories flash before me of those years. I see a young couple moving in, with a ten-month-old baby and a four-year-old. I see the husband working twelve-hour days, six and seven days a week, in order to furnish their first home. I see a wife poring over decorating magazines, and so appreciative of her husband’s hard work that she has home-cooked meals ready when he gets home and makes sure he gets his sleep without the kids waking him.
I see the wife in this one-car family struggling with the reality of living far away from family and friends, but eventually meeting neighbors and going to neighborhood parties, but always enjoying their time together the most. I see yearly Halloween gatherings in the park with homemade costumes and the kids in the neighborhood wondering who would win best costume that year. I see their oldest boarding the bus for kindergarten, and the mother waiting at the school bus stop for his return, day after day, year after year. I see the young mother having play dates with her friend up the block and her two boys.
I see many Christmases in that house: the boys waking their parents, who then went downstairs and lit the tree while the kids waited at the top of the stairs. I see the looks of surprise and delight on the boys’ faces as they come down and see the tree lit up and their toys beneath it.
I see the fresh-faced twenty-seven-year-old freshman heading off to community college when her youngest boards that school bus. I see this same mother discovering a sense of herself—finding that she does well in school, is stimulated by it, joins the editorial staff of the school newspaper and writes columns for it. It’s the 60s and she finds she is passionate about the issues of the era, writes articles about them. In all her endeavors, she is encouraged by her husband.
I see him do well too at his job with GM—promotion after promotion. He travels to Detroit on a special project and she is so proud of him. They have their problems too, like any other young couple making their way, but they manage to iron them out. I see one memory that always will bring a smile to her face and always remind her of his love: she is upstairs and hears a lot of noise downstairs. He calls her down and she can’t believe what she sees. There, sitting in her own kitchen, is the oak chest that she had seen and loved in a store in Nyack.
I see them buy a gold Ford van that he fixes up for camping: a table and bench seats that fold down to a bed, a cabinet on the doors that folds down for preparing and cooking meals. With its 60s era tie-dye curtains, shag rug and peace sign, they travel with the kids any chance they get, including a month-long cross-country trip when the boys are thirteen and ten.
She is outgrowing the neighborhood, ready for change, longs to live in a charming old house in Nyack, an artsy community just south of them along the Hudson River. He is leery, doesn’t like change. I see them argue, look for houses; he finds something wrong with each of them. She goes to work, partly to prove they can afford the move. She wants something more; he is content. They finally find a house, with charm and character, in Nyack, twenty minutes away—an easier commute for him and it has a two-plus car garage that he loves. Their time in Village on the Green is coming to an end.
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Looking back at our time in Village on the Green, it seems like another lifetime, another couple. The move to Nyack was a positive one for our family. Young Ernie was a senior in high school, and because I didn’t want him to miss graduating with all his friends, I drove him the twenty minutes each day to school and back. The school in Nyack was a much better environment for our youngest, Randy, who was just finishing his freshman year. It was a smaller school and he thrived in it. Because we had made one change, it made it easier for us to make others—all positive. The years we spent in Village on the Green were good ones, and gave us a firm foundation for our future.
We had gathered memories, spread our wings, and moved on.
by Lynn DiGiacomo
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