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Coming Home by Steve Abramowitz

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AUTHOR: steve abramowitz on 10/23/2024

                                                There’s a world where I can go

                                                And tell my troubles to

                                                In my room, in my room

                                                                 The Beach Boys, 1963

Alberta and I just returned from what for me was a restorative and emotionally powerful two-week trip to New York. No, not because she got to see seven movies at the International Film Festival in the Hamptons or four shows in the city. But she took pictures of me standing in front of five of the commercial buildings my family owned some fifty years ago. And primarily because I visited the house I grew up in on the south shore of Long Island in the 1950s and sixties.

I know how my father came to real estate—my mother inherited two apartment buildings—but never could and still can’t fathom how he accumulated a slew of commercial properties. He emigrated from Romania in 1915 when he was two. Virtually penniless, his parents raised him and his sister in a small Bronx tenement. His father became a painter and the family managed to make ends meet.

Whether by luck or by shrewdness my father hopped on the gravy train of the TV pandemonium of mid-century. Although not as revolutionary as the arrival of the computer, this successor to the radio rapidly became a staple of America’s family rooms. After World War II, our military was awash with electronic equipment it no longer needed. At considerable business risk, my father gambled on the burgeoning TV phenomenon and scooped up a healthy chunk of the country’s surplus TV-compatible parts for pennies on the dollar.

By the time the Korean War erupted about five years later, demand for components that could enhance viewers’ TV experience soared and along with it the value of my father’s components.. Fortuitously for our family, the military was required to again ramp up production of electronically-driven weaponry. The government repurchased much of the goods from my father at the then prevailing market price.

Soon competition emerged and the more efficient transistor rendered my father’s bulky vacuum tubes obsolete, a development whose significance my father underestimated and substantially devalued his inventory. He was rescued by my mother’s misfortune, when my grandfather passed away and left her two profitable apartment buildings. Having lived in an apartment until just a few years prior, my father knew virtually nothing about amortization, deductions and property tax or even how to write a lease.

Undaunted and true to his nickname of Wild Bill, my father proceeded to manage the apartment buildings and deploy the cash he had saved from the electronics business to buy more. A quick study, he concentrated on promising areas of Manhattan calling out for incidental repairs or cosmetic defects and offered by distressed sellers.

Ultimately, his holdings included three properties on Broadway and two on Fifth Avenue. In truth, I came to hate those buildings and the Saturdays he would pull me from televised Dodger games to accompany him to monitor developments. Not enough time or interest was devoted to encouraging my softer passions like writing and reading. And it seemed like much more effort was reserved for my younger brother, whose attentiveness to the properties and obvious admiration for my father culminated in a law degree specializing in real estate.

At seventy-nine and chastened by the lessons of life, I am aware of how the rent thrown off by the buildings paid for my education and my sports car. Last week I was standing in front of them,  paying homage and wishing I could tell my father how much I now appreciate all the sacrifices he made for us kids.

This experience could only be eclipsed by a visit to my old home and to my room. I spent my entire childhood there, recalling driving off for college at eighteen in a silver Corvette and a bravado that belied a spoiled teenager’s fear of failing the developmental task of making it on his own.

I am by nature socially avoidant. My plan was simply to show up at the front door, knock and take my chances that someone would be at home. More socially astute, Alberta identified the current owners online and cajoled me into writing a personal letter introducing myself and explaining why I was contacting them. I labeled myself as an overly sentimental codger on a quest for self-awareness and emotional closure.

A week went by and we hadn’t heard back. I resigned myself to driving by and taking it all in from the street. Then, a few days later, my cell rang and a phone number with the prefix for Nassau County streamed across the top. It was the owners’ son. His parents were out of town but he lived nearby and would be more than glad to walk us through the house. Now thirty-eight, his name also was Steve and my old room had been his. It later came out that much like me he had a strained relationship with his father. How serendipitous can life be?

When Alberta and I turned onto the street I could barely recognize the houses. After more than half a century, the foliage had grown in and several were partly hidden from view. They were larger and more grand than I remembered and mine was the least imposing. Turning onto the entrance way, I was overcome with a curious sense of detachment. Some of that undoubtedly reflected the reality that the exterior color was different and the landscaping was magnificent. Not surprisingly, we subsequently learned that the family owned several florist shops. But a piece of the distancing must have been a defense against the overwhelming emotion of the moment.

By the time Steve opened the front door for us, I was already misty-eyed. But when I went up the stairs to the room I last saw over sixty years ago, I burst out crying. The shelves that were home to issues of Sports Illustrated  and The Complete Sherlock Holmes were gone and of course so was the desk and Underwood typewriter that had conspired with me to knock out all those high school essays the night before they were due. The privacy, secrets, joys and inevitable troubles that define a kid’s room are never completely erased.

Before I left, I had to catch a glimpse of the basement, which had been finished with wood paneling, a jukebox and a pinball machine. It had been a mecca for my friends, who feasted on my mother’s patented English muffin-and-cheddar mini-pizzas. The pinball machine had been removed and no longer were Elvis Presley and Buddy Holly belting out rock-and-roll, but apparently the current residents were still playing billiards.

Not enough time has yet past for me to know all the ways in which the experience will enrich my life. I’m already better able to see how I underappreciated my father at least as much as he rejected me. He wounded me emotionally, but he was a loyal and steadfast parent and a prescient businessman. I have his street smarts though not the daring and cunning. I have a newfound pride in what he and my mother accomplished and aware of just how materially advantaged my life has been.

It is humbling to see how much of my worldly success I owe to others whose childhood was stark and at times foreboding. As we drove off, Alberta turned to me and said, “Stephen, you’ve just blown your cover. I lived in apartments and a tract house and you were far more privileged than you’ve let on to me and to your friends. But saddest of all, you lied to yourself. You don’t have to do that anymore.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                              

 

 

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baldscreen
15 days ago

Steve, thanks for this post and the discussion it started in the comments. It gave me some things to think about also. The home I was raised in changed hands recently and was bought and updated by a young relative of my best friend from high school. They sent me pictures of the update and we reminisced about all the good times we spent together there. I have lived away from my hometown since I graduated HS. Chris

Dan Smith
16 days ago

Steve, thanks for this well written and deeply personal story. My folks were pretty much perfect, I have nothing but great memories growing up. I know I am lucky in that regard.
My folks sold the family home in 2003. Not long after the housing bubble burst in 2008, a friend of mine who works for the city gave me a heads up that the house had become a nuisance property. I drove cross town and found the house trashed and abandoned. The door wasn’t locked and once inside my experience was much the same as yours.
Steve, I’ve never suffered from depression but to this day it makes me sad to think of our house.

Nuke Ken
16 days ago

Great story, Steve. Thanks for sharing. Several years ago, I was able to visit my childhood home in Moorestown, NJ. My sister was up for a visit and she had contacted the current owners ahead of time. We were given the grand tour. The kitchen was unrecognizable to me. The pine wood paneled basement where so many of my best childhood times had occurred was mostly intact, including the red flooring that almost certainly contains asbestos. On the second floor, I was delighted to see the brightly tiled 1950 bathroom was almost completely unchanged. It was a fun visit and trip down memory lane, but for the most part I did not experience epiphanies as you did.

R Quinn
16 days ago

My parents were old fashioned to say the least. My father had to work so much – 12 hours a day every day – seeing him or doing anything with him was a rare treat. My mother was a housewife and mother and nothing else and she had little desire to go anywhere or do anything.

But my childhood was stable and enjoyable even living in a one bedroom apartment. We were just kids with no special problems or concerns.

In retrospect my parents formed me by what they didn’t do. College was never mentioned in my home growing up. My parents never attended any activity I was involved in. There were no significant celebrations for any major events like graduation from high school.

When I finally received a degree at age 35, it was not mentioned. My mother had no interest in our Cape Cod house – a major achievement for me.

Our children as their grandchildren received no special treatment and if we asked them to babysit it seemed like a chore, not a joy.

So, to compensate and for the joy of it I (supported by Connie) did everything the opposite of my parents when it came to finances, our children and being involved – I still feel the thrill of marching band competitions – college for the children and now being involved with grandchildren.

I suppose I could have followed their example – not sure how I was so lucky not doing so. But as long as we learn from both good and not so good examples it seems to work out.

mcgorski
16 days ago
Reply to  R Quinn

Richard, Similar situation at my house as well. Except, I had parents prone to feeling sorry for themselves, finding solace in alcohol and ultimately neglecting their kids. It took me a while realize their low self esteem and neglectfulness were a result of how they were raised. When my son was born in my early thirties it brought on a wave of emotions that I had compartmentalized until that point. With help, I realized that If this was going to stop, I would have to stop it with my own family, otherwise it would just continue.

Last edited 15 days ago by mcgorski
Linda Grady
16 days ago
Reply to  R Quinn

Dick, your description of your parents reminds me of my grandparents (born 1889 and ‘90). If my parents wanted to go out for the evening when we made our annual weeks long summer visit, they hired a babysitter, with my grandparents present. This was also because my grandparents wanted to send a message to their other children (who lived nearby with 20 other grandkids total) that they were not available. My parents were quite different and, in my comment to Steve, my dad was wonderfully available to watch my oldest two, dropping anything to run and rescue me whenever I needed his help. 😊

Mike Wyant
15 days ago
Reply to  Linda Grady

My parents never babysat our 3 kids when they were little. 1, because they never expressed any interest in doing so, and 2, because I never would have trusted them anyway. My parents were hands off in the extreme. I remember playing football in the street when I was a kid,(yeah, that’s what we did in the 60’s). I broke my wrist in 3 places when I fell on it wrong. Ran home in pain, my mom said ” it’ll be fine”. Next morning it was swollen 3 times it’s normal size and she finally took me to the emergency room. So no, I wasn’t about to trust my kids to them. Fortunately my wonderful in laws more than made up for it!

Andrew Forsythe
16 days ago

Steve, great story of your sentimental “homecoming” and all the memories it brought forth.

As for our parents, it really is hard to overstate the influence they continue to have on us, even as we slip into old age ourselves. But I think we are often too critical of them, just as our own kids can be too critical of us at times (especially during the teenage years!).

I firmly believe that, while we all want the best for our kids, no one has a right to “perfect” parents, and if the important things are provided—food, shelter, an education, love and support—a child is probably better off than the majority of kids worldwide. And if provided that foundation, a person is better served by exerting maximum effort at building the life they want rather than constantly obsessing over what their parents did wrong.

And there’s an opportunity there as well. I think most of us try to be better parents in whatever ways we perceived our parents to be deficient. So some improvement through the generations is possible.

Last edited 16 days ago by Andrew Forsythe
Marjorie Kondrack
16 days ago

So beautifully stated, Andrew. I think that most parents, given their inherent personal characteristics, do the very best they can. Children don’t come with a how to manual.
I’m sure that all of us are not even aware of the many sacrifices they made for us.

Mike Gaynes
16 days ago

That’s a beautifully written little memoir, Steve. I’ve been back to my childhood home three times (with a girlfriend and then two wives), and inside it once at the invitation of the then-owners. Nothing had changed in my basement bedroom — to my delight, the dent I had put in one of the low ceiling tiles with my head was still there. I had been jumping up and down on the bed to celebrate the radio account of a game-winning playoff goal by my beloved Chicago Blackhawks, and soared so joyously high that my keppe punched the ceiling.

I have no such joyous memories of my dad, with whom my coping technique was avoidance — I simply stayed away from him as much as I could, away from his temper and impatience and lack of emotional support. My adult relationship with him was functional and friendly, but never deep, and he died in his 50s, so there was no grand rapprochement in later life.

Last edited 16 days ago by Mike Gaynes
Mike Gaynes
15 days ago

Steve, keppe is Yiddish for head, usually a child’s head. Keepah is Hebrew for the little hat, which I never wore except in synagogue. I was, and remain, a completely non-observant Jew, but I have always loved Yiddish words because my maternal grandmother used them often. She gave me her copy of The Joys of Yiddish by the humorist Leo Rosten, and I still leaf through it to this day.

Your team and mine had in common that we never won Cups during those many years. Sorry Bobby tormented you back then, but I always liked Rod Gilbert. I flew back to Chicago and was in the stands when the Hawks won the Cup in 2015.

Last edited 15 days ago by Mike Gaynes
Rick Connor
16 days ago

Steve, thanks for a heartfelt article. One of the best, but unexpected, joys of being a parent was watching my sons and their wives become parents. They are truly great parents more patient than I ever was. Seeing them love and nurture their children has been a true blessing. I hope others get to experience the feeling.

David Lancaster
15 days ago
Reply to  Rick Connor

We’re still waiting and with both our children pushing 40 I’m losing hope. 😢

Rick Connor
15 days ago

Steve, thanks. No basking, but a lot of pride, joy, and gratitude. Our sons were exposed to very loving grandparents and large, loving extended families. They married tremendous women with similar family experiences and loving natures.

I reread your post and realized I didn’t really address it. I’m happy you got to go back home and experience it once more. My wife and I were discussing tonight how so few of us get to know our parents in their professional lives. For better or worse, it sounds like you had insight into your Dad’s business life. I think realizing our parents were human, with all that entails, is big step in our own growth as people. I especially appreciate your sense of humility at recognizing the impact your parents had on your life.

We sold our family home in 2021. My parents bought it in 1965 and my wife and I bought it from them in 1994. They lived with us the last years of their lives. 56 years was enough time – we were happy the ta young local family was thrilled to buy it. We got the unique experience to see the new owners and allow them and their children to tour the house a few months before settlement. It was great to see how happy the young boy and girl were, knowing they would each have a bedroom, and a finished basement. It made us feel good that a new family would make memories in the old home. You have the added bonus of knowing that the properties your family took care of all those years are now housing the next generation of New Yorkers.

polamalu2009
16 days ago

Wonderful, heartfelt story Steve. I am continually amazed at the courage and risk taking of people like your dad, my grandparents and parents who not only survived the first half of the 20th century but then thrived in the second. No hardships in my life can compare to what they went through and I am eternally grateful.

Edmund Marsh
16 days ago

Steve, some folks are able to hold together a consistent life from childhood to old age, surrounded by family and long friendships. Others, like us, live some version of remodeling, with new friends that don’t know the old story. I hope your writing is helping to reconcile the disparate parts, to come to some whole that make it easier to live with yourself. I enjoyed your story.

Edmund Marsh
16 days ago

No, I’m working on it, but I haven’t accomplished unity. Remember, you only get the edited version!

Linda Grady
16 days ago

“He wounded me emotionally, but he was a loyal and steadfast parent . . .” Steve, this is truly one of your best, and there have been many wonderful articles. The above quote could apply to my dad, too. Fortunately, when he became a grandfather and favorite babysitter to my kids in his retirement, we bonded in a better way. As with your dad, his investment in some residential properties, also possible because of an inheritance, gave me and my two siblings a privileged life. I also learned about prudent spending and saving from him, as well as the value of occasionally taking some well-considered risks. I’m glad you were able to make the trip and that the younger Steve was so welcoming. Thanks for a good start to my day.

Linda Grady
16 days ago

He’s been gone for over 36 years now (I’m 73), but his departure was kind of poetic. However, that’s a story for another day. I’ll just say that I was blessed to be with him.

Jonathan Clements
Admin
16 days ago

It’s astonishing how childhood tugs at our psyche. If, in my 20s, I’d fully understood the powerful impact of parents, I suspect I would have been too terrified to have children.

B Carr
16 days ago

I’m childfree. I like to joke to my friends that I would never have a child do to me what I did to my parents growing up.

Mike Gaynes
16 days ago
Reply to  B Carr

I’m child-free because I was, and remain, convinced I would have been a failed parent like my father.

Jonathan Clements
Admin
16 days ago
Reply to  Mike Gaynes

To me, your self-awareness suggests just the opposite — that you would have been an excellent parent.

Edmund Marsh
16 days ago

My wife and I had each been told early in life by physicians that we would not have children. The news didn’t bother me, because I was terrified at the thought of the responsibility of a family. Pregnancy is contagious, though, and after working beside pregnant ladies for five years, my wife decided she needed a child. Turns out we had no trouble getting pregnant, and after miscarriage the first time, she became a mother at 40, and me a father at nearly 44.
To your comment, at the time my daughter was born, I was only just beginning to realize how much of my mental makeup I could attribute to my parents. As she has grown, I see her parents in her opinions, fears and habits. Some I like, but for others I wish I had a do-over.
I once made the mistake of telling my mother that my wife and I were analyzing the parenting styles of our parents and choosing the best practices, while omitting the others. She didn’t take kindly to implication that she had made mistakes, and rightly upbraided me for my disrespect.
I think we have made some better choices, partly because we were older, and partly because we benefited from the very good parenting we received. But after all of it, I realize it’s hard to escape childhood, however we may dress ourselves as adults.

Linda Grady
16 days ago

Probably more good than you realize, Steve. Even depressed parents can do good things for their children. Having a partner (in your case, Alberta) obviously helps tremendously. In my work as a Public Health Nurse, I worked almost exclusively with new mothers who had been traumatized in some way during their childhood. I’ve kept in touch with several over the years who have done amazingly well with their own children – doing for their kids far better than was done for them. It makes me marvel at how things most people won’t ever know, like Mrs. Marmor’s encouragement of your writing, can make the world and its children (including you and me 😊) better and happier.

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