The Day I Left Brooklyn

I left Brooklyn on June 24, 2008.

I’ve left Brooklyn before, certainly, but I always had a safety net – my parents’ home. I came back, though, because the pull of Brooklyn (and the pull of family) was so strong. Most of my adult life, I’ve lived in Brooklyn, and certainly all of my childhood. 45 years, on and off, in one place. That creates a really strong bond. And a really solid foundation.

However, yesterday I left.

I moved to Manhattan, which most people who know me assumed I’d do the moment my mom passed away. I didn’t see any reason to, though, because I had a great place, and my family and extended family are there. Manhattan seemed too impersonal and too much a place for work, rather than living. So I stayed.

There would have to be a good reason, wouldn’t there? I moved in with Rebecca, and she’s pretty much the only reason I’d do something like this. I put most of my stuff in storage, gave away some stuff to friends, family and the Salvation Army, and tossed the rest. This is, as Rebecca puts it, the ascetic portion of my life.

I was a bit sensitive about everything I had to give up. I hated packing books for storage; it was like having to say goodbye to friends! Yes, I have a lot of books, but books are what I love. I did come to realize that I didn’t need a lot of what I got rid of – stuff is stuff, after all. I was determined to keep a couple of knick-knack-type things, and one of them was an Ernie Pyle doll; basically a G.I. Joe action figure that came with a little typewriter. I am a huge fan of Ernie Pyle, and he’ll play a part in my Master’s thesis, so I decided to keep the doll on the same shelf as my World War II books. So I packed him away in a plastic bin with the World War II books and sent him on his way.

There were a LOT of those plastic bins. There was also a lot of wine. I found myself alone with one of the moving guys at one point, and he said, in a friendly sort of way, “So, you and this woman – you’re gay?” I allowed that yes, we were gay. He nodded his head with no small degree of certainty. “I knew it.” This seemed logical to me, but I wanted to make conversation, so I said, how did you know it? He answered immediately; “All that wine.”

There you have it.

The movers came Monday, and I spent yesterday cleaning the house and getting the last things out. My uncle came over at one point, because I’d told him that I was just leaving the air conditioners I’d purchased for the house, so he should take one. He looked them over and announced that he was taking the one in my bedroom. I nodded and went back to cleaning the bathroom. After a minute or two, I heard a horrific crash, kind of like the noise an air conditioner would make if it fell out of a second-story window. “Nah…,” I said to myself, and ran to the bedroom. There was my uncle, looking absolutely aghast, next to a hole where the air conditioner used to be. I ran over and looked into the backyard…at the dead air conditioner. Then I stood up and commenced to laughing my head off. My poor shaken uncle, who has been in this country for 40 years but sometimes sounds as if he’d arrived from Greece last Wednesday, said, “I’m never see such a thing in my life!” Well, neither had I, and I had a good long laugh about it. Thank heaven no one was under the damn thing, or my day would have ended very differently, I imagine…

I brought some last-minute stuff over to my friends’ house toward the end of the day. Cleaning supplies, stuff like that, that I didn’t want to leave behind. My Swiffer, etc. It seemed a logical thing to do, both because I wanted to give them the stuff and because I felt like it would give me some closure to spend some time, on that very busy day, with the Ferraras, whom I’ve known since before I was born. Gracie Arcamone baby-sat for me when I was a kid, and provided that sage advice for growing up that a teenager provides to a child. Stuff that you can’t learn from grown-ups; don’t hang around with that kid because he’s a jerk, don’t smoke because you may look cool but it’s wrong and you know it, that sort of thing. Gracie was the kind of kid that all the parents trusted to baby-sit, even though they knew she was a hell-raiser. The thing is, she was (and is) a hell-raiser with the common sense of a King and the soul of an angel. She is what we in Brooklyn call “from the neighborhood” or, even better, “Good People.” Gracie is Good People. She was smart enough to marry Good People, too, in the form of Peter Ferrara. She was lucky enough to have three kids, all girls, all Good People who are growing up to be, in their own way, just like their mom. I give thanks, every day, for the Ferraras, because if it wasn’t for them, I wouldn’t have been able to stay in that house after my mom died, and keep my job. I travel a lot, and the girls (Grace, Yvonne and Priscilla) watched my dogs and cat often, staying at my house quite a bit, sometimes living there way more than I did in a given month. Then I started dating Rebecca and spent even more time away from home. Their kindness and love enabled me to feel comfortable away from home, and provided (‘cause they’re from the neighborhood) a great foundation for my relationship with Rebecca. I may tease them all the time, but they are part of my family, and I don’t know what I’d do without them.

So I went over to their place, for a soda, sitting around on the couch I gave them so they wouldn’t have to buy one for their daughter, off to an apartment near college in the fall. Two sofas in a living room makes it seem like 17 sofas in a living room, but it’s so lovely and cozy. So I sat, for the last time as a Brooklyn resident, with them, and we giggled and I told them the air conditioner story, and then I had to go.

I parked my car in front of my driveway when I got back to the house (I couldn’t pull into the driveway because of all the garbage!!!) and started to walk up the stairs for the last time. When I got to the curb, though, something made me look down. There, in the street, near where the moving van had parked, was a little item that looked a lot like…

…Ernie Pyle’s little hat.

It was. There, in the street, was Ernie’s little uniform hat. I don’t know how it leaped out of that bin, and I don’t know how it survived a day in the gutter without being swept, windblown, or captured by a stray animal. I dusted off the little hat, and put it in my pocket. Then I looked up, squared my shoulders, walked up the stairs for the last time, took a long look around, thought of all the great memories that I am taking with me, and turned off the lights.

It’s a wonderful feeling to know that I don’t need a safety net any more. On the way down the stairs, I might have whistled “It’s a long way to Tipperary.”

I live in Manhattan now, with the woman I intend to spend the rest of my life with.  She's Good People.  (Apparently, they have Good People in St. Louis, Missouri, as well.)  I admit that I hope we don’t spend the rest of our lives in Manhattan, but for now, it will be glorious fun. I will, of course, always have Brooklyn in my heart.

Yes, the blog is called Ford Street and I live in Greenwich Village now. Deal with it. It’s a metaphor. Like Ernie’s hat.

On we go…

Comments

[Kim]

Brooklyn misses you already, Lizzie. I hope you and Rebecca come back someday!

XO
Kim

[Alberta]

Hi Liz

I'm sending you many hugs and kisses to wish you an Rebecca all the best for your life together... much laughter, kindness and love.

I certainly enjoyed reading your piece about your last day in Brooklyn...You are so talented!!!

Hugs
Momma Katz

[Jody]

I wish you and Rebecca luck and happiness in your new life together,Liz you are good people too.You have to come back to Brooklyn for your haircuts!!!!!!

[kathy lane]

Wow, this is the end of an era... buona fortuna and keep writing Ford Street no matter where you live!!! Buffy

[Sarah]

Lizzie
You are such an inspiration! Congrats on all of the amazing changes in your life - the Village ain't that bad. I can even come meet you for dinner! Much love.
xx
Sarah

[Rick]

The gay thing doesn't concern me at all, but the wine thing has me both concerned and confused. I thought that if you were Irish, you were required to drink only beer, and the occasional shot of either Bushmills or Jamesons, depending on your religious persuasion. Now that you're in Manhattan, there's NO excuse not to meet for a drink!