My childhood was peppered with stories of my mom’s own childhood growing up in New York City. She’d tell me all about the sights and smells and sounds, about pounding the pavement and watching the world go by from the roof tops. She always tried to give me a sense of direction by including cross streets and landmarks.

NYC was big and wild and so very full of all of her adolescent adventures (the good, the bad, and the ugly) in addition to being a world apart from my own upbringing or understanding.

As a child raised in the high desert of Santa Fe, New Mexico, an itty bitty city by comparison, the stories about her youth were like a foreign language to my ears and mind. I was raised surrounded by quiet nights and wide open spaces and I struggled to hold the numbered streets and boroughs in my head as friends would ask where exactly in NYC my mom was from. I truly had nothing in my existence for comparison.

Occasionally, despite all her conflicting memories of NYC, my mom would speak of visiting it together one day. I think it was her way of wanting to share a massive piece of her origin story, of helping me truly understand where she came from.

Unfortunately, it just wasn’t in the cards.

And truth be told, New York City has never been on my Bucket List. I’ve always preferred mountains to skyscrapers.

But when my life-long best friend, Jacqueline, was given the opportunity to visit NYC recently, she asked for my mom’s old address in the hopes she could find the rooftop where so many wonderful photos of my mom and her family were taken in the 1960s and early 1970s and, thanks to the wealth of paperwork left to me by my Grandma Eve, I was happy to oblige.

I don’t know all of the addresses they held in the two decades my mom’s family lived lived in NYC, but based on multiple letters, 1256 Lexington Avenue seems to have been an address that stuck for several years as my Grandparents made their living as Writers and Artists and the kids went to school and danced ballet and ran amuck.

So, with the address in hand, Jacqueline was off to find the apartment, full of hope she’d be able to gain access to the roof top, this being one stop of many as she adventured around the city during her first day there.

Easily enough, she found it!

Of course, security being what it is these days, the door was locked, but she happened upon a resident of the building who happily chatted her up about living in the building for 50 years (she probably moved in about the time my mom and her family headed West after my Grandpa’s passing), rent stabilization, and how the rooftop access is strictly forbidden now (apparently there’s an alarm on the door).

She even gave Jacqueline access to the building for a few minutes so she could walk the stairs and see the stairwell.

Jacqueline sent me videos and photos in real time of the outside of the building, the address above the door, and the stairwell. It was all very sweet and exciting to see this tiny piece of our family history! But the stairwell, surprisingly enough, is where my heart skipped a beat.

I suddenly had flashes/imaginings/rememberings of stories of my mom and her three siblings running those stairs…

From the pitter patter of small feet to the rumblings of teenage wanderings…

Of the whispers and hollers, the laughter and tears that must have happened between those two walls as they left for the day full of enthusiasm or came home exhausted and ready to wash away the day.

Oh, the stories I’m sure those stairs, those walls, could tell…

Echoes of all the hopes and dreams of generations gone by.

Onward,

Melis