The Inside Press

Magazines serving the communities of Northern Westchester

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A Slice of Americana…Revisited

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Finding Joy and Experiencing Hope in the Traditions and Continuity of Suburban Living

“I think an artist like Norman Rockwell would have done just fine here, inspiration-wise.”

I am writing this a day after the wonderful Presidential inauguration. When we moved out of the City years ago there was a “red” administration in Washington followed by a “blue” one and so on and so forth as the years flew by. With the hellacious year of 2020 now behind us, politics aside, as a nation we are all looking forward to meaningful change and progress. 

I’ve written here frequently about the cul-de-sac where we live. It doesn’t look or feel particularly different from year to year. Sure, we now have a sidewalk encouraging pedestrian activity, but otherwise there’s a reassuring steadiness to life here which helps folks carry on in such a fraught time while we await and long for better days.

When we moved into our yellow house we had no idea that life in the cul-de-sac would end up being a self-replicating slice of Americana. A lot of this bucolic suburban existence, at first glance, might appear mundane. 

However, within the semi-chaotic day-to-day lives most families with small children experience, a comforting repetition feels essential and sometimes beautiful. In other words, I think an artist like Norman Rockwell would have done just fine here, inspiration-wise.

Upon moving here, I was immediately struck by a simple act by our new next door neighbors. A knock on the door and a warm loaf of fresh-baked homemade bread was hand delivered as a means of introduction and welcome. Laurie and I were taken with this simple but lovely gesture and, for a minute, it calmed the turmoil of leaving apartment living in the city and starting over with our two still very young children. Even better, our new next door neighbors became dear friends. 

When those same next door neighbors moved to another state a few years ago it felt like the end of an era. Sometimes proximity is a fine ingredient for relationships. The warm feelings would carry on but, no doubt, things would be different. 

Upon reflection, these neighbors leaving cul-de-sac were just one domino in the chain. In fact, in the last several years literally every house next to ours or in close proximity has seen new families move in. It feels astounding to note that without even realizing it, almost in a blink of an eye, we went from the new kids on the block to the seasoned neighbors who are newer counterparts to turn to for guidance.  

With all families now enduring pandemic living, life in the cul-de-sac is far more remote than in previous years. It is nice to see people on walks even even with their face masks. You can tell they are still smiling with a wave and a hello. In this environment, it’s still the connection we need.

Embracing the Constants

Significantly comforting too are the ‘constants’, the steady reliable features of suburban living. The bus stop right in front of our house initially served as an introduction to the neighborhood. Kids meeting kids and us meeting other parents and caretakers. That daily interaction was not only socially meaningful but threw us into neighborhood circulation in an organic, no looking back manner.  

Now, with our children years past using the bus stop, there are new families with their kids waiting for the bus. That annual continuity, along with remembering the feeling of being part of it, is a sweet confirmation that however life may evolve, there are certain foundational pieces one can always rely upon.

Within the first few weeks of moving here there was a block party in the cul-de-sac. At that moment, for me, it felt like a mildly hokey social obligation and facing it as a new family just felt difficult. My sometimes panicky neuroticism aside, more thoughtful voices endured, and we went. It turned out to be a very enjoyable and bonding time–a fine tradition.

We had similar neighborhood parties over the years, but not since most of the new families have landed here. As we approach almost a full year of pandemic living, I’m looking forward to the old normal, like a block party that right now, is just impossible. Odd to be looking towards an event that will manage to be a tradition and a change simultaneously. Hopefully before long.

The Wasabi Incident and other Tales of Aging Parents

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(L-R): Lorraine, Dan (the author) and Martin Levitz

Interacting with aging parents, for those of us firmly entrenched in middle age, can be pleasant, painful, humorous, bittersweet, inspiring, odd….and, please, feel free to insert your own adjectives. I don’t believe that there is a universal approach nor experience regarding older parents, however, I do feel that participating in a conversation about that last stage of life with them is a significant endeavor.

Lately I’ve been talking to friends about experiences with their aging parents. A close pal from high school told me that he was having the difficult conversation with his octogenarian father about possibly moving into an assisted living facility. Apparently the conversation was non-conclusive and resulted in what will forever be known as “The Wasabi Incident.” As my friend related, “We took Dad to visit the assisted living building for a tour. Didn’t go well. He pretty much shut down the sales guy telling him he was only there because we made him go and he has no intention of moving. He was happy later though because he got to eat dinner there for free. Sigh. Surprisingly still hungry, we then took Dad to a sushi restaurant and he ordered California rolls. Not sure if he realized what he was ordering. When the food came he immediately reached out with his fingers, grabbed the blob of wasabi and started to stuff it in his mouth. I yelled for him to stop and he only ate some but was definitely surprised by the spiciness of it. He’s mostly okay but does weird stuff like that once in a while”.

My friend’s Dad, as I’ve known him, is a bright, decent, no nonsense kind of guy.

I wish “The Wasabi Incident” could provide answers concerning his state of mind. However, all it raises are short-term questions like what the hell was he doing and, more daunting existential queries about the universally shared reality that with inevitable relentless urgency it is all going to end. For everyone.

Another buddy shared a story about when his father passed. They’d had a volatile relationship going back to his childhood and while always connected, there remained tension. His Dad had learned that he was terminally ill and requested a meeting with his son. My friend was certain that this farewell of sorts would be the moment where they could finally express their true good feelings for one another despite their bumpy history. They sat in his Father’s yard and drank wine on a crisp autumn afternoon. The Father looked into the son’s eyes and hesitated while the son prepared for some kind of emotional revelation. What followed was quite simply a non-negotiable list of people the Father vehemently forbid from attending his funeral. Not exactly what my friend was expecting but he laughs about it now as it was certainly consistent with his Father and, in retrospect, was most definitely a farewell.

My Dad died in 2013 at the age of 89. Martin was the kind of person who really took pleasure in life. He was passionate about collecting art, eating great and abundant meals, New York Yankees baseball and of course his wife of 66 years, my Mom. The last year of his life was difficult because most of these things were taken away from him because of his health. All except my Mom who took care of him in a heroic and remarkably devoted manner. Despite pleas from everyone to get help she took all of this on herself because she felt that’s what he wanted. My Dad would constantly yell out with urgency “Lorraine!” I found this touching (and not to mention loud). One day I convinced Mom to take a walk and have a little time for herself.  As the door shut I heard the same demanding exclamation, “Lorraine!” Answering his call I told my Dad that Mom was taking a walk but I was home with him. I thought he might be unhappy about this but a minute later in the same formidable tone he hollered, “Dan!” That he was able to shift his focus so quickly from his wife to his son told me that despite his love for and reliance upon his wife there was a pragmatic element to survival that may transcend even indestructible love.

Lorraine and Martin Levitz, the author’s parents

As for Mom, now 90, she can be found on one of her two daily walks around her neighborhood in lower Manhattan. She lives alone and gets a nice amount of attention from her children and grandchildren who all live relatively close. It’s not unusual for her to meet someone new and within a minute or two proudly note that she is indeed 90. In fact, she began bragging about being 90 when she was only 89 but you can’t blame her as the reaction is almost always complimentary. At a younger stage of adult life, stating one’s age out of the blue would be something of a non-sequitur.

At 90 it’s simply addressing the elephant in the room. A beautiful aspect of this time of Mom’s life is that she is still happy and independent yet fully aware of the numbers that prove that things are definitely winding down. I think that fact is harder on the rest of us than her but it’s inspiring to know that she can talk about it calmly and firmly in the context of what a wonderful life she most certainly has enjoyed.