While in New York waiting to board Cunard’s Queen Mary 2 to sail for Southampton, England, a few years ago, I decided to check out the Bay Ridge address near the Verrazano Bridge where my father grew up. I took a limo over to Brooklyn and knocked on the front door.
I told the owner about my family history with the property, but I could see from the expression on his face that he didn’t believe a single word. Then I told him about the relatives moving into the basement during the Great Depression.
He immediately let me in and gave me a tour of the house. He told me that he had just purchased the home and had extensively refurbished it. When they tore out the walls in the basement, he discovered that the insulation was composed of crumpled-up newspapers from the 1930s, so he knew I was telling the truth.
I told him that grandpa would be glad that the house was still in Italian hands. Could I enquire what he had paid for the house that sold in 1923 for $3,000? He said he bought it as a broken-down fixer upper for a mere $775,000. After he put $500,000 into the property, it is now worth $2 million.
I’ll recite one story that took place at this address which has been passed down through the generations. By the end of 1945, the family had not seen my father for nearly four years, who was off fighting in the Pacific with the Marine Corps.
Then a telegram arrived informing the family of the date of my father’s return after a five-day train ride from Los Angeles. As only two daughters remained at home, he warned everyone not to cry.
Then the doorbell rang and there was Dad, 40 pounds lighter with a yellowish tinge to his skin from malaria but smiling. My grandfather burst into tears and wouldn’t stop bawling for an hour.
As I passed under the Verrazano Bridge on the Queen Mary II later that day, I contemplated how much smarter grandpa became the older I got.
I hope the same is true with my kids.
