Watching subtle changes in suburbia across four decades
A sold home on Long Island. Credit: AP
Forty years ago this month, I exchanged the density and sprawl and economic and racial diversity of my Brooklyn birthplace for the tranquil tree-lined streets of Long Island. Backyards replaced front porches. My new block in Albertson was full of center hall Colonials and manicured lawns, and every tree was older than my grandmother.
Twice a day, my street filled with dozens of children walking to and from school. It was a cinch to find a babysitter or a kid to shovel the snow. Newsday was delivered by a boy on a bike. And the mailbox held promise that along with your bills was some communication you actually looked forward to reading.
Our local shopping center on Willis Avenue was anchored by Waldbaum’s, a friendly shout-out to this Flatbush girl. It was also home to a cozy coffee shop, an elderly shoemaker right out of central casting, a butcher shop with sawdust on the floor and a delicatessen that sold my family hundreds of hot dogs through the years.
Less than a mile away there was Jahn’s, and in the other direction, Swenson’s, huge ice cream parlors where we sat for hours over our sundaes. And if you ran out of anything, there was Woolworth’s in Manhasset and Big D in East Williston, two enormous five-and-tens.
If quality clothing was what you were looking for, there was Best & Co., Peck & Peck and Bonwit Teller. But most shops were small businesses. Offices with just one doctor provided health care, and theater marquees announced one eagerly awaited feature film.
Every week, the knife sharpener guy drove down the block and made house calls. And every time the bell rang, I opened the door.
After 40 years, things are very different.
Today, months can go by without anyone ringing my bell, aside from a Jehovah’s Witness and the FedEx guy. A doormat I saw online recently reflects how times have changed: “We love our vacuum. We found God. And we gave at the office.” It’s as if an unexpected visitor is assumed not welcome.
All the grand, dignified trees on my block became stumps of ruin, sacrificed, the Town of North Hempstead said, to “reconstruct the sidewalks, curbs and pavement of your street.” Now their barely teenage replacements are still years away from being “leafy.”
Most of the delicatessens, shoemakers and butchers are gone. The Yellow Pages reveal 10 banks (please somebody explain to me why any neighborhood needs 10 banks), 11 nail salons (how can my ZIP code not be the nail capital of the world?), and three urgent care centers (which seem to be popping up at a rate associated with Starbucks).
Each day when I look out my window, I see dozens of cars snaking around the corner to drop off and pick up children from school. An abundance of caution deems a leisurely stroll home too risky. There are more grandmas and nannies walking sleeping babies down my block than moms. And my new neighbors, whose names I don’t even know, slip in and out of their driveways, garage doors closing behind them.
Edna St. Vincent Millay once called progress the “dirtiest word in the language.” She asked what made us believe that to take a step forward was necessarily always a good idea.
While this anniversary has me nostalgic for a less congested, less frenetic past, I remember that the unhappiest people I know are the ones who most fear change. Time to stop my sighing and adapt. And no change will ever alter Dorothy’s chant — alas and forever, there’s no place like home.
Reader Marcia Byalick lives in Albertson.
