I have never known the story* of just how my Mom’s family came to have a summer house in Kingston, NY. They were far from rich. I suspect that one of my grandparents’ families was from Kingston and it came down through them. But Mom always spoke fondly of her girlhood summers up in Kingston. The place stayed in the family until sometime in the mid-Fifties, when it was eminent domained away as part of the NY State Thruway project. Their land was where the Kingston toll plaza is now. A few years later, my Grandfather used the money he received to buy the building in Bayonne where I grew up.
It took some looking, but we found an intersection where Mom remembered the roads.
My father loved to drive, so most summers we took a family road trip vacation. One summer it was upstate New York, encompassing the area around Watkins Glen. This was 1970, the year that my Dad and I went to the Can Am race at The Glen. I had just turned fourteen. During this trip, Mom thought it would be fun to revisit her girlhood memories of summers in Kingston.
We knew the house was gone, but there was one family who had lived up the hill who had not been displaced by the highway. She was sure that they’d remember her if they were still alive. Her memories were hazy after nearly twenty years, and a lot of landmarks were gone, but after a bit of searching we found their driveway. It apparently had not been maintained recently, but we managed to dodge the small trees and rocks to reach their house.
Ruins. It had burned down long ago.
She had one more recollection to check; Grandpa Schmidt’s place over yonder a bit. Though no relation, he’d been a close family friend. She and her sister used to swim in the pond on his small farm. So we renegotiated our way back up the driveway and went in search of Grandpa Schmidt’s farm.
It took some looking, but we found an intersection that Mom remembered. Grandpa Schmidt’s place was down that way and make a right into his driveway where the road bore left.
We found the driveway. Not far down we were stopped by a chain link fence. We all got out and stared through the mesh. Where the Schmidt place with its little pond had been, there was just a biggish hole, filled with water, green with weeds and algae. People had been using it for trash disposal.
Nothing beside remained.
We stared for a minute. Mom chuckled, but said nothing. I could see that she was sad, but Norwegians don’t cry. Norwegians are the original Vulcans. Uncharacteristically, no one made a joke.
After a minute or so, we got back into our big blue LTD and continued on our way to Watkins Glen.
At Watkins Glen, that weekend
* I remembered someone older than I who might remember. A cousin. And she did! The house had been in my maternal grandfathers’ family for years. Finally he and his brother (my uncle Walter) bought it and kept it until NY State made other plans.
Dave VentreA hyper-annuated wannabee scientist with a lovely wife and a mountain biking problem.
This is truly bittersweet, Dave. My parents’ first little house in Detroit (before I was born) was taken by the city by eminent domain to make a large city parking lot (cue Joni Mitchell), but with that money, my parents purchased the 3-bedroom house that I grew up in (which I thought was pretty fine – I write about it this week). The fact that your family went in search of those old neighbors, fondly remembered, and found burned out shells or ruins is sad. At least your mom tried. Perhaps that toll plaza made the surrounding area less appealing, so it all disintegrated and that’s what you found.
Hope at least you had fun at Watkins Glen on that trip.
We did have a nice time. My father and my side trip to the race at The Glen was unplanned. We saw in a local paper up there that it was happening that weekend, so we just went.
Well, in this case you REALLY couldn’t go home again–toll plaza, fire, and decay replaced the homes of your mother’s memory. Poignant, as is the description of your mother’s Nordic apparent stoicism. So much said by leaving things unsaid.
Thanx Dave for you wonderfully written and moving story, I understand your mom’s distress (however stoic she appeared ) at seeing that muddy hole where she and her sister used to swim!
I hope you have some pictures of all of these things that were displaced by highways and fell into ruin over time.
Not a one. No one thought of taking a picture of the disappointments!
This story reminded me of our summer bungalow down by the jersey shore. So much fun from June to September. The ocean on one side, the river on the other and the Bamboo Bar in between. Anyway, we too were taken over by ‘eminent Domain” to build the Sandy Hook State Park. So I feel really bad that your mom had to see her childhood summer grounds destroyed and neglected. When we drive by the land we loved, although there are no houses, it’s still beautiful to see. Great writing Dave, love the pic of you at 14.