Me with my Dad, 5/4/58. This was taken about a year before the events in this story took place.
We moved from Jersey City, NJ to the neighboring town of Bayonne maybe one year before I started kindergarten, meaning that I was about four years old. I have only two brief memories of our time in Jersey City. One is of the day we moved, so the other must be earlier.
Down there among the warehouses, trucking firms and junk yards that populated the Jersey City side of the Bay was a working-man's bar and luncheonette.
Our street descended a decent hill for coastal New Jersey, built atop some subterranean outlier of the nearby Palisades, no doubt. To the east the land continued sloping downward, across Garfield Ave and beyond, through scrubby salt marsh flats to New York Bay. From the windows of our second floor apartment we had a million dollar view of the Manhattan skyline, although no one who lived in that ‘hood could imagine ever having nearly that much money. We could see the Statue of Liberty, and Ellis Island, where our families had arrived decades ago. Most of us hadn’t gone far.
Down there among the warehouses, trucking firms and junk yards that populated the Jersey City side of the Bay was a working-man’s bar and luncheonette. I don’t recall its name, although I knew it once; it was there for many years. Buildings set up as restaurants, with all that expensive ventilation and equipment, tend to stay restaurants, so it may be there still. It was clearly visible from our apartment. My Dad often ate lunch there, although he never drank alcohol. I guess it was conveniently located.
I have a clear memory of looking out that window, down the hill toward that restaurant. I think the sky was cloudy but that is not reliable. My father had eaten there recently and then had gotten sick. The two things may have been related, but who can tell? We eat every day.
The memory is just a snapshot, an instant in time, of me looking out the window and being angry at the restaurant for making my father ill.
Dave VentreA hyper-annuated wannabee scientist with a lovely wife and a mountain biking problem.
There’s a quiet power to this story, Dave…reminds me of a Bruce Springsteen song. Poignant…beautifully written. And that photo!
Thanks! I think there is a “Jersey voice,” Barbara, and Bruce writes his songs in that voice. It might be indistinguishable from a New York City voice.
Your Jersey voice resonates to this Verona girl, Dave. We had neighbors who had moved to our block from Bayonne, and I well remember what those towns looked like. Love your memory!
Such a beautifully written picture of your memory of looking out that window, Dave. And a great picture of you with your father.
Poignant is exactly the word I was going to use, even before I read Barb’s comment. I love the photo; you were a little cutie. This is a simple snapshot in time and you tell it with a quiet beauty. Thank you, Dave.
Here’s another Jersey girl weighing in, and saying that your Jersey voice resonates with me too. Wonderful little snapshot of a memory, and I love the photo of you with your father.
Your description of the neighborhood was so visual, I had pictures in my head as the story unfolded. It felt very true. Thanks for taking us there.
Dave, our friend Barb said it perfectly, there is a sweet, quiet power to your story.
It’s fascinating the memories this prompt has evoked in us all! Keep writing, folks!
My own voice (I hope) still retains some of its very non-Northeast Hoosier roots! But I am married to a Jersey girl, and I am all for that great Jersey voice. This was a powerfully evocative memory. Thanks, Dave. And for all your Jersey-ites and beyond, if you haven’t yet seen the film “Paterson,” by director Jim Jarmusch, it’s a must-see.
A great description of discovery writing, Dave. I felt as if you were peeling back the memory layers as you wrote, making the whole picture feel immediate. Love your final emotion, the anger at a thing for such a personal attack. So childlike. I hated hot dogs for years after getting sick on unripe watermelon. Go figure.