we were still living in the old railroad-style house on 57th St in the early 90's: mom, dad, sister, me, grandparents, and a steady stream of miscellaneous relatives and temporary renters. the street was a mix of new immigrants and the nordic elderly. it was girded by a mexican bakery on one end and a telecommunications shop on the other.
the aging whites on the block hated seeing their neighborhood slipping away. the onslaught of puerto rican flags and chinese dim sum parlors threatened the careful lower-middle class balance. times were different then. nyc was desperate enough to let millions of the foreign and impoverished terrorize the marginally less poor. there was no fear of the gentrifying class but an ever present fear of who would tear down whom first. but at least everyone still waved as you passed them by on your bike.
i had been thinking about that old house over the holidays. the cream white facade, its red steps, unkempt backyard and old boiler lying in the dirt, the blackberry tree next door, and the molasses-thick blanket of fruit on the ground each fall. all vacation long i had been hording details, thinking back to times that, if not brighter, were at least more distinct in color and vibrancy than so much of my immediate past.
in the process of this obsessive memory collecting, i thought back to another house in sunset park. its location escapes me (was it on 60th st? 61st? between 5th ave & 6th ave? maybe 7th & 8th?). a man, middle-aged or older, white, retired or working minimally at the time, would decorate his house and front yard in colorful, wondrous knick-knacks.
every season brought pinwheels and streamers. stuffed animals in holiday-appropriate dress, some recognizable (is that tweety in a santa suit?), some not (where does one purchase a strange mouse-like creature dressed as a leprechaun?). lights were strewn about haphazardly on the bushes.
the aim was not theme and orderliness. instead he opted for an all-or-nothing approach. halloween goblins were not placed in the garden one by one but instead, piled on top of one another or suspended from string tied from tree to tree. some were tacked to the ground or tied to branches. others spun and waved their ghostly fingers in the breeze. out of every inch of free space, styrofoam coffins, plastic daggers, and cut-out flames shot out until it seemed like everything was pouring out of the mouth of hell itself.
the house was amazing. i was probably 5 or 6 at the time and everything i saw overwhelmed my senses. the man himself became a bit of a local celebrity. in p.s. 314, our teachers would take us on mini-field trips to see what he had out. shortly before thanksgiving, he showed off a bevy of turkeys, pilgrims, and indians arrayed on a pedestal like a nativity scene where tender poultry took the place of the newborn babe. for presidents' day, he had pictures of abraham lincoln and george washington on particle board, american flags, artificial lights that looked like sparklers, and patriotic banners on display. he talked to us about "the great president kennedy" and his sad death. it was just a name to me then but the whole class and i nodded and paid our silent respects. each year, he added more and more. the older decorations were never abandoned just pushed further to the back so the new ones could have their time in the spotlight.
my family moved out a year or two later. too crowded and too loud, my parents said about the house on 57th. it was time for us to become our own family.
my grandparents and uncle continued to live in the old house and for awhile, i would go back often. sunset park was burgeoning on both the latino and asian fronts. in the summer i came to expect shaved ices from stolen shopping carts near the corner bodegas and cues of fish balls from the 8th ave storefronts. i would pass by that man's house and see the swell of rainbow colors engulfing the entire front. like the seasons themselves, the house was forever changing--rapidly yet subtly. it was like the sudden realization of autumnal leaves surrounding you when you could have sworn the summer heat was still beating down on your neck. i had never seen him out of his house physically replacing the scenery yet it always happened. somehow the pink explosion of hearts gave way seamlessly to shamrock sculptures without one ever taking note of the effort.
but years passed. my uncle married and decided the old house was too small. my grandfather died and my uncle convinced my grandmother to let him sell the house and moved them all to queens. i went to sunset park for groceries every now and again but little else. for a long time, i forgot about what it was like living in that part of brooklyn.
it all came back though. a sudden realization of all the things i have kept, the obsessive-compulsive nature that colors my life, drove me back to it. i used to believe that being obsessive-compulsive meant being anal and neat but as i trudge through medical school, i realize it is an odd diagnosis of sorts. it is a need for control that runs the risk of throwing you off track completely, a need to keep and arrange things in whatever arbitrary order that you have created and cannot deviate from.
like my ramshackle life, i think. the piles of objects, papers, and materials i constantly surround myself with. the piles of emotion and thought that rest uneasily on my mind at all times. all this made me think of sunset park, my old house, and in turn, the piles of color and objects of that man's home--that grandiose disorder in his front yard.
so much i have tried to keep, holding onto whatever i could when what i really cared about was no longer mine. but more than anything, more than the analogy, more than the history, i thought about that house itself. i wonder if those decorations are still out.
