Snippet 6
Throughout the 1950’s Fort Lee, NJ, was experiencing a building boom, especially in the section called the Palisades. The municipality had gone nearly bankrupt and properties were selling at affordable prices. Blocks were carved up into 50×100 lots and sounds of backhoes, dump trucks, and saws were a daily hum. They became my jungle gym.
Whenever I saw a new open frame structure, an itch to explore would spread over me like poison ivy. The skeletal studs promised adventure, the cross beams were an obstacle course to be mastered, and sliding down the plywood roof was a high. The entry to the first floor always had a plank that crossed the ditch encircling the cinderblock foundation that would be filled in when the house was completed. This wheelbarrow wide wooden path was my bold entry to a sawdust covered floor. Nails, small pieces of wood, and shreds of brown paper greeted my play shoes. Light flowed through the see-through structure. Wind or rain entered all the areas where the roof was either yet to be built or partially completed.
My body sang as I shimmied hurriedly out of my school uniform to put on play clothes, so I could investigate the newest structure. Fortunately, the workmen started early and left early, giving me enough daylight to enjoy my escapade. When a roof was completed, the building lost its excitement, openness, and thrill.
Sometimes a workmen’s stair case was installed on the first floor and other times there was only a ladder, which I always preferred. They gave me access to the upper level where I would run across the open beams. Climbing a second ladder to the opening of the unfinished roof was exhilarating. on the completed portion I would climb to its peak, squat, and slide to the edge, turn around, run to the peak and do it again. A neighbor would call my home and squeal on me. Warnings and scolding from my grandmother didn’t stop me. It meant I needed to avoid getting caught by that old biddy and walk further along Abbot Boulevard to other construction sites she couldn’t see.
As the community developed and I grew older, there were fewer and fewer newly framed structures to explore. My gymnastic yearnings had waned. One day I peeked into the basement of a home well on its way to completion. A new daring filled me. The cement floor was still wet. with a branch I drew stick figures, aware that leaving my initials or name was not smart. Don’t remember that exact location of that home, but the act has not been forgotten. Having filled my lungs with adventure on beams and roofs, carving my soul into cement was the first time I left my mark on the world.
Today, I’ve seen many of those homes torn down to make way for oversized buildings that not only change the landscape but alter the communities. I’m certain my playful markings have been picked up with a backhoe and dropped into a dumpster. The shards of those stick figures lay snug in the some landfill. Thankfully, my grandparents home in Italy is over 200 years old, and when I visit I know that I’m connected to the past. If I carve my name in a wall, it will remain well beyond my lifetime and those of my grandchildren. Ageing is un-American activity.