The Lost Tribe of the Andes

Little did we know that moving from our cramped apartment into a house would become a watershed event in our lives. We moved from our small apartment to a three-bedroom house in the Bronx with a backyard and a basement in the summer of 1960.

I was six years old when Dad and I drove up to the Bronx and saw the house for the first time. I was anxious to see what it would look like. I was told there would be a surprise for me. For some reason, I have no memory of the drive up to the Bronx in our new car, and my memory of that day begins at the moment we arrive at the house.

The front entrance had long cement steps with a wrought iron railing. A small garden, driveway, and garage were to the right. On either side of our house were attached, mirror images of identical homes. We walked up the stoop and entered the front door, which had its own built-in mail slot. The brass mail slot was funny to me because my hand was small enough to fit inside, and when I lifted the lid, I could look right into the house.

We continued through a small foyer with French doors leading to a center hall. The house was empty, and although it seemed brand new, the musty, stale smell of paint, wood, and unused appliances permeated the place. We proceeded to walk through the house, exploring each room. As we walked into each room, Dad would name it. “Dis is the dining room,” he said proudly with emphasis. This was something new and special that we did not have in our apartment. Then, using his wood and brass retractable yellow ruler that folded into itself like an accordion, he took measurements of each room.

The living room, dining room, eat-in kitchen, and powder room were on the main floor. There were two more staircases off the hallway. One led down to a big basement with lots of nooks and spaces, and the other led up to three bedrooms and a full bathroom. As we walked up the stairs to the bedrooms, our voices echoed as our conversation bounced off the empty space. He showed me his and Mom’s room and then my brothers’ room.

Saving the best for last, he showed me the third and smallest room.

“Janie come see,” he called out as I walked out of my brothers’ room and followed the sound of his voice. “Dis is your room.”

I was taken by surprise, happy, and apprehensive at the same time. “This room is mine?” I asked.

“Yes, so vat do you say? Dis is de surprise.”

This news was a lot to absorb so I just smiled at Dad and looked around as we stood together in the empty eight-by-ten space. Then Dad resumed measuring the area while he talked about how we might arrange my new bed and chest of drawers. “Ve could put your new bed next to the window and a dresser on the opposite vall.”

I looked around the empty space and tried to imagine Dad’s description. The room had one window and one closet. It was hard to picture what he was describing. What would the furniture look like? When were we moving? My head was spinning with so many thoughts and questions.

Dad asked in an animated tone, “Vat color should ve paint de room?” He happily suggested, “Do you vant pink?”

I really did not like pink and tended to shy away from anything too frilly. I had learned to be tomboyish around my brothers, and wearing something pink or frilly could potentially provoke teasing. But to show my appreciation for our special day and for having my own room, in my confused state, I heard myself say, “Yes, I would like the room to be pink.” The pink walls lasted a couple of years. I was really glad when Dad felt it was time to repaint, and I was happier with my new choice of yellow walls.

I remember how big the house seemed after coming from an apartment. We moved in, and our lives moved forward. My parents had achieved the American dream of owning their own home. We had a backyard and a basement, and I had my own room. Everyone seemed excited about our step up in the world and all the possibilities for the future.

However, I don’t think we were prepared for the downside of home ownership. After the initial euphoria wore off, I began to notice a strain in my parents’ relationship that I had not seen prior to our move. Their private conversations began to take on an edge of bickering about things like the bills, house painting, fixing broken faucets, car repairs, buying a lawnmower, private school tuition, and more.

The achievement of the American dream of owning a home, with all its ups and downs, coinciding with the advent of the tumultuous decade of the 1960s, proved to be a kind of perfect storm for our family. As the decade unfolded, bringing its changes into our lives, it intensified our family quarrels. As we all began to grow up and have our own opinions about the changes taking place, I often felt a longing for the past, when life seemed less complicated.

My initial memory of my first visit to the house with Dad faded and was stored away in the far recesses of my mind.