Radiators

The air was busy with tiny snowflakes under dark grey clouds this New Year’s morning. There’s enough snow on the ground to be pretty, but not even enough to bother Charlie on his morning outing. The treetops sway in a cold wind, but the stove hadn’t kicked on this morning as it does on the really cold days.

On the drive down to the Hartwick Restaurant for lunch, there is the flash of a bluejay flying across Gulf Road, a streak of vivid blue in the white, brown and grey landscape. The eastern bluejays are so much brighter than the drab scrub jays of California. The little unnamed stream that runs along Gulf is black under the grey sky, cutting through the white snow on its banks. Just a few days ago it was white, frozen solid, its motion stopped on the surface like a still photograph of moving water.

I find winter here so interesting. The other seasons only move in one direction. Even if there are warmer and cooler days, growth only moves forward in the spring and towards fruiting in the summer. The birds return, the nests are built, the chicks are fed and fledged in relentless order. In the fall, no matter the weather, there is only movement towards the end of the year’s life. The birds only pass through in one direction, and the leaves only turn and drop. But winter moves back and forth with the temperature, days of solid ice on ponds and streams, and days of snow melt and thaw, with the green grass that has been buried under snow revealed.

It’s easy to love winter when going out is entirely optional – except for Charlie.

The Hartwick Restaurant was full of its usual warmth on the first day of 2020. Chris came in, a retiree from Oneonta who volunteers on the bit of railroad the tourists can ride from Milford to Cooperstown. He turned down Jay’s invitation to sit with us, preferring his customary table across the room. But he was in a chatty mood, and somehow we got onto the subject of radiators. It brought back sweet memories of coming in from playing in snowy Bronx Park, warming our hands over the clanking radiator and Mom hanging our cold wet socks to steam and dry on the cast iron.

Hanukkah had gotten me thinking about that apartment, remembering lighting our menorahs on sills of the big double living room windows. Everyone older than me who would remember that scene has been gone for years, from my Bubbe Goldie’s death in 1978 to Dad’s in 2012 following Mom in 2011, and Shayne’s early death in 2005 not long after her 59th birthday. Tamar probably remembers that living room, but Aviva was only in kindergarten when we moved to Mamaroneck, and I doubt she remembers it.

Thinking about that apartment got me thinking about a small mystery that no one still alive can solve for me. When I was born, my parents lived with my Mom’s parents and Shayne in a one bedroom apartment on that same floor – the third floor of building C at 2754 Bronx Park East. I believe we six lived together there until my grandparents went on ahead to Israel to settle in Herzliah where we were to join them, although after I was born my grandparents may have moved to another apartment for a while. When my Zayda died suddenly in 1952, Mom and Shayne and I left for Israel sooner than planned, and Dad stayed behind to wrap up his affairs. As I knew the story, when Dad left for Israel he was planning on leaving America for good and we were all to stay in Israel. But Dad decided fairly quickly that he wanted to come back to the States. He came ahead of us and rented the larger, two bedroom apartment where I have my first real memories. But here’s the mystery. My grandparents had a number of big pieces of mahogany furniture in that first apartment, and they were in the larger place when Mom, Shayne, newborn Tamar and I came back from Israel. So why had Dad kept that furniture if he hadn’t planned to come back, and where had it been kept while we were in Israel? I wish there was someone I could ask.

The apartment we eventually moved to in Mamaroneck didn’t have radiators. It was big – four bedrooms on two floors – and it was sleek and modern compared to the pre-war building in The Bronx. I had my own bedroom there, and was old enough to be glad of the privacy. I watched the snow in the street light on Palmer Avenue alone there – Shayne’s bedroom was on the floor below. I don’t remember missing her company watching the snow. I didn’t love Mamaroneck, but I loved my big bedroom under the eaves with its sloped ceiling. Tamar and Aviva both remember that apartment well, as our family lived there until they moved to the house in New Rochelle when Aviva was the only one still at home. There are no mysteries for me about Mamaroneck, and except for my wonderful room, I never cared for it the same way I cared for our old place in The Bronx. There were no radiators to warm our hands over or lay our socks on to dry.

A young couple came into the Hartwick and joined our conversation with Chris about radiators. They’ve bought the big, white 19th century farmhouse on 205 just south of the turnoff to Laurens, and they still have the old radiators that were once a big innovation in heating. We drive past their place every time we go to Oneonta, so it’s very familiar, and nice to know Adam and Sarah, the people who live there and are working to restore it. The house is surrounded by a huge rhododendron hedge, and when Chris said something about it, they admitted that they bought the rhododendron and the house came with it. It’s nice to think that if they have children, those children will grow up remembering the hisses and mysterious clatterings of the radiators.

Happy New Year to all. I hope 2020 is filled with beautiful sights and sweet memories for all of us.