Summer of my Youth

Some memories are fuzzy, some so detailed I can almost touch them.

My father, a pediatrician, had a practice in Elizabeth. During the year, he’d make the drive to and from our Brooklyn home each day. In the summer, we all moved into the large, white Colonial house — complete with black shutters — on Park Avenue. Elizabeth was the capsule that held the months of late June through late August.

Despite the short drive from Brooklyn, as soon as we crossed the Verrazzano Bridge, we knew we were crossing over to a different world. Things were brighter, more expansive in New Jersey. Maybe because it was summer, maybe it was the general neighborhood, but everything was more easy-going, people were more laid-back. You felt the out-of-town-ness in the greetings people gave each other, in the way the barber knew your name, in the complete lack of competition and focus on externals. Elizabeth meant a release from pressure.

We’d drive up the long, narrow driveway, lined with sunflowers bending their heads in greetings. This was our little piece of paradise, with lots of land to run in. Before even exiting the car, I could feel the tickling scratch of dry grass beneath my feet. Elizabeth meant hot and dry and summer-perfect.