That ordinary home on East 27th Street became so much more than a house
It’s been more than 20 years since I married and moved out of my parents’ home, but the block always feels familiar when I go back. There’s the cracked sidewalk that observed my first bike-riding efforts. Here’s the narrow driveway where we built a snowman. Here’s the apartment-turned-dentist office where we got our cavities filled. There’s the second-story porch that hosted a yearly Purim concert complete with keyboard, drums, clarinetist, and a host of singers.
But the house next door was different. Over the last decade and a half, it took on new sounds, and a whole new story — something unexpected, unfamiliar, and unlike any of those sweetly prosaic memories.
Back when I was little, the half-brick/half-siding home was notable primarily for the glasses store that found temporary quarters in the basement. Whenever one of my siblings needed a new pair of glasses, I would go next door with them and try on pair after pair of empty frames. Sometimes I’d babysit for the cute kids living upstairs. Then the business moved to a proper storefront and the family to a different address. I left and began building my own home.
On one of my visits back to the block, I learned that a sweet young family had moved in next door. I learned some of the kids’ names, nodded at the neighbors, but that was about all. This wasn’t my home or my block anymore. But over the years, I noticed minor, then major changes to the house. A ramp was constructed in the back, allowing wheelchair access. The father could no longer be seen coming or going. The sounds of a minyan began wafting out of the windows.
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