There seems to be an unwritten law that states the older I get, the smaller my parents become. The same applies to the house I grew up in, as well as all of the furniture inside. I go back for Christmas and pick up a kitchen chair, twirl it between my fingers, and squint as I wonder aloud, “I sat in this?”
The Jersey suburb where I grew up is also shrinking with the latest wave of urbanization. What once was open space is now home to sprawling condominium developments that sport clever names like Windemere Court and Packed Full Acres. It’s upsetting to me that they are there, but what upsets me more is that somebody from our formerly little town actually sold their property to developers.
Back home, Nature itself seems to be shrinking. My first summer job was at Bob’s Fruit Stand, peddling apples, white peaches and sweet corn that were picked fresh across the street at, you guessed it, Bob’s Farm. People drove by at sane speed on what was then a one-lane road, and occasionally stopped to buy Bob’s produce. I passed the time punching the big circular numbers on the ancient cash register and picking raw corn out of my teeth with the ends of green beans. From my rickety stool I could see across the road at the old pickup truck stuttering down the drive from Bob’s Farm, full with bounty, so I’d know when to throw open the side garage door to help unload a few dozen bushels of this or that.
But all that’s gone now, the farm and its yawning old house replaced by condos, clubhouses and community pools. The farm stand itself held on for as long as it could. Last time I was there, its skeleton was still standing, but the next time we drive by, I’ll only sense its ghost.
Anyway, we’ll make the most of it. My husband and I go back this week for a visit, and he’s never been to my hometown. So I’m making this Suburbs Week here at bewilderedhousewife, so that my husband can read it and be at least a little bit prepared for what he’s about to experience.
Muahahahahaha….
