February 16, 2024
Recently I watched a well-done movie on YouTube titled “An American Rhapsody” with Scarlett Johansson.
It left me in near tears, because of the convincing acting and incredible story line. As do a number of movies.
But this movie left me with a yearning and appreciation for the “old.” Much of it took place in post-World War 2 Hungary during. The story was current to its time, but I was drawn to the architecture.
Buildings that had been there for maybe a hundred years. Or more. Bridges and museums and farmland with quaint houses and stately barns and sprawling lands. Tiny tea sets gifted to a daughter, passed down from generations.
The young girl walked into town by crossing the exact same bridge that she had walked as a little 5 year old. The same looking bridge her mother and grandmother has crossed almost every day. The same bridge her grandfather could tell her stories about.
The movie left me feeling missing some things. The old buildings in my town are almost gone. Every place I lived after WW2 is gone, replaced by a beautifully new and modern one. The trolleys are gone, the ones my mother and grandmother and I rode to “town” to shop, and walk around and always to stop at the courthouse to feed the pigeons. My grandmother carried bags of popcorn in her oversized purse. I loved those pigeons! The courthouse is still there – that beautiful old majestic building! But there are no pigeons! Measures were taken to rid us of that nuisance. We have clear sidewalks and a beautiful park, but no pigeons. No memories.
In fact with all of the “improvements” to my city I know it is beautiful and vibrant and healthy and is attracting smart young people back to our city. We are on an economic uptake and I love it. I do. We are no longer a dingy downtown, but a clean, modern, one and I love going downtown. My new downtown. But I am connected to nothing and nothing reaches out and calls warm memories back to me.
This past summer I visited a grandson who lives in Manhattan. That wonderfully congested, alive, part of New York City. A city full of old buildings still breathing life. He has a small, bachelor-type apartment on Canal Street. A very narrow opening. As he opened the iron-grated door from the street I noticed the one-hundred coats of paint. At least. Nobody bothered to scrape off some of the old ones before giving it a refreshing new look. The lobby was tiny, but had marble walls and floors and very old tiny brass mailboxes. No one had polished the brass in years. His apartment was three floors up. Worn marble steps. The centers were indented with the wear of a million shoes treading these steps every day. Everything was old and uncared for, yet incredibly clean and functional.
I noticed the same in the parks, the subways, the markets, the shops, the Met. Old, worn, maintained, kept-up, clean, wonderful. In the heart of these stones lies a million stories. Years of history.
Here’s the thing. If many years from now I visited that apartment building, opened that over-painted black grated door, stepped into that lobby, walked those steps, I would immediately be flooded with memories of that visit to my grandson on Canal Street in 2023. I would remember everything that three day visit held. I’d remember the old Jewish man in the subway, the young man playing chess in the park for money, lunch at a deli, the walk every morning for coffee. I’d remember instantly the warm conversations with that grandson. Instantly remembered by stepping into that same old lobby in the old building on Canal Street. Because it will still be there! The memories would flood back into my heart as though it was 2023 again. No journal and no photographs can quite do that!
Again I love the progress of revitalization, the beauty and function, business and jobs that it brings. I do!
But somewhere can we treasure and protect and preserve the old for what it too has to offer?
Maybe I just think this way cause I’m now “old”?
Naw! I’ve always loved the good, the beautiful, the history, the stories, the value of all things old!
Wildly Clara 