“No man can step into the same river twice.” — Heraclitus, 500 B.C.
After spending the past few years in Florida, my husband and I decided this season to rent a place near Woodmere, where we lived in the same house for 51 years. I taught in the local schools, our kids grew up here, and our roots in the community run deep.
We’ve been back in town for about two months. I don’t have meteorological data, but I believe we’ve had the most glorious autumn weather ever experienced in southwestern Nassau County. Until the nor’easter, of course, which brought back memories of Hurricanes Belle and Irene and Sandy.
I took myself to Woodmere Dock and found the seascape of the bay, the waterside holes of the Rockaway Hunting Club and the vast marshes all the same. I imagine I’m one of few people who recall that the dock was owned at one time by the Ike family, who rented rowboats by the hour and owned an access road to the dock known as Ike’s Lane.
You can go home again, but if you do, be prepared. Everything is the same, but entirely different. And, of course, you are different, too. Our old house looks as if we closed the door and walked away yesterday. The tiny memorial to our dog Sheba still rests in a flower bed where we buried her ashes.
The second day up North, I walked into a doctor’s office and into a friend from our kids’ high school days. We looked the same, other than dusted and stamped by time. That afternoon, a woman jogged by our rental house, and I realized she was in a book group I ran 25 years ago. I kept running into people who looked as if a makeup artist had worked them over. And they did double takes when I reintroduced myself.
Things are where I remember them — firehouses and supermarkets and a few restaurants. But some stores are now banks, and many small businesses have been replaced by medical megapractices, gyms or nail spas. Community boards advertise unfamiliar events and groups. I felt like Emily in “Our Town,” when she returns from the dead to revisit her 12th birthday and realizes that no one ever appreciates the everydayness of their lives while they’re living them.
I took the LIRR to the city from Lawrence one day. I didn’t know where or how to park, how to buy a ticket or how to find the train schedule. Since I last rode the Snail, it went digital. I got a tutorial from my granddaughter and enjoyed a glorious day with her traipsing through downtown Manhattan. BTW, despite the fear-mongering of many Floridians, the subway was clean, and it all felt safe.
Penn Station was emblematic of my experience, looking completely new and kind of brazen and futuristic, but foundationally the same. Track 19 is still Track 19, and the train back to Lawrence still left from there.
Another day, I drove from the Five Towns to Astoria. I hadn’t driven in city traffic for six years. That was hell and a half. I felt gratified that my memory of the roads was accurate, and the Van Wyck still went to the Grand Central and then to Steinway Street — but what a holy mess the roads are. Everything is under construction, and cement trucks terrorized me all the way from here to there. My Waze app told me to go right so I could go left, and then an 18-wheeler backed into my lane. More people gave me the finger salute during that 50-minute ride than in all of my years driving.
The Woodmere and other towns of my younger self have evolved and, in some cases, disappeared. That’s what happens. New people, new shops, new activities festoon the old infrastructure. All the little back roads are the same, though. I realized I knew 10 different ways to drive anyplace.
I also know the origin stories, the history, of people and places, and it all came flooding back as I zipped about town. I felt grounded in the way you can only feel when your present is layered with rich memories of the past.
It’s autumn in New York again, and it’s good to be home.
Copyright 2025 Randi Kreiss. Randi can be reached at randik3@aol.com.