Leaving Saint James
Almost 44 years ago a very young I and my husband were able to buy our own house in this small town on the north shore of Long Island, New York. My parents helped and for years we proudly presented them with a check every July 14th, the anniversary of buying our house. At the time, we were married just over a year and it seemed wonderful to have a house that was ours, well — ours and the bank’s. Our last rental was sold out from under us — a complete surprise to us after we had painted it and fixed it up nicely.
It was an older home, probably built in the 1920s with some expansion along the way. Relatively small with three bedrooms and two bathrooms, it seemed like a palace to us, our dog Angus and our two cats. We bought it on the same day that my husband turned down a federal job working to collect delinquent vet loans. A vet himself, he had no desire to go after his fellow veterans. Luckily, he soon found another position in the town and my commute to my job was quite short.
For over two years it was just he and I but then the children started to arrive. In the end we had two boys with a girl in the middle and each baby came home to our home in St. James. They attended local preschools and when school time came, I put my oldest on the school bus and I do not know who was more nervous, he or I! Most of the other moms in the neighborhood were stay-at-home moms and tended to eye working moms suspiciously. But I liked my job and money was an object for us so working was essential. I volunteered at the schools and even had a stint as PTA president for our elementary school.
Our town was perfect for children. They could ride bikes in our neighborhood, walk to 7–11, visit their friends next door and down the street. We had parades down our main street for all the major holidays: St. Patrick’s Day, Memorial Day, Fourth of July, Halloween. The whole neighborhood would troop up the street to Lake Avenue to watch the parade go by, or march in it. The years passed and each of our children graduated from the local high school and one by one went off to college. We drove the first one up to Massachusetts and in time the other two down to schools in Virginia.
Through these years we watched as my mother died of kidney disease and seven years later my father passed away after six months of immobility from a stroke. They lived on the eastern end of the island so we visited them often. When the children were little they loved to see us come but I think were even happier to see us go. Kids can introduce quite a level of whirlwind to people used to quiet. We were not able to visit my husband’s parents as often as they lived in the Midwest but they came a couple of times when babies showed up and eventually we lost both of them as well. Now we were the elders, a sobering thought.
We re-sided the house with wooden shingles, reroofed, repainted, and my husband worked long hours creating beautiful gardens in our small backyard. We renovated the kitchen at least three times. Houses around us turned over as children grew up and the parents retired to other places. We had a white picket fence installed which we loved but that took lots of upkeep with painting it and replacing broken wooden slates. Still, we preferred the wood over plastic. One year our house was featured in Long Island Newsday when they did an article on our town.
Saint James is a beautiful town with a decent socio-economic range and a popular place for our police, teachers, and fire fighters to live. We lost some of our citizens in 9/11 and they are still missed. In spring it bursts with color, flowers everywhere. People take care of their homes and yards. In summer, it echoes by-gone days of laughing children, splashing in pools, biking around the local streets. The Long Island Railroad passes by regularly and after a short time, you do not even note the whistle. Our neighborhood has a wide range of different styles of houses that bear witness to the age and development of the town.
Years zoomed by and when we had to sell my parent’s home out east which we co-owned with my brother, we were able to purchase a house out there. Nott in the same town — that had become prohibitively expensive. But we thrilled at having another house to work on and make our own. However, eventually the double bills and upkeep and worry led us to decide to sell our family home in Saint James. The children were saddened but could see the logic. Plus, none of them lived on Long Island to consider taking it over.
A big impetus to that decision was the changing mood in our town. After Trump became president we witnessed more anger, huge Trump flags — especially after he lost the 2020 election, and in-your-face shrines to a man who honestly could not care less about the working class people who adored him. But he was loved around here. Now, our town had always skewed Republican but Trump Republicans tend to be angry white men, and surprisingly to me, women, who feel shortchanged, even as they seem to enjoy quite comfortable lives in suburbia. I still cannot fathom the attraction but our town seems slanted for a guy who pathologically lies and gives narcissism a run for its money. A local pizza shop — our favorite for over 40 years — is full of mementos, images, and accolades to Trump. When the pandemic was raging, people would gather, maskless outside, loudly protesting perceived injustices and belittling those who disagreed with them. There is more than one “Fuck Biden” flag flying around town. Even during Trump’s controversial tenure, I never saw a similar proclamation against him. To be fair, I think the shift started when Obama was elected. A group of old men and some women would set up a booth outside the post office with pictures of President Obama as a Nazi. I am not sure they got the irony of that comparison. I guess having a black man as president was more than they thought they could stomach. This saddened us. Now, while we tended to vote across parties and everyone basically got along, that era seemed to have passed. But the heart of the issue might be that unless you were born and raised here, you never quite belong to the town. Small towns can be like that. I understand.
Even so, I regret leaving a place where we have lived for most of our adult lives, where all my children arrived, and where we made our home. At the same time, it does not seem welcoming anymore. Of course, not everyone is a strident Trump adherent, but those who are not keep to themselves and try to pretend the negativity is not there. But it seems to be. I can only hope I am misreading St. James and the warmth of community is still present, perhaps waiting for spring.
I can still recall my first visit to the house when we were looking for our own home. We walked in and as I looked around I knew immediately that this was the house for us. I loved its old character and it exuded warmth and welcome. A young couple have bought our home and I hope they have the same wonderful life here that we have had.
It is a banal truism that time flies but in a blink of an eye, one is astonished to see all that has passed so quickly, so full of happiness and of sorrows. We leave behind our memories within the walls for others to add to and make this house their home. The lilacs will greet them in May. I think they will be thrilled to accept their welcome.
