My parents’ resting place
This year, due to the late High Holy Days calendar, I plan to spend the Jewish holidays in Florida. It is my first year away during Yom Kippur, the Day of Remembrance, when I typically visit the cemeteries in Rochester, New York of my parents, grandparents and sister. But before I leave East Hampton, I will spend time at the local cemetery on the bench adjacent to my late wife Judie’s resting place. Paying respects to my departed family this time of year has been ingrained in me since I was a youngster.
Back when I had just received my junior driving license at age 16, Mom talked Dad into letting me drive his new red Oldsmobile two-door with the spinners for a trip to the local cemetery where Mom’s parents were buried. It took a lot of convincing, since up until that time I had only been allowed to drive the WWII snowplow that he kept for clearing the parking lots during our upstate winters. Mom somehow persuaded Dad that I would not damage his prize. Her intention was not just for the ride, but she wanted me to know the location of the family headstones and to gain an understanding of the importance of remembering the dead by placing a stone at the grave as a sign of respect and to show God we were thinking of the departed. She had talked to me about me taking her to this sacred place for several months before I took my driving test. Until then, Mom, who did not drive at all, had relied on dad for the occasional visit. Dad had no relatives buried locally, having lost his parents and siblings in the Holocaust. His one brother was buried in Elmira, New York, a small town some 100 miles from home.
That first ride with me behind the wheel was a success, so thus began a regular cemetery routine for me and my mother. After my parents passed away, I made regular overnight visits to their grave sites, flying into Rochester airport.I not only went to the cemetery, but in my rented car drove down memory lane, past Ben Franklin High School, the local municipal library, Eddies Lunch where we dined during high school and of course, Wegmans and the old Scrantoms general store that finally closed in 1988. It usually only took me the morning to drive my itinerary.
The rest of my free time until my return flight was spent on foot, walking around the old neighborhood. I wondered what the locals were thinking, if I was stalking the area, but no one ever called me on it. Everyone I grew up with had moved on but our old house at 144 Navarre Road was still there with its two tall oak trees in the front yard. For a long time not much changed in the old neighborhood. The lots are small and each has limited space for any backyard amenities, though every house had a garage and I recall how Dad would spend his free time in ours polishing his Oldsmobile.
During my walks, as part of my remembrance routine, I tried to peer into the garage at 144 just in case Dad’s car was still there.Then, it was across the street to Bobby’s house, where we played baseball and dressed his Boxer up for holidays. I walked to the home of a couple retired teachers who always had nice treats for Halloween.
On my most recent trip, I saw the former vacant lots at the end of the road were now built up. I drove past the empty parking lot at Kodak and the shuttered library. I noticed that so many of the front yards, once so neatly cared for, were now overgrown. It is still the old neighborhood, but with lots of sprinkles of memory dust. On my return flight I buckled up and opened the New York Times. Back to the present day again.