stairs that creaked and whined over 20 years ago, and 40 years before that, still creak and whine.
Banisters with knobs as big as a bowling ball.
Original floors worn from all the children that skidded across them bounding for the street or the backyard.
Kitchen still the same, a little more modern with kitchen table in the same spot it would be on those summer evenings when my father and his cousins would play cards or backgammon or checkers and me and the younger ones bounded up the street for the park, or the yard, or the other cousin's house down the street.
Walls absorbing an equal mix of joy and sadness.
This was and is "Pulaskitown", as my great uncle recently said at his 90th birthday. Pulaski Avenue was the anchor for where his family and my family grew up.
and for me as a kid this house was at the center of it. And for my family, it still is. During a short weekend years of separation disappeared, absorbed in its walls. Replaced with fond memories, old and new.
I'm the girl who is pointing her camera in the opposite direction of the Empire State building, at the faded sign on a tenement down the street. If not I'm bothering the folks at the Municipal Archives digging up info on people long gone and writing among other things a biography on a man who did wicked things. Stay tuned.