A House in the Bronx

On Olinville Avenue in the Bronx, not far from Gun Hill Road, sits a three family house that was once shared and owned by my maternal grandparents and great aunts.  The family immigrated from Campobasso, Italy in the early 1900s.  As was the case for many families at that time, they chose to live together to help each other out and because they were a close-knit family.  Although my family has not owned this house for over 40 years, I have warm memories of it from when I was very young.

I remember the excitement that ran through me as our family drove from Yorktown Heights to visit.  We would have contests to see who could spot and count the most animals driving down the Taconic Parkway.  Sheep, cows, groundhogs, deer; they were all very exciting to see along the road.  As we exited at Gun Hill Road, we saw the familiar landmark of the elevated train.  Needless to say we were not in Kansas, I mean Yorktown anymore.  A few turns around narrow roads lined with cars parked on both sides led us to 'grandma’s house'.  Regardless of who owned it or who paid the bills, it was always about grandma.  My father would religiously point out which house he used to live in as well as other relatives who lived in the neighborhood.  We would hear the same stories each time.  Looking back, I am glad he drilled them into me because now I point them out to our sons.

Another new concept to me was watching my dad parallel park along the street.  Somehow there always seemed to be a little bit of space for him to craftily squeeze into.  As you approached the house from the sidewalk, there were two sets of steps to climb before a majestic wooden wrap-around porch greeted you.  It is here that I sat with my great Aunt Mary learning how to crochet when I was six years old.  It was a skill that she insisted I know and to this day I am happy to carry on some aspect of her creative legacy through the items that I crochet. There were some chairs on the porch looking out to a front lawn of greenery and flowers in the spring.

 

 My dad by the steps leading to the porch; my grandfather sitting on the porch.

As you entered the house you had a choice to ascend to the second floor or turn left.  Turning left took you to the ground floor apartment.  This is where my great Aunt Mary and Aunt Betty lived.  Neither of the sisters married, although Aunt Mary had several suitors. Born in Italy, she was the oldest of six siblings who survived.  She turned down a few proposals when the men wanted her to give up working and become a full time wife. She was an independent woman who would not compromise her career goals if that were what being a wife meant.  She was a seamstress who specialized in embroidery and had her own business in the Bronx.  She embroidered the inaugural gowns of two First Ladies:  Florence Harding and Eleanor Roosevelt.  Both of these gowns are currently on display at the Smithsonian in Washington D.C. 

As you entered the living room, there was a candy jar that was always filled with candy.  It was the first stop we made when entering the house and a welcome one at that.  The upholstered couches were now covered in plastic because there were so many little ones running around.  I remember their stiffness when I attempted to sit on them.  Big Italian family dinners were generally held in their dining room for the adults, while the kids were relegated to gather round the kitchen table in the next room over.  Above that kitchen table hung a beautiful Tiffany lamp that I always admired.  It was decorated with bright colored stained glass fruit. After all the kids cleaned their plates of the first course of homemade melt-in-your-mouth lasagna, we scattered off to play while the adults went on to their second course and did that boring thing called talking.

This was the only photo I could find of the downstairs dining room.  You can see the kids eating in the kitchen off to the left, being fed by Aunt Betty.

Downstairs in the basement was Aunt Mary’s workroom.  We couldn’t wait for Aunt Mary to invite us down, which happened most visits.  As we descended the steep cement steps, we entered a world of treasures.  She would take us to one of her many bead boxes and always gave us some beads or trinkets.  We would use them to make jewelry or for decorations.  Sometimes they just went home into one of our little boxes of gems from Aunt Mary.  We were like kids in a candy store and were in awe of all the amazing sparkly beads and sequins she had.  We had such fun excursions to that room.

Going back to the entry foyer and up the set of carpeted steps led to my grandparents’ apartment.  Since my poppy died when I was six, most of my memories of that apartment were with my gram.  This was my favorite place to have a sleepover.  When I was with one of my siblings or cousins, we slept in the end room.  Other times I got to sleep in one of the twin beds in my gram’s room.  I felt like I won the lottery when I got to be in her room.   I remember hearing the elevated trains running all night long along Gun Hill Road.  Gram said I would get used to it quickly and she was right.  My favorite memory was having breakfast with her in the morning.  It consisted of toast with lots of butter and coffee.  If felt like one of the adults when I got to have coffee.  Of course the ‘coffee’ was made up of mostly milk and sugar, which is why it was so dang delicious.  It is those warm memories that make me smile to this day.

Going up yet one more set of narrow steps brought you to Aunt Helen’s attic apartment.  Smaller than her sisters’ places below her, it was perfect for her now that her family was raised and on their own.  I would venture up there once a day to visit and see what fun things she had for me to do.  Of course I believed that my grandmother and all my great aunts’ number one priority was to keep me entertained.  Aunt Helen would show me her photo albums, books, and other interesting trinkets.  Before long, I was bounding down the steps and off to the backyard.

Although the yard was small, we would entertain ourselves for quite some time.  All it took was a small tennis ball or just running around the nooks and crannies of the property.  I remember the grape vines growing in the back of the house, which were used to make their wine. There was a narrow driveway on the right side of the house.  Although it was part of their property, none of them owned a car or drove, so they didn’t use it. 

From time to time when I am driving home from New York City and am not in a hurry, I pull off at the Gun Hill Road exit and drive past the house.  I point out the houses that my relatives used to the lucky person in the car with me.  The family house looks so small and compact now; not the grand mansion I remember.  I have never rung the bell to ask if I could peek inside or walk around the backyard, nor would I want to.  I need to retain the faint memories I have of how it looked inside without it being taken over by the new owners’ furnishings.  As it is, I am saddened to see that the porch is no longer there.

I feel blessed that I got to know so many of my older relatives well before they passed.  Many of them lived well into their nineties, but Aunt Mary enjoyed 107 ½ years.  Yes, that half-year is important to include.  Perhaps her long life can be partially attributed to the fact that she never did marry and to her nightly shot of vermouth.  Of course I wish our time together was longer, but I am the person I am today because of their influence on me as well as how they brought up my parents.  I miss my gram and my aunts and that big old white house on Olinville Avenue, which hosted many great memories.  I wish I had more photos of the house itself, but my memories will have to continue to serve as the visual.  It is the people and the feelings we have from a house that makes it a home.