Tuesday, January 17, 2017


--> Growing up in Brooklyn, in the grimy streets, I always looked forward to visiting Patchogue on my summer vacation, and where my cousins lived. Patchogue was the country, the place to roam and run and enjoy the green, green, grass of freedom and joy.

Patchogue held a special spell over me, I loved to visit both my aunt and uncle's homes on Norton Street, a duplex home fueled by coal deliveries, pebbled driveways, and porches as I went about shoeless and wearing light summer clothing, it was heaven for the kid from Brooklyn.

There was a certain excitement to visiting Patchogue, it was a special vacation place for me. Carvel ice cream, eating outside and visiting fireworks or special events like air plane shows, made me feel happy that this place called Patchogue existed.

Somehow being in Patchogue created a comparison for me of the sidewalks, buses and Catholic school discipline of Brooklyn to the happy casual feeling of careless life that Patchogue offered. I was free and carefree. My cousins seemed so relaxed and willing to share their joy.

Often, in the early morning, when the dew was prevalent, I could hear the distant sound of the Long island Railroad train engine, tooting my awake in the morning sunrise, sounding so special and making me want to arise from my bed and go out in the joy of Patchogue and enjoy the day.

I would give anything to relive those memories once again, to feel the sense of fireworks exploding through the air on a dark summer's night on July 4th, having a Carvel ice cream or visiting the dock to scoop out a crab, Patchogue you will always be my first love!


Post a Comment

<< Home