Bridges

what's happening here

Upstate New York

We are lucky enough to have a second home in upstate New York, in a small small town that calls itself a hamlet.  Hamlet of Cornwallville.  We moved here 35 years ago.  Four of us bought the house together. None of us were homeowners.  We all lived in small rent stabilized apartments and so a house seemed miraculous. Three of us live here now, along with our son Noah and his family: Chesray, Ahava and Khanyi.   (The fourth partner is a long story for another day.)

Noah and I were the only people in the house during the week.  He loved it and so did I.  I was able to work from here, so had a babysitter.  Noah ‘s friend Cian lived in our house for years.  Noah and Cian would play for hours, and afternoons, we’d all go swimming in the creek.  Most nights we’d invite one of the neighbors to dinner.  The postmistress was a regular diner and so was the man who fixed our telephone.  I could not imagine more perfect summers.  Noah and Cian made each other laugh all the time.  I loved my job and even wrote a good sentence or two. Weekends were big dinner parties.

Every summer, the local farmer’s wife and I would host a potluck outside for everyone who lived nearby.  Throngs would come with mac and cheese and homemade ice cream and enough potato salad for several towns.

I wonder now if we were naïve thinking that we could all get along.

I grew up in a small Connecticut town where we were mostly different from one another.  Factory workers and small shop owners and school teachers and Jews and African Americans and Irish and Italians. I liked the difference.  I’ve looked for it all my life.

I’ve always believed we all needed the chance to hear one another, and to really listen.

In our upstate town we’re now divided, not just by politics, but by a peculiar fight.

A young couple from Brooklyn (hard not to refer to them as hipsters) bought 90 acres

on a small mountain here.  They envision a certain kind of Brooklyn paradise:  10 acre

homes, one million dollars each, and a working farm with eggs and vegetables.

Ours is a poor county so million dollar homes are not a thing.
And of course there are plenty of farms with eggs and vegetables.  Still they have a vision.

Those of us who are here from New York City are leading a campaign against the couple.

Our hamlet is full of well-designed signs:  No 90 Acres Here.

We have good reasons:  land use being one of them. And no one trusts that this young couple has the money or ability to build 9 houses here.

For the locals it’s another story.

Gentrification is familiar.

In the nearby town of Stamford, a poor town too, there’s a new hipster café.  The owner, a successful musician with ties to WNYC, is now selling what’s billed as The First Real Coffee in Stamford.  The implication being that those who have been drinking their coffee for all these

years, inexpensive, maybe even boiled, are somehow less real, less in the know.  Whatever there is to know.

Still having a good cup of coffee is always in the plus column.

My friend Tana said that gentrifiers always want to close the door behind them.  Pull up the drawbridge.

How do we change and stay the same?

Love to everyone on this gorgeous July day

from Jessica, Larry, and Esther