Walk one block west of Temple Israel. 110 Central Avenue. Expansive white house with black shingles on corner lot with doctor’s office sign in right front yard. Stone path up to big front door. Wide windows top and bottom. Quarter acre, pristine hedges, leafy trees, lots of green grass, flowers and shrubs. Swings in backyard. Apple and pear trees. Dog run. Old two-car garage.

Nothing glamorous about our house but it loomed large. Mom and I used to disagree about how many rooms there were. I always counted the bathrooms and I guess she left them out.

Front door opened into a friendly foyer—quite inviting with old coat closet and handily placed mirror for the adults to check their hats, teeth, and lipstick. Main hall carried the antique clock and long sliding banister up the eleven (there were eleven!) stairs to the second floor.

Flagging the hall were the formal living room and dining room. Over the years Mom redecorated from 50s to 70s décor. Some problems with improperly tinted velvet wallpaper. (Never quite understood why she didn’t send it back; economy, perhaps.)

Kitchen tucked back of dining room—functional, never fancy. Dad used to sit me up on the old fridge. I even have a picture.

Den to left of living room—good for x-mas trees, house parties and watching evening TV with Inez, our wonderful maid. Funky furniture and built in bookshelves. Very comfortable.

Second floor—four bedrooms, two baths. My room directly facing Central Ave. Very busy street. Perfect yellow room. Walls and curtains always yellow. Closet, desk, drawers and dollies always clean and tidy—no messes, ever. Sister Cil’s room always full of junk, and my parent’s space was, well, just the way it was—a parent’s room. (You know I never heard them have sex in all the years we lived there.) Guestroom for Aunt Yola—stuffy corner affair with tiny closet. But she came and went any time and loved it there.

Third floor. Kind of eerie. Inez lived there. She took a lot of baths in an old-fashioned yellow bathtub in the sloping-ceilinged yellow bathroom aside the hot, hot attic. Her bedroom was tiny with a small closet for her clothes and uniforms. There were two more guestrooms on that third floor—for the cousins when they came to visit.

Downstairs again. Doctor’s office toward the back. I loved it here. Sat on the floor under Daddy’s desk reading the naked people books. Two exam rooms smelling of disinfectant. Glass cabinets with assorted cotton dressings and ace bandages. Scissors and clamps stacked up on the tables. Waiting room with magazines and straight-backed chairs. Harsh-sounding buzzer in office door signaling office hours and patients that came and went with their variety of surgical problems.

Basement. Grey, dank, cold. Everything imaginable piled up down there: canned foods, laundry, medical files, old freezers, glass jars, rags, paint, dog crates, and Nana’s lard soap. Had somewhat odd appeal during the day but too scary to traverse at night.

Outside. Good side street for game-playing. Neighbors available and friendly. Crime not a big factor. And, Temple Israel one block away. When we got old enough, me and Cil could walk or ride our bicycles there without Mom following alongside us in the car. Big rubber tree in front of that temple. Nice services on Jewish holidays.

It’s been some time since I saw the old place. Maybe next time I fly into New York (if there is a next time) I will ask the limo driver to take me down Central Avenue.