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What Legacy?
(by Ray Wilmot)
When my parents bought a house in Uniondale in 1942, it was still mostly
farmland. Our house was surrounded by potato fields, and corn was also
grown extensively. There was a big old wooden structure on the corner of
Uniondale and Jerusalem Avenues, a tavern owned by a man named Hitmeier.
It seemed to be surrounded by screened-in porches, and people went there to eat
more than to drink. Our family enjoyed an occasional meal there. probably
sauerbraten, which was my mom's favorite. In the summer, there were farm
stands along Jerusalem Avenue and Fulton Street (now Hempstead Turnpike).
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Lowell Road 1942 |
When I was a boy in Uniondale, in the years after World War II, there were
few cars parked in the street. My friends and I spent countless hours playing
stickball, and were seldom interrupted by passing cars. Everyone's mother
was at home during the day, so rowdy behavior or vulgar language was quickly
reported to the offender's parents. There was a vast wooded area with a
clear flowing creek within walking distance. It went by various names,
among them, "Barnum's Creek" and "Bareass Creek."
Vacant lots abounded, and these became makeshift baseball or football
fields. A few farms persisted into the 50's, but land was being
transformed into streets and houses at a rapid pace.
I moved away for good some time in the 70's, but my mom continued to live in
Uniondale into the 90's, and two of my sisters married and brought up their
families there. So my ties remained strong, and I would visit many friends
and relatives there into the 90's.
My last connection with Uniondale was severed in 1999, when my sister Grace
sold her house and moved out. I helped her prepare the house for sale
during the summer of that year, and had a good chance to see what changes had
occurred.
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1st Place 1942
Price $4,900 |
I was shocked to see what had happened in two generations. Rental
properties abounded where single family households were once the norm.
Two, three or more cars are parked at each house, effectively turning the
streets into parking lots. There is no unused space anywhere, no farmland,
no wooded area, no vacant lots. The only sign of a creek is a parkway
called "Meadowbrook" which carries thousands of cars from one
side of the Island to another. I was shocked to see that several older
brick houses that once occupied large plots of land had been bulldozed to make
room for more profitable duplexes.
The small shops that once thrived have been overwhelmed by a giant Wal-Mart
built on the edge of town. The bakery where we would line up for rolls
after Sunday Mass at St. Martha's was gone. The meat market, where only a
few years ago my mom would go each Saturday and spend more time talking about
her grandchildren than discussing cuts of meat, was gone. Henry's deli,
famous for its homemade potato salad and dill pickles in the distant past, was
long gone. The candy store where teens once gathered to peruse the comic
books and nurse soft drinks was gone. Gone too were Jaller's drug store,
Irwin's lumber yard, Nick and Joe Alese's barber shop, and the diner, where many
of us ended up after weekend dates.
The Wal-Mart sells everything, of course, but you need a car to get
there. It is hardly pedestrian-friendly, separated from the street by
acres of parking. The help seemed to me distinctly unfriendly. But I
was only a visitor. Perhaps the locals would be treated better.
Perhaps.
My sister's neighborhood is eerily quiet during the day. No one
is at home. Everyone works. But the night is filled with activity
and noise. Cars race around with radios blasting. Car alarms
periodically sound their piercing shrieks. A neighbor on the street behind
hers trains dogs in his yard, and they howl hideously in the night. The
ASPCA makes regular visits there.
Knowing no one, without a car, and somewhat intimidated by the knots of teens
gathered on street corners, I felt trapped. In the recent past, I had
enjoyed walking these streets and reminiscing. In the distant past, I knew
who lived in many of those houses, and would stop to visit. But no
longer. I did find a workable bike in my sister's garage, which I used to
pedal to the next town, to see an old friend. It was a scary
experience. Cars routinely cut me off, as if I didn't belong on those
roads. It has been said that New York is the only place with an official
hand signal, and I received several of those greetings as I pedaled precariously
in the narrow space between parked cars and speeding cars.
Back home in Salt Lake City, I treasured anew the obvious comforts of my own
home: wife, children, cats, comfortable bed. Of course, we all
appreciate our homes and home towns for the familiarity they provide. But
I came to realize after some reflection, that there was something more.
On my first weekend back, my wife and I walked up City Creek Canyon and
enjoyed the total absence of motorized vehicles and human-generated noise.
The only sounds were the rushing water, the wind in the trees, and the birds.
The following weekend, I biked a 20-mile loop north and west of the City,
along the few remaining farms next to the Great Salt Lake. On this day,
there were only horses and cows to talk to. But, on other rides, I have
enjoyed the presence of hawks, egrets, and other beautiful creatures. I thanked whatever gods there were for the continued existence of such peaceful,
idyllic place so close to the bustle of the city.
How long will it be before sprawl engulfs the Salt Lake valley the way it has
the suburbs around New York? Or have we already become so urbanized that
the scales have tipped irrevocably in favor of the automobile, the
mega-highways, the super stores and the developers?
The transformation of our special places into highways and big-box retail
stores continues unabated. Here in Utah, the "radical"
environmentalists, including yours truly, protest the building of a massive new
highway through the wetlands of the Great Salt Lake. And in Uniondale, I
hear, the politicians and developers who have no memory of the special place
that Uniondale once was, want to split the community irrevocably by widening
Uniondale Avenue.
In both places, we need to speak out for "community", that sense of
a special place where our children can play and grow in safe, nurturing
atmospheres. I dread the building of the Legacy Highway in Utah, for the
loss of habitat it represents, the inevitable sprawl it will bring, and the
continued deterioration of our air quality. But I also mourn the loss of
childhood and neighborhoods. We cannot easily change the economy so that
mothers will be able to leave the workforce. But we surely can take more
steps to preserve the few wild places that remain and the community values that
nurture our children.
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