The big rigs roaring past my window

on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway are a gentle reminder that I am not in suburbia tonight. I'm staying at my parents' house in Brooklyn, the house that I lived in from 1979 to 1993. My friend John Davey once said that this house reminds him of a cave, like the Hobbit's house. I'm not sure, but I think that he said it in admiration. John is originally from an upscale suburb of Detroit, where I imagine that the houses are as large as many of the prefab monstrosities in my Connecticut neighborhood, but much more solid and stately. I bet that John would say that he came to New York City to get away from solid and stately.

I think that an 18-wheeler just drove through the upstairs bedrooms. Great beard of Zeus, it's loud here. I'd forgotten.

I hear my sister's baby, Alex, crying through the monitor that is sitting next to the computer. My sister Amy lives here now with her infant twins. I hear Amy talking softly. Now, she's making a sort of grrr-grrr noise. Alex has stopped crying. Amazing.

It's strange to be in this 200-year old house. According to local lore, this four-story brick building at various times was home to a speakeasy, a grocery, and a whorehouse. This was all before Robert Moses built the BQE, severing neighboring Red Hook from the industrialized world. Some 45 years later, Red Hook is now home to an IKEA. The Swedes even offer free ferry and bus service for car-less Manhattanites. So things I suppose are looking up in The Hook, depending on how you look at it.

This post seems to be meandering a bit more than I'd like, but it's okay because:

a) I'm writing again, finally.
b) No one is reading this.

Good night, Brooklyn.