The New Hyde Park house that kept its hold on me

‘I grew up in this house!” I called out from my car window at the young man who stood in the driveway of the house where I spent my childhood. “Would you like to come in and look around?” was the young man’s irresistible response. “Sure!” I said, unsure of where this little visit to my past would take me.

I’d driven by many times over the past 61 years since my family moved out of the house in New Hyde Park in 1964, but I never stopped or knocked on the door.

I introduced myself to Joe, the 40-something proud owner. “My parents were the first owners of this house, which was built in the postwar boom. I think this area used to be a potato farm.” Joe seemed thrilled to meet me and learn some of the history of the house he and his young wife had been renovating for several years.

The outside of the house had not changed a bit, but as we entered the side door, the completely remodeled kitchen was a knockout. It was hard to picture my mother standing by the oven in this place. My compliments had Joe beaming with delight. During the tour of the house, room by room, he explained why and how they renovated the place. They hadn’t had any kids yet, so things felt quite roomy and livable. “Can I see the second-floor bedroom?” I asked, explaining that my three brothers and I shared the impossibly cramped room.

“Sure,” he uttered, opening the door to the staircase leading up to the room. “This is one of the only rooms we haven’t touched yet. I’m using it as my office.” My head had a difficult time wrapping itself around seeing my childhood bedroom virtually unchanged after so many years. “We used to have two twin beds here and a set of bunk beds over there in the corner,” I said, shaking my head in disbelief. “Somehow, we all managed it.”

“Do you want to see the basement?” Of course I did, even as the monsters that lurked in that boiler room had long since been replaced by adult fears that bore little in common with my childhood terrors. Joe was happy to show me the brand-new, modern gas boiler — “It’s a beauty — quiet and efficient.”

“I want to show you the doorframe,” he said excitedly. “We’re leaving it as it was because it represents the history of the house that we want to honor.” My eyes widened as he pointed out the marks dated “11/1/63 — Jim — with shoes 5’3” . . . No shoes 5’2 ¼” — my father’s heavy-handed pencil still clearly visible on the oak door frame. “That’s you, right?” he said. “Yeah, it is,” I realized.

He was thrilled to connect these markings from the origins of the house he loved so much to a real person. It left me a bit dumbfounded and profoundly moved.

As I drove away, I carried with me the memory of my standing barefoot on that concrete floor as my father’s pencil pressed into the wood. It was a quiet reassurance that the boy I had been was still there.

 Reader James D. Riordan lives in Old Westbury.