Our apartment building is turning 50 years old this year, and to celebrate, the board is throwing a party. Invitations have gone out and nearly every time I ride the elevator, someone turns to me and asks, “Are you attending the anniversary gala?”
Each time, I smile, nod and say, “Yes! My husband and I are both looking forward to it!”
The questioner is always satisfied by this answer and then goes back to sorting their mail or digging their keys out of a pocket or handbag.
However, each time I’m asked, there’s always a longer answer that wells up inside of me. It’s too much information for an elevator ride and truly, these people don’t want the long answer because they’re really just making conversation. But this is what I want to say.
This building is inextricably linked to my family history. Five generations of my family members have walked through the lobby (from my great-great Aunt Sue to my nephew Emmett). There has never not been a moment in the life of this building when I did not have a relative (or two) living here.
My grandmother lived here for more than 1/3 of her life (from 1966 to 2002) and now I’ve done the same (2002 to 2015 and still counting). My mother lived here when she was in college and you can still see traces of the orange paint she slapped on the bathroom walls during a period of mono-induced psychosis. My Uncle Wallace, who at that time was called Robbie, lived in the den when he was going to law school.
Throughout a big chunk of my childhood, my mom brought my sister and me to Philly each summer for a week or two (and once for seven). We slept in the den, road bikes down the hallway, and went to summer camp at 4th and Pine. You can still see the spot on the carpet where I spilled cantaloupe soup in the hallway.
I realize I’m just one cog in the larger machine of the building, but it has been instrumental in shaping me into the person I am. Of course I’m going to the party.
