Change is inevitable. We were in Forestburgh, NY, staying at a pre-Airbnb bed and breakfast, ready to explore a new area. Remembering a New York Post article, we got in our 2000 Chevy Cavalier and headed to the hamlet of Narrowsburg within the town of Tusten, NY. Six weeks later we owned an impulsive house. 

Money was tight. We borrowed an air mattress, bought a two folding camping chairs and started spending weekends at the new house. Our hands were gnarled from steaming three layers of wallpaper off cracked walls. We collected 25 bags of yard debris. We vanquished field mice and fought off a ladybug infestation.

Evenings were spent debating between aspiration and budget.

We were having a front yard picnic when a passing car stopped.

“You’re not flippers, are you?”

“No.”

The woman, smiled.  “I’m Doreen. Welcome to the Flats.”

The Flats. Our home away from Harlem. So called because the houses are built on low-lying areas of land alongside the river. Formed by sediment deposits from floods, creating alluvial plains. 

I still have no idea what alluvial plains are.

We had met neighbors. Doreen and her husband Ed. Kind, sturdy people. My mom would’ve baked cookies with Doreen while they gossiped. Ed ran a printing business. Doreen had been a checker at Peck’s. Their house, built in the 1860s, was purchased when I was a toddler. 

It was always fun picturing Ed and Doreen as young parents. In the ‘60s and ‘70s when the Flats was thick with boomer babies. I could imagine them getting dressed up for a rare night out at 3 Wishes.

 We’d visit their house at Christmastime to see Doreen’s Victorian village. They’d come to our parties. We’d visit during walks with our dogs Tammy Faye and Zuzu, who Doreen always mistakenly called Zulu.

When I ran for town board, Ed, a former member, offered advice: “Be true to yourself.” He voted for me, which felt like winning the lottery.

Doreen played a Ukrainian grandmother feeding refugees in a play I directed. 

We keep pink Himalayan salt in a tiny silver bowl they gave us.

Ed always walked the neighborhood like a rural guardian angel. He started slowing down. Cane became walker became a sad afternoon at the funeral home in Barryville.

At the funeral his son shared the secret to taking care of a historic house: Concentrate on one side a year.

Doreen didn’t last much longer. A sad testament to the consequence of true love. I had no idea the last time I saw her was the last time I’d see her.  We laughed the way old friends do. It was nice.

When their beautiful home changes owners, the Flats will still call it “Ed and Doreen’s place.” There will be someone new in the front yard Ed kept manicured. I’ll stop while walking Zulu and say, “You’re not a flipper, are you?”