“We're three generations living on
the Hudson River, mom” my son, Peter said to me not too long ago.
“Well, four...” I corrected him, reminding him that my grandson
is the fourth. I had never thought of it that way, but yes, there we
all were on any given day, dotting the river's shoreline, watching
the same brackish water lapping and waving, feeling the tidal pulse
rushing from New York Harbor to Albany and beyond. If I were a Hudson Valley
eagle coasting overhead, I would have seen my mom sitting on her deck
overlooking the tennis courts and marina in Hastings; me, walking
Toby in the shadow of the Palisades Cliffs; and Pete, Lori, and Jack,
grabbing a burger or lobster roll on the North Cove of Battery Park.
I am obsessed by this river. I admit
it. First thing in the morning, before I listen to the news and the
weather, I'm at the window checking out the condition of the river.
White caps and racing – it is the Hudson Ocean. Still and silky –
it is the Hudson Lake. Ice chunks and barely moving – the Hudson
Skating Rink. Grey and speckled – Hudson Rain Forest. And the
sunsets! Of course the russet, fuchsia and gold colors of the
sunsets. Yes I am obsessed.
I learned to love the Hudson growing up
a few blocks from its shoreline in Inwood, Manhattan. Inwood is the
neighborhood at the pointy narrow northern tip of Manhattan, bordered
on three sides by water: the Hudson River to the West, the Harlem
River to the East, and Spuyten Duyvil Creek to the north, which
connects the rivers. As a kid in the 50's I spent a lot of time on
“The Speedway” and at the “River Fields” as we referred to
the east and west river parks. Activities included playing softball
with my crowd (now you'd say friends), climbing around on the huge
boulders scattered on the riverbank, walking down the Speedway paths,
and occasionally, a picnic with family. Mom told stories of watching
the George Washington Bridge construction as a young girl, dad told
stories of swimming across the river (debatable) and sometimes we
fished for eels. More likely we spied rats running around the
broken-down docks at the end of Dyckman Street.
But my favorite time was finding a big
flat rock on the Hudson River's edge and stretching out in the sun.
Most times I had a book that I picked up at the library on Broadway,
and a sweatshirt rolled up under my head. I could stay there for
hours even with the threat of seeing a rat run by. I craved the
peace and quiet away from the monsters in my imagination and the
struggles of my reality. I'd actually be distracted from reading by
the soft lapping of the water against the rocks. The sound was –
still is – the most peaceful, calming, and alluring sound my heart
has ever thumped to.
My love affair with the Hudson
continued throughout my teenage years and adulthood, to this day as I
have found a place to live where I can watch and listen to the river
every day. Some of the best times I can remember in recent years
have been sitting on the deck with mom, her binoculars in hand,
watching the bright white sailboats and the colorful tugboats go by.
One day we followed the Hudson River Clearwater
sailing north with wonder; one day we watched the
Tall Towers blazing to the south in horror.
I guess my son has caught the
obsession, drawn to live near the river, loving time spent at the
river parks with his family. Today, I add to my list of bests and
favorites the time I spend with my grandson at Battery Park every
week. We stroll or jaunt up and down the river walk, stopping at
North Cove to gaze at the sailboats and watching the ferries come in
and out. We wave and say hi to Lady Liberty in the distance, and we
listen to the water lapping against the rocks. I tell him, here is
your beautiful Hudson River. The Hudson is your family, the Hudson is
your people. With that, he wriggles his hand out of mine and chases
after the New York City pigeons.
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