It isn’t about wanting to relive the past (though the opportunity would be welcome). It’s not about hanging onto something that was, once upon a time. We all know downtown Amsterdam, as we knew and loved it, has long since been ill advisedly changed, losing the charm and appeal that once resided there. We all know that the little “Mom and Pop” neighborhood stores are mostly gone. Amsterdam has changed. Though, it is the place of the first and most important 18 years of my life.
So, when in my mind’s eye I find myself standing in the middle of the street that is Arnold Avenue, in front of the house that was the first 5+ years of my life, looking out toward the ball fields, what is that all about? When in similar fashion I find myself standing in the west end of Guy Park Avenue, almost in front of the nursing school where my Mother trained, what is it that takes me there? Likewise, I find myself standing in different locations around the City of Amsterdam, wondering why I am being given these visions. I’m not seeing areas of Amsterdam as they were back then. I’m seeing them as they are now. So, what is it that is placing me in these settings, and what is this all about?
I would expect that, in these scenes I find myself placed, there would be a presence of remorse, regret for leaving (?), disdain for how this city has been neglected and misdirected, longing to have the old days and ways back. I would expect to be sad. Yet, that isn’t what this seems to be about. Sure, I miss the old days. I miss them because I can’t retrieve them, as much as I miss them just for the missing.
There is a Facebook page entitled, “I grew up in Amsterdam, NY”. I invite you to check it out. Most of the people who have been showing up there seem to be those who have long since moved away from the city of our youth, though many still live in Amsterdam. On this page, we have been reminiscing about the memories we each have. We have been talking about, or at least reading about, all of the schools and churches that existed. We have been recognizing the neighborhoods of bakeries and markets, with some flavor of ethnicity to each and every one of them, all within short walking distance from our homes and our having the willingness to do the walking to them. We have been reminding each other of how it was, way back then.
So, again, what are these scenes, these visions that are being presented to me all about? It’s about a feeling that lives within us all. When we listen to our elders (of whom we are each and every one becoming), of the times they lived in, we hear their stories. Mom’s tales about growing up on the farm, out “in the country” as we always knew it (though nowadays it’s a mere 5 – 10 minute drive from the heart of town), have been mostly just tales to me, though certainly a big part of my heritage. Dad’s been gone for most of 25 years now. Still, I hear tales of when he was young, my Grandfather and Grandmother (his parents) and a tad about their time here. Stories about people falling out of barns, and disappearing in the winter night make me want to engage with and to know about the time before my life. We hear and read about the origin of the trolley tracks that used to live in the middle of Main Street and the transition of buildings within town from one business to another, over the years. Mostly, though these have been tales of a time before ours, they do give us a glimpse into what life was like back then.
What I’ve come to know is that if I stand in these visions, these scenes laid out before me, and ask the simple question, “what is it that you are trying to show me”, without allowing myself the distraction of what someone else might perceive of me trying to relive the past, the answer is made clear.
This is about something that has been instilled within us, something that has been a part of each of us, since then. This isn’t about what my mind looks to find in these scenes from the days of yore. It’s about a feeling. It’s about a feeling. It’s about a way of being. It’s about when friends were friends, family was to be embraced in gathering, ethnicities were to be shared. It’s about being our individual selves, and that being okay with the people we grew up with. It’s about a sense of home that doesn’t go away, no matter the miles and time between.
We grew up in a time of walking to the neighborhood stores. Our friends lived down the block, or even across town. No matter, we’ll meet up at each other’s house or somewhere in between. We spent Christmastime (and others) enjoying the local shops in downtown Amsterdam. We went out at the beginning of a summer day and didn’t show up again ’til suppertime. Where were we? Catching crayfish, picking raspberries, swimming at one place or another, riding our bicycles, getting an ice cream or hot dog, … We were, y’know, playing.
When winter came, we embraced it. We put on our skates, grabbed our sleds, saucers and toboggans, skitched a ride on someone’s bumper or (if we were lucky) grabbed onto the rail of a passing truck and made like we were water skiing. When we returned home, our ruddy cheeks and dazed eyes said we had a good time. We made snow caves and forts. A snowball fight broke out without notice. It was winter, and yeah it meant shoveling some snow. So what?! Get the shoveling done and the rest of the day was for playing.
When Halloween came around, the stores were painted with characters of a ghoulish nature, pumpkins and such. When Christmas came around, again the stores were painted, the streamers hung across Main Street, the ethnic traditions set in. In a sense, it was a little like living in Whoville. (Okay, well maybe I’m overreaching with that one.) The restaurants and bars were, again, noted for their different ethnic accent. And, Oh!, the foods the markets, bakeries and restaurants did bear! Yeow! Finding traditional Italian and Polish foods, as authentic as we had in Amsterdam has left much to be desired. (That one I would go back to those days for, in an instant.)
As we moved into high school, there were dances, football and basketball games, plays and musicals, band and other. We went camping, hiking, water skiing, drinking (oops), and just plain hanging out. We spent time with family and friends.
My own personal, present experience of the spirit of Amsterdam was ignited by the family business recently being sold to a larger company, which in turn was bought by a larger company. Personally, it opened a treasure chest of memories of Quandt’s Food Service (Quandt’s Wholesale Distributor), from it’s origins at 20 Guy Park Avenue (across from St. Joseph’s church and school) to the opening of the “new warehouse” at Quist Road (so named because Quist Lumber Company initiated the road off Rte. 5). Though I haven’t been in the doors of the latest and greatest rendition of Quandt’s in over 40 years, and my immediate family has been out of the business since Dad died, it was still the family business. There’s a little sadness to that. Mostly, I am grateful for the experience loading and unloading trucks at both locations, unloading rail cars, and generally working in the warehouse, when not in school. I am grateful for the people who I was blessed to meet during this experience.
Once I stepped past the fond memories that are connected with Quandt’s, these scenes and visions of Amsterdam moved into place. I’m grateful for growing up when I did, in Amsterdam, NY. I relish having played ball at the athletic fields at Lindburgh Ave., Troop 59 and 40 Boy Scouts, delivering the Schenectady Gazette, taking out the trash for Mrs. Conant (for .25), shuffling through the autumn leaves, trudging through the winter snow, breaking the ice along the road on my way walking home from St. Joseph’s School. I’m grateful for the people I met and shared this time with. Mostly, I’m grateful for how this feels inside me. Whether I return to Amste
rdam one day, or not, (and that possibility is still in the wind) this feeling of the “Spirit of Amsterdam” allows me to offer anyone I meet a perspective they may never get from anyone else.