Goodbye 72

By John Nieman

I lived in the house of my dreams for thirty years. Here I raised five children and had my share of successes and heartbreaks. However, at a certain point, it is time to say good-bye and move forward to the next chapter of ones life. This is the story of that thirty-year saga. As I summed up on the mug everyone received at our going away party, Greetings, 72 Judson. Welcome to the party. Its been super. Its been fun. Its been rich, but now its done. Hope tomorrow is as hearty.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 31, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524555481

John Nieman

John Nieman, an accomplished artist and writer, has exhibited his paintings throughout the United States and in Europe. His first book of art and poetry, Art of Lists was published in 2007. He has published two novels, The Wrong Number One and Blue Morpho. In addition, he recently published a childen's book called The Amazing Rabbitini. Mr. Nieman lives in Dobbs Ferry, New York, and is the father of five children.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

June 2016

Goodbye, 72 Judson

Today is a day I have dreaded for decades. It’s the day I hand over the keys to the home of my dreams, and walk away from thirty years of memories.

In this home, my wife and I raised five children. We buried three cats and two dogs. We expanded the house twice, and tended the nine gardens.

It was a recreational heaven. The pool itself was a marvel. It had a diving board and was almost forty feet long. There was a moon pool fountain outside my study that gurgled all summer long. There was a hot tub for the spring and fall seasons.

For those who wanted more strenuous diversions, we installed a basketball court in the backyard, and an outdoor ping-pong table. Oh, and a few other extras: there was an outdoor train set that could run year round, and wooden swing set that gained most usage when the children were younger. Some days, I would jokingly refer to it as Disneyland on Judson.

So far, I have concentrated on the outside because I always thought that was the major appeal of the house. However, the inside was quite dramatic as well.

It housed more than fourteen rooms including seven bedrooms. Three fireplaces. A full wood-paneled downstairs with the biggest fireplace you ever saw. A sky-lit family room. A chef’s kitchen, etc., etc. etc.

But the biggest thing about this address was not its physical features. For almost one hundred years, it had been a home for three families, all of which had four to five kids. For us, it was always a place for pool parties, sleepovers, and big breakfasts. On Thanksgiving, we gave out the best candy bars, and always attracted a crowd including the parents. At Christmas, four lit animated reindeer adorned the roof, and presents were opened … but never before the annual letter from Santa (usually reminding the kids to be thankful for all they have and consider those less fortunate).

Of course, it was not all sweetness and light. Each kid had his or her own varying degrees of challenges. And like many idyllic marriages these days, ours did not last much beyond the twenty-one-year itch.

In the midst of our divorce proceedings, I remember the words out of my mouth, I love you, hon … but I really, really love this house. Yes, it was about the stupidest thing a husband could say. But despite the impropriety, it does speak to my attachment to this domicile.

In the aftermath, I did end up in this home of my dreams, and raised the kids through high school years and college summers. Of course, one by one, they peel off and become more independent as they should … but you miss their voices and even their mess. In the end, the once vibrant family home begins to feel more like a museum and very quiet one at that.

This year, on Day 1 of its real estate debut, this house attracted two significant offers. One was within 3 percent of the asking price. The other was the full listed price and a cash deal. Hard to refuse, especially when your real estate agent has brochures printed and ads in the newspaper. A plus: the winning bid was a Brooklyn family with two kids and hopes for more. I believe I secretly prayed it would not sell, but then why put it on the market? A consolation: the new buyers sent me the nicest letter with a picture of their girls and all the dreams they have for this place. I tend to me a sucker for emotion. So life moves on.

As my brave daughter and four sons have told me, I guess it’s time. It can’t be that much fun living in that big house by yourself. They are right. It isn’t.

For the past six months, I have been an empty nester—a term I despise since it reeks of loneliness and sadness. It is all that. And yet, I agree with my kids: it’s time.

I just don’t know if the days ahead will be as delightful.

I hope so. But I just don’t know.

CHAPTER 2

Thirty-one years earlier

1985

Second Thoughts on Having It All

I remember reading that exact cover story in New York Magazine and feeling it must be written about my wife and me.On the heels of this, a series of well-intentioned but foolhardy chain of events resulted in the most dislocated year of our lives. Ultimately, it did ironically help us discover 72 Judson.

The gist of the article was this: In this never-ending yuppie quest to succeed at work, and amass possessions, many couples are finding the supposedly exhilarating fast lane unfulfilling. However, few know how to get off the merry-go-round.

It described our life to a T. I had spent the past seven years at Young & Rubicam, one of the most successful ad agencies in Manhattan (and the world). For a long time, I was considered the golden boy at this firm. I had a group of thirty talented creative types and the best accounts in the shop—including Hallmark, Kodak, Jell-O, Frito-Lay, Oil of Olay, and Lincoln Mercury. I remember that during one stretch, we won seven new business pitches in a row, and I was fortunate enough to be the lead presenter on all of them. I also had the entire creative staff in Detroit reporting to me, and had to clear all their creative ideas. It would mean that I would need to go Detroit at least once a week, which added some wear-and-tear on my body.

My wife Janice also had a budding and demanding creative career. She was working at Dancer Fitzgerald Sample, a very good mid-sized agency. She spearheaded the Barrelhead Root beer account, and was an invaluable presenter of many of their presentations.

We had a young daughter, Lindsay, and had recently moved from Murray Hill to the Upper West Side, so she could have her own bedroom. The place was a duplex on the second floor of a Brownstone at 82nd and Riverside. It had brick exposed walls, a high-ceilinged living room, and a dedicated dining room.

Each day, we would race home so one of us could relieve the au pair, who loved to leave between 6:00 and 6:30 p.m. In the advertising business, that is an early departure. It’s a notoriously late-hour business. Even so, Janice and I did our best to split the load of getting home for the au pair and our daughter.

Soon, Lindsay would be ready for preschool or kindergarten, and I had heard horror tales from our Manhattan friends about how to rehearse a three-year-old for her application interview at one of the tony private schools.

Just to make our schedule more jam-packed, we had a weekend house near Woodstock, NY. We had had it for several years, and loved the place. It had five acres, and pool