Patchogue

During the summers we would rent a cabin in Patchogue. Dad worked in the city during the week and came to visit on weekends. He found some old barn wood and nailed together a small airplane. He put me in the plane, lifted me on his shoulders and began to run. “We're flying to China,” he shouted, a cigarette hanging on his lips. I collaged an old penny stock certificate for the airplane. The floor in the vestibule leading to Grandma Dora and Grandpa Meyer's apartment was made of mosaic tiles and the apartment floor was covered with worn linoleum. The bedroom contained two metal framed beds, 2 wooden chairs and 2 chests of drawers with mirrors. I remember the pungent smell of the apartment.