The Impact of Never Saying Goodbye
The autobiographical statement I used towards the end of my career began with: “I was born and raised on a small chicken farm in Upper Black Eddy…” People mostly laughed, in part because they were amused to learn that I was a child chicken farmer, but also because of the fact that a town (village, post office…?) named Upper Black Eddy actually existed. It was, in the end, a good conversation starter. The lightness of the conversations that usually followed masked the sadder parts of the backstory that I only recently understood.
After 15 years of valiant effort, in the spring or early summer of 1965, my father realized that he would never be a successful chicken farmer/businessman. He had many, many gifts, but running a business was not among them. So to ensure a stable future for his family, he decided to sell the farm and move on to other, if not greener, pastures.
So my father took a new job in Langhorne, PA, approximately 40 miles from the farm, and bought a house in Levittown, PA, which was not far from Langhorne. But in 1965, closing down (and selling) a farm was no simple task. So someone had to continue to live there until those those tasks were completed. And, thus, plans were made.
So she would not have to change schools mid-year, my sister, a rising high school junior, would live with our aunt and uncle in Levittown. My father would stay in the Levittown house a few nights each week and at the farm on the other nights. And my mother and I would remain on the farm until June, at which point we would join everyone else in Levittown. And this is exactly what happened. It was not, by any measure, an ideal plan, but, first, it was workable, and, second, there were no other viable options. But everything changed when the temperature was supposed to drop and a big snowstorm was, allegedly, imminent.
One night in mid-December, my father arrived at the farm with a ‘change order.’ My sister (not present at the time) believes he said that the pipes were in danger of freezing, My recollection is that he said there was going to be a big snow storm. But I have buried the lede — the rest of the sentence was that my mother and I were moving to Levittown that weekend. And, move we did. We packed up our things, drove away, and my mother and I just disappeared. On an otherwise uneventful weekend in December — one during which the temperature did not drop and and there was no big snow storm, my life in Upper Black Eddy — the only life I had ever known — came to an abrupt end, and my new life in Levittown began. Just like that.
I had gone to school with the same small group of children since kindergarten, first in a one room school with an outhouse and then in a fancy new six grade elementary school (our class had two sections; all the others had one). Other than a few children in my Hebrew school that I saw for no more than 1 or 2 hours each week for a year or two (and we were in class most of the time), I knew no one else. The farm and my school friends had been my entire world. But one day I woke up and it (and I) were gone. There was never even a chance to say goodbye.
This was 1965. We had no cell phones, internet, email, Facebook accounts or any other easily accessible forms of communication. I am not sure if I even knew anyone’s phone number. I suppose, in retrospect, I could have worked harder to make contact with my friends and classmates to explain what had happened. But I was focused on figuring out my new life. This is no simple task for a relatively introverted, socially awkward 13 year old. And my parents had their own issues as they tried to start their new lives, while at the same time, trying to extricate themselves from the old one. The issues they faced were far more challenging than the social challenges of a 13 year old. There is, to be clear, absolutely no blame here.
For many years, I described selling the farm as the Israelite family tragedy. To this day I sometimes have this foolish fantasy about buying back. I am pretty sure my mother felt the same way. Having had the pleasure of reconnecting with people on Facebook, an occasional visit with a Tinicum kid in Palm Springs, and, more recently, spending one, truly wonderful, evening with a few of the friends (including significant others and one set of parents) I left behind 56 years ago, I have come to realize that, for me, the tragedy wasn’t leaving the farm. The tragedy was never being able to say goodbye when I did.
Clearly, leaving the farm, my friends and Upper Black Eddy was the right thing to do. While I loved living there, there were times I felt like an outsider and struggled to find my place. However, I expect that most adolescents feel that way from time-to-time. I also am pretty certain that my life turned out better because of our move, mostly because of opportunities that naturally arise from living in a more urban environment. But to this day I deeply regret the way in which the departure occurred, and I am very grateful that I have had the opportunity to address it in some small way. I look forward to future opportunities to reconnect with people I knew all those years ago. Just thinking about it makes me smile.