A Tribute To Lenny

I moved to Liverpool, NY, in 1975, along with my parents. We moved into this area known as Grenadier Village, which had a bunch of brick apartment complexes already built, but they were working on putting together a bunch of townhouses at the time. We moved into one of those, where only 2 of the townhouses were finished at the time, as each complex would end up having 4. In a way, it reminded me of the military housing I was used to living in, with the differences being having a one car garage and a laundry area, and it was new which means it was extremely clean. 🙂

It was a few days before our furniture and stuff showed up at the townhouse so we could finally put things together. Being only 15 years old, I wasn’t asked to do much except stay out of the way; yay! They pulled my bicycle out, and after checking the tires I was off to explore the new place that I’d call home for 6 years.

I wasn’t prepared for what I encountered. First, I was a military kid who moved to central New York after living in Limestone, Maine, for 4 1/2 years. Before that, for about 15 months, I was living in a ghetto in Kansas City, Missouri, while Dad was in Vietnam, and going to an all-black school except for the one Mexican kid named Jose; I’m not lying! lol Before that I was living on another military base, located in North Syracuse.

The two bases were fairly integrated, so in my mind that was the norm of how living was supposed to be; Kansas City was an aberration, a temporary stop. I thought I was going to be living in a place similar to living on a military base. That is… until I started riding my bike around the neighborhood.

I rode my bike around the complex I was living in, and I almost didn’t see anyone; turned out that military housing and apartment living weren’t quite the same thing, as there weren’t a lot of kids around even though it was summer, a week after Wimbledon, which means school was out.

As I rode my bike, I came across a school and decided to check it out, thinking that would be the school I’d be going to. It turned out to be an elementary school, so I knew I wouldn’t be going there. I decided to ride my bike down the street, which I later on found out was called Woodspath Road. I saw a few people sitting in their lawn chairs, and obviously they saw me. The further down the road I rode my bike, the more front doors opened, and more people came out of their doors and were looking at me. I knew things were going to be different than anything I was used to, but figured that if I succeeded in living through the ghetto years, I’d live through this.

Let’s move ahead in time a bit, from 1975 to 2000. I’d graduated from the local high school, graduated from Oswego State on the coast of Lake Ontario in Oswego, NY, ended up in a career of health care finance which involved long distance driving on a daily basis, had been married for just over 3 years, and my ex decided we needed to buy a house, which I never thought I’d have. We looked around Liverpool and a couple of places in the city of Syracuse, but nothing seemed to fit what we were looking for.

After a day where we almost signed the papers for a house we didn’t want, I decided to go online to see if there was something that might work for us, and I came across a home where the price was right, supposedly in a nice neighborhood. Two days later I called the realtor who’d taken us to the house we almost bought, told her about the house I’d found online and we met with her the day after, which means I got to leave work early.

The house was interesting. It’s considered a one floor, 5-bedroom house with a large living room, a nice sized kitchen, and a monster sized properly in the back; nothing I ever wanted. However, what I also realized is that the house was on the same street I rode my bike on and continued riding up that street for at least 3 years, until I got my license to drive. We ended up signing the papers two days later and all felt pretty good; of course I messed up a couple of things, but I might tell that story another day. 🙂

The house we moved into had been built in 1960 by a guy who also used to work on cars in the garage. Many of the people who lived on the street when I originally rode my bike were still around, and I found out within a few weeks that they’d all been notified that my ex and I were living in the neighborhood. Everyone close to us was very friendly, but the main 3 people was the guy across the street, the male neighbor on one side of us and the mail neighbor on the other side of my side neighbor, Larry, Russ and Lenny.

It was an interesting group of guys. Russ and Lenny had lived in the neighborhood when I rode my bike up the street in 1975; Larry didn’t move there until the early 90s. They knew everything about all the neighbors close to us, and some information about other people further down the street. A lot of people had moved out, which happens in neighborhoods, but these 3 old guys were great people, and we were happy to live close to friendly people who actually talked to us. 🙂

Unfortunately, like life had a habit of doing, things started happening to the older people. Russ was the first one to pass away, around 2013. Larry passed away around 2018, which only left Lenny. Since this is a tribute to Lenny, I’m going to tell a story that involved him; stick around.

Back in 2005, during the State Fair, there was a monster thunderstorm that came through the area. My ex’s father and his… “woman” (I never knew what the relationship actually was lol) were staying with us, and we heard the loud noise, as if something had fallen in the backyard. Since it was early morning, the sun was out, so we went to take a look. A large branch from one of the trees that was in the backyard had fallen, and it was way too heavy to try to move it ourselves. Because of an encounter I had with a branch at a friend’s house a year earlier, I knew I wouldn’t be able to move it until it dried up a little bit.

Living in central New York, we ended up having 146 inches of snow, which means the wood didn’t quite dry up the way we hoped it would. The branch was still heavy and massive, so I told my ex that I was going to one of those rental stores and was going to get a chainsaw and cut it up. To say it was beyond my expertise wasn’t close to my lack of skills, but in my mind I told myself that I could do what anyone else could do. She wasn’t happy about it, but I was pretty resolute that I was going to get it done.

Then about 15 minutes later I got a call from my mother, who asked me if I was thinking about cutting the large branch in the backyard, and I felt betrayed, knowing who’d called her. Mom asked me to promise that I wouldn’t do it; I’d never break a promise with Mom, so I made the promise, but felt embarrassed by it.

But that wasn’t all. My ex told Larry, Larry told Russ and Lenny, and everyone had a good laugh at my expense, which I eventually joined, figuring that if I hurt myself it wouldn’t help anyone. Then, a week later, Lenny came by with his electric saw and said he was going to do it for me, even though I didn’t ask him to do it; I didn’t even know he had a saw, though I did know that he was a lawn guy, who spent every day during the summer doing something in his yard, and every day in the cold months and the heavy snow doing something about the outside of his house.

I thanked him for doing it, but we still had to wait another year for the wood to dry before we could move any of those chunks… after which we had the tree removed for good. I can’t remember what we gave him to thank him for doing it, but I thought it was the most neighborly thing anyone could have done for us.

About a month ago, I came home from work and saw a few police cars around Lenny’s house. I didn’t want to intrude anyone’s privacy, and I’d assumed that something had happened to his wife, who’d been bedridden for years, and who I hadn’t seen in over 20 years. I found out just last week that Lenny, who I also didn’t know was 95 years old, was in his backyard, doing some kind of yardwork, sprucing up the lawn as usual, collapsed, put his arms on the ground and his head on his hands… you know the rest. I learned that from one of the newer neighbors who’d moved in the the house on the other side of his; I didn’t want to intrude on his family, none of whom I’d ever met. The “for sale” sign was put on the lawn last Monday, and there’s already been a lot of visitors. If the inside of the house was as immaculate as the outside, it’s going to move fast, and sell for a pretty penny.

Lenny was a great guy; he put a condolence card in my mailbox when my mother passed away while living with me in September, 2021. I’d talk to him occasionally, but he was a busy guy, taking care of his house and his wife, so I didn’t disturb his peace. His wife’s been moved to an assisted living place that on one else knows where, someone I’d never visit since I never met her. But I felt that Lenny deserved a tribute as the last of the “old men on the street”, who was here the first time I rode my bike, and I know that this is another step towards the changing neighborhood.

I don’t have a picture of Lenny, and I don’t want to mess with someone else’s privacy, so I’m sharing a picture I took that will be the final tribute I can give to Lenny and the others. Rest in peace, y’all!