Sewer Water, Dilantin,

and a Dog Named Penny

Sewer Water

I was a wee lad of five years old when I moved into my new home in South Ozone Park, in the borough of Queens in New York City My new brown and white house was nested among other similar two-story houses, which were shaded by many aging maple trees on the block. When the sun peeked out from the clouds, the neighborhood looked beautiful, and when the snow fell, the trees looked wondrous; but when the rain poured, my father looked downright angry. For every heavy rainfall, Idlewild airport chose to close its floodgates, which caused the drainage system on my block to fill up with sewer water, flooding the entire neighborhood. While my dad and our neighbors suffered through these floods, I reveled in the experience of being surrounded by rising water, totally unaware of the destruction that these floods caused. Each time a car tried to pass through the sewer water, the resulting waves hitthe surrounding basement windows so hard that they broke, and the water cascaded into our homes, destroying furniture and many valuables. So, every year, we examined the outside foundation of our basement for cracks and then brushed on a thick layer of water resistant tar to prevent possible leaks from future floods.
Needless to say it was quite a chore, and nobody was happy about this situation. Finally my dad proclaimed “enough is enough,” and, together with a friend, collected hundreds of signatures for a petition that demanded the installation of a new sewer system for the neighborhood. . . .

Dilantin

My dad never saw the fruits of his labor; he passed away a few years before construction for a new sewer was even begun. He did see other changes—some good, others not so good. Dad saw Idlewild airport renamed JFK International airport, his friend who had helped him with the petition entered into community politics, and his older of his two sons (me) diagnosed with epilepsy.
Then, as the years passed, the neighborhood changed slightly, with new people, housing renovations, and the occasional new car. Just when my brother Jack and I needed our parents the most, they were both taken from us. They died within a few years of one another. We relied on Dad to manage the upkeep of the house and needed Mom to manage the finances as well as my medications—Dilantin and Mysoline
We remained there, a good many years afterward. Clearly, I was not prepared to live alone. I must confess that poor financial decisions and neglect forced the bank to put our house into foreclosure. I still lived there, and, once, after choosing to skip my daily dosage of dilantin, (because it was more expensive than Mysoline) I decided to examine the neighborhood excavation of the street for the new sewer that my dad worked so hard to obtain. It was finally under construction. And I was so proud. . . .

A Dog Named Penny

Wanda Alberti was tallish a brown-haired woman about what my mother’s age would have been. Wanda lived in a two-family walk-up a few blocks away from me, but she was also near sewer construction. She lived alone with her little dog named Penny and was a very caring woman whom, I believe, reached out to anyone in need— even though she lived in dire straits herself.
One day in late October or early November, Wanda chose to walk her dog, Penny to the sewer construction site.She stood there, holding her dog’s leash and witnessed a scene that she probably never forgot—one that I never remembered entirely. She saw a young disheveled man (me) fall near an open construction pit and have what is called a psychomotor epileptic seizure. Rather than continue to stroll away with her dog, she opted to come to my aid. I don’t remember exactly what she said but I do remember that I felt comforted after she said it. When I slowly regained my composure I realized I had just made a friend for life. We met each day to learn more about one another. I needed a friend at the time, and I believe Wanda wanted to be sure I stayed healthy. She joked and laughed frequently and often told me that I reminded her in so many ways of her own niece, Billie. I didn’t know how to react to that bit of news because unfortunately Wanda heard voices when nobody else did. (Billie, when told about me reacted the same way; she asked her mom if I were but a figment of Wanda’s imagination.)
I was wrong this time—since Billie did exist. I eventually met her at Wanda’s apartment on November 27, 1983, and we ate dinner and spoke and laughed and shared some information our pasts. We made gross jokes. Billie and I got along like gangbusters—so much that I started to fall in love with her and could not imagine that there could possible be another person like her. In fact, when we said goodnight to one another, she said that she hoped she hadn’t been too gross. I reminded her of one of my gross jokes and she blurted out: “OH, you are ALL RIGHT!” and promptly kissed me!
Billie and I were married two years later and Aunt Wanda was one of our two maids of honor, while Jack was my best man.
That is how these three very different things caused three turns of events that resulted in one never-ending love story. . . .

A much easier way of meeting Billie is to visit http://billiespaight.blogspot.com