Goodbye to Forest Hills

My aunt Mary Farrell passed away earlier this week. I don't know her exact age; she was in her early 90s when she died. As my mother's last surviving sibling, Aunt Mary's passing was the end of a generation, and everyone attending last night's wake for her knew it.

The wake took place in Forest Hills, not far from the house where Aunt Mary lived virtually her entire life. My aunt was completely and totally a New Yorker. It was a spirit that I loved. Her warm, easy sense of humor melted me. I adored my aunt's roast beef dinners, Sunday meals with two kinds of potatoes, and festive holiday table. Her soft spot for domestic animals generated a number of stories good for laughs at the family dinner table. At one point, Aunt Mary had a massive St. Bernard, two dark cats named Abbott and Costello, and a parakeet living under the same roof. The dog and the cats got along, but the bird had some ultimately terminal issues with one of the felines.

These and many other memories of my aunt are ones I treasure and will keep with me. However, for Forest Hills itself, the "goodbye" was permanent. I had lived in Forest Hills during my pre-teen and teen years.  Once I went to college, I rarely returned there. Last night, I took one last look at the neighborhood's atmospheric, charming Tudor-style homes and said "goodbye," fully understanding I would never go back there.

The photo shows the Long Island Railroad station platform in Forest Hills, with the former Forest Hills Inn behind it.