Remembering the way it was

In the wee hours of Sept. 14, I woke up crying; I had dreamt I was looking at a picture of the New York skyline before Sept. 11. And with the tears came a flood of memories of living in lower Manhattan.

With children grown, we’d sold our spacious house in Yonkers and moved to a one-bedroom apartment on Barrow Street in West Greenwich Village. For 19 years, the World Trade Center towers glinting in the sunlight, shrouded in clouds or silhouetted against the setting sun was part of my everyday landscape.

On Tuesday mornings, I’d rush to the World Trade Center, up to the observation deck, to the theater development fund booths that opened at 11 a.m. to buy "two-fers," half-price tickets for a show that evening and one for the Wednesday matinee.

Better to stand on line in that elegant building than outside at 2 p.m. on 46th Street in all kinds of weather. And when tourists were in a quandary as to which show on the board to choose, I being an avid theatergoer, would play impromptu reviewer.

When my 9-year-old granddaughter from Oregon visited, we watched African dancers and musicians at the World Trade Center plaza where free concerts and performances were regular events.

On weekends, my husband and I used to walk from our apartment to the financial center and have lunch outside while we watched the ferries come and go and admired the yachts at anchor.

Inside, young musicians played chamber music. Often the bridge to the towers featured exhibits. The one depicting the political efforts of women activists that led to women’s right to vote, child labor and safety laws was informative and moving.

We’d stroll in the underground city with shops that catered to the upscale fashion-conscious shopper and to the bargain hunter seeking sales. In winter, we’d marvel at the wondrous display at the orchid show in the glass-enclosed "Winter Garden."

On many a Sunday, we read the Times on a bench facing the harbor. The "lady" always reminded me of my tiny grandmother, who came to America alone when she was 12, lying about her age. I’d try to imagine her thoughts and feelings, and what courage not only she, but her parents must have had; courage that saved her from the Holocaust, whose name is engraved among those with similar courage and hope.

Come spring, after a cold dreary New York winter, when I needed relief from the confined space, (my office was a walk-in closet) and the necessary isolation as a writer, I’d walk fast for 25 minutes on West Street along the river as people whizzed by jogging, bicycling or Rollerblading. Passing the playground, I’d smile; now there were dads, moms and nannies minding children on swings and monkey bars.

Once at Battery Park, however, I’d amble on the paths between the beds of blooming tulips to the large garden that connected me to nature’s creativity, the skyscrapers as backdrop connecting me to what man had created. Intellect and spirit interweaving, I’d read, take notes, and draft or edit. And feel inspired, peaceful and serene.

My dream that morning of Sept. 14 was my unconscious wish to return to that skyline with those unique, majestic towers soaring into the sky, testament to the vision and achievement of architects, engineers, and the thousand of workmen who created such a marvel.

My unconscious wish, however, was shattered by scenes I’ll never forget, but I want to remember what was a very special place for me and for so many of us.

Helene Kylen

Little Silver