Bothered by Geography

 As I mentioned more than a few posts ago, I had been binge-reading the works of Rex Stout--the cases of master detective Nero Wolfe and his aide-de-camp, Archie Goodwin. Having finished the 46 titles Stout completed before his death, I began reading the novels by Robert Goldsborough, the writer authorized by Stout's family to continue the series.

In general, I have enjoyed Goldsborough's work; he manages to maintain Archie's "voice" as the narrator, come up with interesting plots in Stout's vein, and simultaneously keep the stories rooted in the time and place in which they were written, just as Stout did. (Although Stout never allowed Wolfe or Archie or any of their close associates to age, the world did change around them: The Dodgers and Giants moved west, the Mets became Archie's favored team, etc.)

But near the beginning of the sixth novel in the series, The Silver Spire, I was temporarily knocked out of the narrative by some clearly invented geography. As most of you know, I was born and raised on Staten Island in New York City. This novel revolves around a mega-church supposedly located on the Island. No such church has ever existed, but neither does Wolfe's brownstone (the address generally given for it would place in the middle of the Hudson River). No, the problem is where on the Island Goldsborough put it--a 20-minute walk from the ferry terminal, in the hills of St. George and New Brighton.

Here's a slightly edited version of Archie's description of his trip from the ferry to the church:

After consulting the directions, I got myself squared away, heading south up Schuyler Street—and I do mean up. 

If I ever knew how hilly the island was, I’d long since forgotten. In ten minutes, I was out of—and above—the small business district and into tree-shaded residential blocks….I followed winding streets, all of which ran uphill, until, breathing hard, I reached a large open area that was level. In the center of this clearing, at least a block away, stood the Tabernacle of the Silver Spire…. 

….The clearing turned out to a parking lot—acres of blacktop, crisscrossed with yellow lines…

 And here's a map of the area, with Archie's presumed path marked. Unsure of which direction he would have turned on reaching the end of Schuyler Street, I indicated two different paths, one in red, the other in blue.

If you want a better look, here's a link to the map on line. There's no appropriate large flat area anywhere around, except for the grounds of Curtis High School--which, I assure you, have never been replaced by anything else.

Now, if Goldborough had put his mega-church somewhere on what the natives call the "South Shore"--that is somewhere south of the Staten Island Expressway, I-278--that would have worked. There's lots of flat open space down there...and there was even more in the time when the book was written, some 30 years ago. But I guess he didn't want to have Archie have to bother with Staten Island's bus routes, or trying to get a cab or the like. Of course, Archie could have driven over the Verrazzano Bridge...but that would have removed the quaint charm of the ferry ride and the hilly walk through the oldest part of the Island. (Later in the book, when Archie has to get Wolfe to the church, they do take the car.)

Anyway, I got past the problem by simply ignoring for the rest of the story where the church was supposed to be...as it doesn't seem to matter much to the resolution of the mystery.

More Home Memories

Last weekend, I posted a photo of what the house I grew up in looked like in 1940...and what it looked like for most of the time I lived there.

Today, I've got a picture of what it looked like in the 1980s, after new siding, new windows and a new front porch.

It still looked basically like that the last time I saw it in November of 2019. I don't know if my sister intends to make changes to the exterior as well as the ones I know she's made inside.

Memories of Home

Thanks to a link in a Facebook post, I was able to find this picture:

That is 70 DuBois Ave, on Staten Island, the house I grew up in (but not where I was born; my parents moved there in early 1953, just before I turned one year old), as it looked when the City of New York took photos for tax purposes 1939.

It still looked pretty much like that most of my school years; the siding and front porch were replaced, as I recall, in the late 1960s. And by the time I knew it, the driveway on the right no longer existed. The old wooden garage it led to was still standing though, used as storage by my family until it literally fell down in the 1970s. The most interesting thing about it was that the previous owner, who did use the garage and driveway, had decorated the interior walls with all his old license plates, going all the way back to this era. I suppose he owned the house when this photo was taken.

For the record, the room I shared with my younger brother was the front second floor window on the left; the one on the right was a "dressing room" for when our bedroom had been the "master bedroom." It was basically extra storage space for us. The rear window on the left indicates where my parents' room was....and my sister's room was all the way in the right rear corner.

My sister owns the house now; she bought it from my mother who continued to live there until just before her death earlier this year. It's being remodeled for my sister to rent or sell in the future.