There was a story in Seven Days last week, another story about airport noise, that caught my eye. Normally I would say that I have heard more than enough on the topic, but the picture drew me in. It's a plane on the runway with a fenced backyard in the foreground, shot through the windows of a back porch. Having seen the airport from just about every angle, I wondered "Hmm, where is that?"

It's one of the few remaining homes on the street, the Garvey's house at 44 Dumont Ave. 

In 1986 my parents bought 57 Dumont Ave from Mr. Garvey, one and the same, who had recently retired and planned to move down the street to take care of his aging mother. He had raised five boys in that (3 bedroom, 1 bath) house. That was 1986. 

Mr. Garvey spent decades (I don’t actually know if he was the original owner) at 57 Dumont and an ongoing 33 years at 44 Dumont. When I was growing up, the Garvey's were a quiet, retired couple who took frequent walks by our house. I delivered The Other Paper to their house (via the mail slot in the garage door) for years. We kids used to walk beside their wooden fence, between their house and the once-yellow triplex next door, to get to the end of Airport Drive that is now a hodge-podge of parking lots. We used to hang out by the airport fence, doing nothing in particular. 

I look at Google maps to refresh my memory. When I was growing up, an aerial view of the neighborhood would’ve shown a lot more houses and a much smaller airport devoid of a parking garage. The more recent rounds of demolition have been more rapid, but houses started disappearing early in my lifetime if not before. Both sides of every street, including Airport Drive, were once lined with houses. The Garvey's have been there through all of it. I guess it's not that unusual; I guess I'm fascinated that anyone still lives there at all.

I get it, I've been to other airports; none of them are surrounded by houses. It was loud living there. The windows rattled, you couldn't hear the TV or engage in conversation. Often we had to take a pause as four or so F-16s took off. I'm not so much wistful over the loss of my house or the neighborhood, but I do feel something strange if I drive through. In my mind the place doesn’t exist anymore. It's not the buildings or the lawns; it's the times I miss.