I decided this weekend to visit the neighborhood in Midwood, Brooklyn, where I grew up. I hadn’t been back there in 31 years. The visit would also include seeing the house where I grew up, and lived in until the night before my wedding in 1968. I’d been back after that to visit my mother, until her death in 1993. But not since then.

It was an incredibly weighty and moving experience. My old house was in pretty good condition on the exterior, although the owners had removed the big maple tree in the front yard that I’d planted from a branch when I was about 10. They also removed the front garden (with grass and hedges that I used to have to trim for my allowance) and replaced the hedges with pretty ugly stone slabs. I suspect they’re going to try to park a car there. No one answered when I rang the bell. Judging by the newspapers on the porch, it seemed likely they weren’t there. It’s just as well, since my memories of the house will stay intact for the 22 years I spent there.

The neighborhood had changed dramatically with many more Jewish Orthodox families living there. Judging by restaurant offerings, there also seemed to be a large number of people from former Soviet republics (Georgia and Uzbekistan). But there were also Turkish, Greek and Italian restaurants to reflect, no doubt, those populations as well.

The neighborhood was as busy as I remember it. I left thinking to myself that we are indeed a city–and a country–of immigrants. And everybody seemed to be getting along just fine.