One Last Thing
Dear Diary:
I moved to New York City in 1976 from my home in South Carolina with the goal of becoming a freelance photographer.
I packed all of my worldly belongings in a U-Haul truck and headed north. My wife, who was pregnant at the time, followed in our VW camper van.
Eight months later, our son, Nicholas, was born at St. Vincent’s Hospital in Greenwich Village.
The next few years were a whirlwind of excitement and adventure. We lived first in the Village, on Jones Street.
Nicholas was a colicky baby, and I endured many disapproving stares as I carried him, screaming, through the night streets of the Village in hopes of calming him.
Three years later we moved over to Brooklyn Heights, which felt almost like the suburbs. We were on Henry Street, and then later on lower Court Street.
A second child followed in 1982, but this Southern boy was growing discontented raising a family in the big city, no matter how much I loved living there.
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