Once Upon an Island
- andreasachs1
- Aug 1
- 4 min read
Updated: Aug 4
By Naomi Serviss / North Kingstown, Rhode Island
Nearly nine months ago, my husband Lew and I ditched Dodge, hauling anchor for a different island nicknamed Little Rhody, aka Rhode Island.
Lew had just retired from the New York Times on December 31 2022, after spending a good chunk of his 40+ year journalism career at the Old Grey Lady.
When we lived in the Big Apple, we were grateful to have Central Park half-a-block east. Our five-year-old rescue pup, Janis Joplin, oozed joy during early morning meetups with four and two-legged pals.
When outdoors, not inhaling bus fumes, we marveled at the picturesque tree-lined paths and blossoming branches.
Woody Weber was working intently on a colorful oil painting as I walked past. He had finished it upon my return.
It’s hanging on my office wall.
Without Central Park, our apartment would have been unbearable.
Personal space is nonexistent in a 750-square feet one-bedroom apartment on the 10th floor of a once-lauded property. It wouldn’t be lauded today.
We weighed options and forged a resolution.
Resolved:
The next chapter takes place in Rhode Island, an original colony!
Why RI?
Manhattan living was a gamble. A simple stroll to CVS might bring you close to a street-sleeper, obscenity shouter or an EDP (Emotionally Disturbed Person) punching a random guy walking ahead of you on 97th & Amsterdam!
I could no longer tolerate subway violence, sidewalk e-bikers, car accidents or mauled pups, including Penny, an Upper West Side Chihuahua.
Penny recovered.
I worried when Lew walked home from the paper at 1 a.m., speed-walking like a pro 60 blocks north.
Our No.1 reason for uprooting?
The rent was too damn high!
Our two-year lease ran through November 2024, should we deign to remain. That’s a 15% increase of $500. Bringing our monthly charge to $4,250.
We itched to head north. Whenever we left the city for a few days or so, our mood would depress when we returned from a visit elsewhere, thickening with the humidity as we turned west down on 96th Street. Tilt! Game Over!
We gave notice to vacate by November’s end.
Boston was a serious consideration. We would be closer to daughter Emmy and her soon-to-be-husband, Charlie.
In New York Emmy slept on our ten-year-old lumpy futon and squeezed accessed the bathroom through the kitchen.
Massachusetts was soon out of the running.
The state isn’t dubbed “Taxachusetts” for nothing.
The rent was too damn high there, too!
Rhode Island tugged my psyche. Full disclosure: I was born in RI and moved about with four siblings and my biological parents until I turned four.
Then my mother ditched her husband and loaded four out of five kids on a Greyhound bus that eased into Elkins Park, a posh ‘burb of Philadelphia.
My father, born in Liverpool, lived in RI’s East Greenwich for decades after his Navy career. His home was a dingy, two-room apartment off a Main Street alleyway.
My father and I reunited in 1976 when I interned at the Providence Journal/Bulletin.
With a bounty of good fortune and kismet, fortitude and perfect timing, Lew and I turned to home ownership.
My Rhode Island nephew Aaron lives in Saunderstown. He runs a terrific organic garlic farm. He hooked us up with his realtor. Stephanie sent listings every day, but it was slim pickings.
Maybe we should have remained in the crazy city. But Rhode Island is pastoral, scenic and 20 minutes to Newport!
But the manifestation of a dream bearing fruit was irresistible.
After striking out with the first handful of houses, we entered a modest ranch in North Kingstown with a cat in the yard. He meowed hello and I was smitten.
The vast open kitchen/dining room with crafted wood counters and table took my breath away. A cool touch was the blackboard filling the wall in the kitchen!
We settled there, in a state so miniscule that most destinations are reachable in 20 minutes.
Not only did we find a treasured ranch home, but I was moving to where I was born. Same town.
Now, my days fill with birdsong instead of ambulance sirens and groaning buses. Or next-door construction four years running.
I miss Broadway but have already returned to see Gypsy with Audra MacDonald! I’m determined to catch the revival of Ragtime with powerhouse triple threat Joshua Henry! Previews at Lincoln Center Theater begin in late September.
I miss restaurants and museums. Central Park, my sanctuary during the pandemic, will always be my home.
This morning, I adjourned to my “Zen Garden” gazing at the deep forest and blue sky graced by billowing clouds.
You can see the stars at night.
When I walk Janis in the morning, the neighborhood air thrums with warblers and mourning doves. Brown bunnies scamper across lawns.
It’s not perfect, but rooftop sun lights, and 2,900-square-feet provide exercise, music and laundry rooms!
No more trips to the gross basement only to compete for a handful of machines.
Instead of two noisy air conditioners, we have central air!
Do I miss the madness of Manhattan? Of course. But my friends will visit, and our son Ben and his wife Katherine will have their own guest room!
A full circle moment, written in the stars.
Naomi Serviss has written for the The Insider, the New York Times, Newsday, the New York Post, the Boston Herald, the Providence Journal, the Philadelphia Inquirer, Broadway World, Stage Magazine, Temple University's alumni publication. and numerous travel/spa magazines. including Spa Asia. She and her husband Lew, who were Manhattan residents for 15 years, recently moved to Rhode Island, her birth state. Janis Joplin, their pandemic rescue pup, approves.
Thrilled with Naomi’s choice to move to “Little Rhody” as she is a fabulous writer and columnist as well as my dear friend!