My First Apartment

The summer of 1971, there were a lot of changes in my life.

Graduating from college (a miracle in itself), getting a REAL employment (thanks to a strike) after working at a train station cleaning vending machines and the city library making posters , and getting married (another miracle) were all in the works, so I had to find a place to start this new life.
I don't remember how I found this place. The second floor of a row building on Floyd Avenue just east of the Boulevard.

The area was clean, safe for the Fan and it was convenient to bus stops. It was close enough to work to walk or ride my bike and still close enough to my parents' house that my new wife and I could visit regularly to be fed (very convenient since I had just left their house after moving back in in 1968).
No, that is not our car out front. We did buy an Opel (the only motor vehicle I ever bought) but it had a black top.


There were lots of steps to take to carry our "stuff" up, but we didn't have a lot of "stuff" and we were young, so it only took a short while to set up the new living arrangements.


Music was important staple of our lives back then. This was my third turntable on our "entertainment" center. I would use the headphones so I wouldn't bother my wife as she read. Above the black and white spray painting by Art (I think my wife took that one?) There is a Popeye wooden carved statue net to the turntable given to me by Bill Nelson. It was a sailor thing at the time. I think I passed it on to another sailor. On the mantle was one of many pipe racks. I had been a smoker since 1966. Also on the mantle next to the books were my baritone ukulele and a dulcimer.




The black jar on the mantle (which was probably filled with some sort of illegal substance) was a gift from my grandmother from one of her trips overseas. The photo was either a print my wife made or a photo from her college friend's boyfriend. The fireplace must have been used at some point, because that is a bayonet laying in front of it to stir the coals. The broken rocker was part of the furniture set left by the previous occupant. I kept trying to fix that thing, but as you can see, without very good results. The little blue 8" black and white television had been carried around for years. Grainy pictures of election nights, news coverage and whatever we watched in the early 70's. (PS. No DVDs, VHS, cassette, MP3s, CDs, Tivo or other electronic stimulants were present or even invented) The pile of cushions were a gift from my parents. It helped to seat others when the occasion arose. They were slick vinyl and uncomfortable, so people didn't stay long.

Sparse living.


The first air conditioner I had ever had, but it came with the apartment. Guitar cases are stacked in the corner underneath. The blue and white afghan crocheted by my grandmother and old army foot locker I still have. The lamp came from my father's work place. The sofa and chair were uncomfortable, but they were better than nothing.

The nice wallpaper had to stay due to a clause we could not paint over it. Don't know where the rug came from.


My office. And yes, that is an electric typewriter. I wrote a lot of letters and resumes and stories on that typewriter and read a lot of rejections letters there. The desk was the same desk I used in my room during school at home. I kept my pens in a brass cup (forgot what the seal was on it, but it was probably a school). A diploma hung on the wall, proud acknowledge that if you continue to fake it, they will give you paper with your name on it. Since the room was tiny, the only drawing board I had at the time, had to fold up. The black leather swivel chair that was too low for the desk, came from my father's work place. The brass lamp, I still have and don't know what to do with.


Books, records, papers, art supplies were all crammed into this space. This was the "first" Mansland. It was also the hottest room with the giant radiator. In the window was an Richmond Professional Institute ram (lost through the years) and an RPI beanie, recently given to Art.


The kitchen was basic yet plenty big for two people. A small refrigerator kept all the food my parents would give us. There was a small wabbly wooden porch off the back where I would grill on a habachi and we'd wash dishes looking next door to the wall of a bank.


The table and four chairs in the kitchen came from my father's work place. The ceramic salt and pepper shakers were of Williamsburg background and the rubber place mats with funny little animals were picked up from somewhere. And there was always a trivet as we moved hot pots and pans around. Little toaster ovens had just become popular, so we burnt toast there.
And the old Orange Crush clock that got lost along the way.


With a spice rack and a wine rack (although it was usually empty), the little kitchen was clean. A small electric stove made stews and hot water for tea. The bullet trash can came from home and was carried along until a few years ago. It was huge and worked well, but did take up some room. My passion for sharp knives started in this kitchen.

The bedroom was separated into "his" and "her" areas for dressing. I think I was a fireman, because I had the pants at the ready. The black dresser was shared. More pipes including a hookah filled any flat surface along with ceramic owls and frogs (symbols to us at the time). Another fireplace, but this one was never used.

More pipes, the other lamp and a rainbow kite we had flown at the beach (which would become a symbolic habit)

The one closet was jammed full of clothes and whatever stuff we couldn't stack on chair or hang from door nobs. The wire cart was used to walk to the grocery store, which was 8 blocks away, and drag back whatever we could afford. The sewing machine was a fixture in my life but I don't remember anything ever being created on it.

The bed was on the floor (we were young then) and another dresser crammed with underwear , shirts, and whatever we could jam in the drawers. Each dresser had our watches, keys, glasses and other personal items in little piles or boxes. There were more records and a board game and stuffed animals.
And yes, that is a real cat.
And yes, that is a real wife.


The bathroom I remember painting this yellow ocher color. I think that was the color of the time but a gold bathroom? A claw footed bathtub without fixtures for a shower, which I tried to jerrybuilt without much success. It was satisfactory for two.

Behind these fine living arrangements was the banks parking lot, which stood mostly empty.

Even though rent was about $100 a month, it was time to move on.

Parties downstairs started getting out of hand and the parking lot had become a drug selling location, the peace and quiet of fan living had disappeared and we had outgrown this location

Although this was not my real first apartment, it was to be my last.