It seemed so far away, Bridgeport. And not just in terms of mileage.

Every now and then, we’d visit my father’s family in the big house on North Avenue, despite the best efforts of my mother to sabotage the 50-mile journey. My aunt invited us for 2 p.m. on Sundays and, somehow, my mother la-di-dah’ed around in a housedress until she “remembered” it was time to get ready.

Dad would be furious. Mom would profess innocence. “Oh, so what?” she’d mock, in a tone I’d hear decades later in the voice of Olivia (“Livvy”), Tony Soprano’s mother (“Oh…poor you!!!”).

I loved it there, up in Bridgeport. My dad’s family moved from Gates Place, near Montefiore Hospital on Gun Hill Road, in the Bronx, to this 1920, 3800 square foot home on a half-acre, sometime in the 50s. My dad’s brother, a renowned pediatrician, had his office on the ground floor. The entrance to his office is shown in the photo above.

The residence was entered around the left side, on Wood Avenue. There was a slanted storm cellar to the side of the entry, of the type I’d only seen in “The Wizard of Oz” and “Psycho”. The backyard had a massive barn/garage/workshop (now gone, burned to the ground a few years ago) with a second floor hayloft. To the left side of the garage was a garden where Grandpa Louis grew tomatoes, cucumbers, and peppers, which he pickled. To the right side was a large fenced lawn with apple and pear trees (you can see cars parked in that general area).

Climb the clubby, oak stairway and find a nice sized living room, sitting room, and my grandparent’s bedroom. The public rooms had cushioned mahogany built-in storage units around the windows. Off the stairway was a mysterious (to the little-kid me, anyway) interior staircase that I was convinced was inhabited by ghosts. Off a short hall was a galley kitchen which led to the dining room.

Upstairs were the living quarters of my cousins, and Aunt and Uncle. In time, they built a fabulous house in Fairfield, with flagstone fireplaces, my aunt’s art work (museum-worthy), and multiple decks. They “gave”, or “sold”, or “rented” (depending on who was asked, and when) the house to my dad’s sister and her family, and my grandparents stayed there with them, on North Avenue.

So what’s the big deal? Once we finally got there, after a the two-hour drive from University Heights in the Bronx, I peeled off from my parents and hung out with my cousins. We’d go down to my uncle’s medical office and inhale that old-time, doctor’s office chemical smell. Formaldehyde? Who knows? We’d pass our hands behind the fluoroscope, wiggle our fingers, and see our bones dance. We’d pluck hair from our heads and positioned it on a slide under my uncle’s microscope. We’d open heavy medical books and look at photos of naked people.

When you’re six, life doesn’t get much better.

I was r-e-l-a-x-e-d by the time us kids were called for dinner. Here was a professionally run household. The house was neat, every doily in place, every coaster right at-hand on the end tables. The silverware was polished, and the kitchen aromas made my stomach growl in anticipation.

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Food was prepared in a tasty and timely fashion. Nothing was dropped, or burned, or poorly-timed. Grandma Rae’s chicken soup was dee-voone, hearty and rich with just-picked carrots, bits of boiled chicken, and long-grain Carolina rice! Herring, and pickled veggies from the garden followed. Of course, there was always a dinosaur-sized hunk of potted meat, fork tender, accompanied by boiled potatoes with a dusting of fresh-chopped parsley, and (said as one-word) “peasincarrots”. For dessert, homemade pie with fruit from Grandpa’s tree. Sometimes a huge homemade chocolate cake. A bissele schnapps for the grownups. Grandpa loved his Haig & Haig Scotch in that distinctive, “pinch” clear glass bottle. They take a sip and, as one, exhale with a big lip-smack and then, “Aaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!”

Typically, in the middle of dinner, Grandpa would excuse himself and go to the bathroom. I’d hear him cough his lungs out. It sounded like pieces were coming up. I’d see blood on Grandpa’s hanky as he came out to rejoin us.

Dad reminded us that Grandpa was a mink-cutter in the Manhattan fur district in the west twenties, and his lungs were scarred from inhaling the dyes used to make the coats, hats, and stoles. “Your grandpa always had work…even during the Depression,” Dad intoned, with great reverence.

At the height of the Davey Crockett fad, he made me a silk-lined raccoon hat, with tail, which I wore everywhere I went, much to my parents’ dismay (for some reason unknown to me).

Gramps would take me to his workshop and show me his woodworking tools, a broad palette of curiously-shaped X-Acto knives. He showed me his latest projects, hand-carved knick-knack holders that fit flush within a wall joint, maple stools, rocking chairs. He showed me how he bent the wood and explained how long it took. And always, he’d call me over before we left for home, and slipped me a couple of bucks (“Shhh…don’t tell your pop!” he’d rasp.)

I’d usually conk out in the back of our ancient Pontiac on the way home. I’d wake up as my dad cruised for a spot good for Monday. My heart would sink. Our apartment was cramped. The atmosphere was always tense and there was no telling when either one of my parents would go off.

We had food, but it didn’t measure up to my Connecticut relatives’ groaning board of delights. For peace and quiet, I spent hours with my school friends in the tiny NYPL branch on University Avenue, above a dry cleaners. For years, I associated the sweet scent of perch (the now-outlawed chemical once used by cleaners) with the library’s calm, safety and civility.

It took the perspective of time to understand why my mother went into passive-aggressive mode when we would visit Connecticut. She and her family didn’t measure up, in any sort of meaningful way. Lots of stories there for another day. Suffice to say, they were friendly to her, but she typically “acted out” when we were there.

As an adult dog owner, I learned about the fear-aggression mode of small dogs when they encountered larger breeds, and finally understood why my mother would either withdraw, or bark, in the company of my dad’s family. She was physically imposing, and she packed a wallop. But inside, she was as puny as a pug.

There is a happy ending to this tale: after decades, I reconnected with my cousin, the son of my dad’s pediatrician brother. My cousin is also a noted physician. Sharp as a tack. He saves lives.

At our age, life doesn’t get much better.