I was really surprised when I came home from camp and found out our New York apartment had been rented to another family and we owned a house in Farbrook, New Jersey. First of all I never even heard of Farbrook. And second of all, I’m not usually left out of important family decisions.
But when I groaned, “Why New Jersey?” I was told, “Long Island is too social — Westchester is too expensive — and Connecticut is too inconvenient.”
So Farbrook, New Jersey it was, where my father could commute to his job in Manhattan, where I could go to public school, and where my mother could have all the grass, trees and flowers she ever wanted. Except I never knew she wanted all that stuff in the first place.
The new house is in Morningbird Lane. It isn’t bad. It’s part brick, part wood. The shutters and front door are painted black. Also, there’s a very nice brass knocker. Every house on our new street looks a lot the same. They are all seven years old. So are the trees.
Judy Blume: Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret