I’m writing this down because family stories tend to get watered down and distorted with the generations of telling. I feel this one should stay as originally happened.

Some back story--

The first apartment that Jeanette and I had as newlyweds was the top floor of a two-family house at 990 Hart Street. The apartment contained four rooms - a master bedroom with a small room off that, a living room with a small kitchen off the living room and a bathroom off the kitchen.

The street consisted of brick two-family houses shoulder to shoulder along both sides of the street. Additionally there were large trees lining the street, and Wyckoff Heights Hospital was up the corner and one block over.

Valerie was our first child. We carried her home through the streets from Wyckoff Heights Hospital and laid her in the crib in the small room off the master bedroom.

Valerie was a hyperactive child. She learned to walk at six-months. She also learned to speak in clipped phrases by then. She was basically in a hurry to grow up.

I worked and Jeanette stayed home with the baby. A common arraignment in those days. Also, when the baby needed feeding in the middle of the night, I would always wake to the baby’s cries, nudge Jeanette awake and she would get up to feed her. At least that was what was supposed to happen. Many times we would wake in the morning to find the full bottle of formula standing on the night table on Jeanette’s side of the bed. It never made it to the baby.

On the weekends I would wake with the baby’s cries and do what was necessary to accommodate her, letting Jeanette sleep through the night.

Now, I believe it was in September (1964) when I woke on a Saturday night to Valerie’s hysterical cries. And I do mean hysterical cries. This was not the crying for a bottle, or from discomfort. This was crying from fear. I remember to this day the terrified look on that baby’s face when I went into the room.
I picked her up and held her but she wouldn’t be comforted no matter what I did. She kept saying something to me, but, with terror further blurring her speech, I didn’t understand her. Finally, I did manage to understand that she was hysterically saying “Tree fall!” over and over.

I brought her to the window in her room and raised the blinds. She peered anxiously out the window into the dark night. A weak streetlight made the world vaguely discernible.

I said to her in a gentle voice, “See. Everything’s okay.” As she intensely checked that everything outside on the street was in order. She looked around for a few moments, her eyes darting over the outside scene.

Satisfied with what she’d seen, she quickly settled down. I let out a deep sigh of relief, put her gently in her crib and soothed her back to sleep.

In the morning I told Jeanette about the ‘tree fall’ incident from the night before. We puzzled over where could she have learned the concept that a tree could fall? In those days television was truly immature. There was no way Valerie could have even gotten the idea that it was possible a tree could fall. In fact, we truly couldn’t figure out when or where she could have gotten the idea.

I left to go to Church (we were somewhat church-goers in those days), and Jeanette was going to stay home with the baby. I went down the flight of stairs to the first floor, went through the vestibule, opened the outside door, stepped onto the top of the stoop and stopped. The tree Valerie and I had been looking at in the middle of the night which was standing solidly tall was now lying across the road, the top of the tree on a parked car across the street.

I immediately turned around and went up stairs. Jeanette was a bit surprised at my coming back so quickly.

I said to her, “You’re not going to believe what’s lying across the street.”
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