California, as the land of psychics, has nothing over my mother. Gene Derwood told me on one of my Christmas vacations home that she had found the Water St. apartment by a vision. She knew right where it was going to be. This was at the end of the war years and my mother needed land, earth to grow her flowers and vegetables in.

Only there was no land left in all of Manhattan, with its tall buildings and skyscrapers, for Gene Derwood to scrape around in and make her bed of roses. Still, this was Gene Derwood, and no one else. Still, she had the most amazing poor people's apartment in all of New York City. I was sitting in it listening to her stories.

While Gene and Oscar had rich friends in the Village they had what they called 'the only cold water penthouse apartment in all of Manhattan'. Penthouse was true. For over both the smaller room of my fathers and over the bigger main room in which my mother had her bed were great skylights, glass painted over a bit with white paint to keep out too much of the sun's rays in summer.

It was also true that this apartment was strictly cold water. Oscar and Gene rented it as an office in which they would write at any day of the week. The owner below, a ship builder from Norway, apparently tolerated this from his two friendly writers about him. And to keep the friendly relations I as a young and active boy was not allowed to "run around the house." I had to be very quite.

After Gene died the eight-story old office building was sold and awaited destruction by the city. But Oscar could stay there in a process that would take years. He moved down to the floor below where the former owner had done his work, leaving the upstairs of the Gene Derwood days pretty much as it had always been. I knew this of course, since I with his woman friend, Jessie, had to go through all his things and sort them out.

Now below, Oscar had a much bigger and well appointed apartment to live in. He had in the last ten years of his life come up in the world. I was glad for him as I saw him for the first time in years at this new apartment below the old one of one memories and their poet poverty, where I was not allowed to live. I saw him only those three days before I sailed to Europe for a year to write in Southern France and Spain. I never saw him again, until I saw him for the last time in death.

That was the New York City, 35 Water St. apartment. Digby 46817 was their phone number I had to memorize in case I got lost and must call. Apparently even in their day the housing shortage was exceedingly tight in New York City. My mother's means of survival was to call on strange and esoteric powers she absolutely believed in.

However. Whichever? She got just the right apartment she needed with skylight light to paint by and a large outdoor terrace to have her row upon row of wooden wine boxes to put dirt in and grow her roses, cabbages and carrots.

Even in New York the impossible is always the possible possible!