{"id":17463,"date":"2024-11-29T09:00:24","date_gmt":"2024-11-29T10:00:24","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/medexperts.pro\/?p=17463"},"modified":"2024-11-29T10:29:13","modified_gmt":"2024-11-29T10:29:13","slug":"an-elegy-for-crystal-cove-a7-our-familys-piece-of-paradise-on-st-thomas","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/medexperts.pro\/?p=17463","title":{"rendered":"An Elegy for Crystal Cove A7, Our Family\u2019s Piece of Paradise on St. Thomas"},"content":{"rendered":"<div class=\"css-s99gbd StoryBodyCompanionColumn\" data-testid=\"companionColumn-0\">\n<div class=\"css-53u6y8\">\n<p class=\"css-at9mc1 evys1bk0\">The setting for some of my most treasured childhood memories is a one-bedroom condo that stood 75 feet from a white sand beach, overlooking the absurdly blue Caribbean. To my sister and me, it was heaven, with Murphy beds \u2014 the coolest gizmos ever \u2014 folding down at night and disappearing each day.<\/p>\n<p class=\"css-at9mc1 evys1bk0\">To my parents, as with so many American families, the condo was a symbol of postwar success, a tropical retreat where a young family could make memories. But as families age and transform over the decades, those memories can turn a place that was once an escape into its own type of burden.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<div data-testid=\"ImageBlock-1\">\n<div data-testid=\"imageblock-wrapper\">\n<figure class=\"img-sz-large css-bkbwf1 e1g7ppur0\" aria-label=\"media\" role=\"group\">\n<div class=\"css-1xdhyk6 erfvjey0\" data-testid=\"photoviewer-children-figure\"><\/div><figcaption data-testid=\"photoviewer-children-caption\" class=\"css-1g9ic6e ewdxa0s0\"><span class=\"css-jevhma e13ogyst0\">Mickie and Jerry Bregstein, the writer\u2019s parents, with the family\u2019s airplane, in July 1971.<\/span><\/figcaption><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<div class=\"css-s99gbd StoryBodyCompanionColumn\" data-testid=\"companionColumn-1\">\n<div class=\"css-53u6y8\">\n<h2 class=\"css-1u37br4 eoo0vm40\" id=\"link-30a948cb\">A secondhand airplane<\/h2>\n<p class=\"css-at9mc1 evys1bk0\">The story begins in 1968, when I was 13 and we left Long Island to vacation with a family of lime green lizards in a bare-bones motel next to a windy beach on the east end of St. Thomas, in the U.S. Virgin Islands. My father had recently purchased a secondhand propeller plane with a cruising range of 1,487 nautical miles, making it possible to fly from New York with just one refueling stop.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<div data-testid=\"Dropzone-3\"><\/div>\n<div class=\"css-s99gbd StoryBodyCompanionColumn\" data-testid=\"companionColumn-2\">\n<div class=\"css-53u6y8\">\n<p class=\"css-at9mc1 evys1bk0\">My father, Jerry, grew up in a working-class immigrant Jewish family in Brooklyn, went to Harvard Law School on scholarship, then flew Navy air transport in World War II before going into commercial real estate. He was a master of selective frugality. When white leather go-go boots became the rage among fourth grade girls, my father insisted I get plastic knockoffs, but he didn\u2019t think twice about flying to Block Island for a tuna on rye.<\/p>\n<p class=\"css-at9mc1 evys1bk0\">My mother, Mickie, was beautiful, with short, blond wavy hair \u2014 a gift from Lady Clairol \u2014 and a wide smile with perfect teeth. She was petite and svelte, but nevertheless swore by Weight Watchers with its low-fat cottage cheese, sprinkled with cinnamon and Sweet\u2019n Low and accompanied by a cool, refreshing glass of Tab. She was one of six women in her Columbia Law School class in the 1940s. But after rejections from all-male law firms, she sold hats at Macy\u2019s, then retired to be Mommy to my sister and me. She channeled her brilliance into presidencies of the P.T.A. and League of Women Voters.<\/p>\n<div class=\"css-1336jj\">\n<div class=\"css-121kum4\">\n<div class=\"css-171d1bw\"><\/div>\n<div class=\"css-asuuk5\">\n<div class=\"css-7axq9l\" data-testid=\"optimistic-truncator-noscript\">\n<div data-testid=\"optimistic-truncator-noscript-message\" class=\"css-6yo1no\">\n<p class=\"css-3kpklk\">We are having trouble retrieving the article content.<\/p>\n<p class=\"css-3kpklk\">Please enable JavaScript in your browser settings.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<div class=\"css-1dv1kvn\" id=\"optimistic-truncator-a11y\">\n<hr \/>\n<p>Thank you for your patience while we verify access. If you are in Reader mode please exit and\u00a0<a href=\"https:\/\/myaccount.nytimes.com\/auth\/login?response_type=cookie&amp;client_id=vi&amp;redirect_uri=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.nytimes.com%2F2024%2F11%2F29%2Ftravel%2Fcrystal-cove-a7-st-thomas.html&amp;asset=opttrunc\">log into<\/a>\u00a0your Times account, or\u00a0<a href=\"https:\/\/www.nytimes.com\/subscription?campaignId=89WYR&amp;redirect_uri=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.nytimes.com%2F2024%2F11%2F29%2Ftravel%2Fcrystal-cove-a7-st-thomas.html\">subscribe<\/a>\u00a0for all of The Times.<\/p>\n<hr \/>\n<\/div>\n<div class=\"css-1g71tqy\">\n<div data-testid=\"optimistic-truncator-message\" class=\"css-6yo1no\">\n<p class=\"css-3kpklk\">Thank you for your patience while we verify access.<\/p>\n<p class=\"css-3kpklk\">Already a subscriber?\u00a0<a data-testid=\"log-in-link\" class=\"css-z5ryv4\" href=\"https:\/\/myaccount.nytimes.com\/auth\/login?response_type=cookie&amp;client_id=vi&amp;redirect_uri=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.nytimes.com%2F2024%2F11%2F29%2Ftravel%2Fcrystal-cove-a7-st-thomas.html&amp;asset=opttrunc\">Log in<\/a>.<\/p>\n<p class=\"css-3kpklk\">Want all of The Times?\u00a0<a data-testid=\"subscribe-link\" class=\"css-z5ryv4\" href=\"https:\/\/www.nytimes.com\/subscription?campaignId=89WYR&amp;redirect_uri=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.nytimes.com%2F2024%2F11%2F29%2Ftravel%2Fcrystal-cove-a7-st-thomas.html\">Subscribe<\/a>.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>The setting for some of my most treasured childhood memories is a one-bedroom condo that stood 75 feet from a white sand beach, overlooking the absurdly blue Caribbean. To my sister and me, it was heaven, with Murphy beds \u2014 the coolest gizmos ever \u2014 folding down at night and disappearing each day.To my parents, as with so many American families, the condo was a symbol of postwar success, a tropical retreat where a young family could make memories. But as families age and transform over the decades, those memories can turn a place that was once an escape into its own type of burden.Mickie and Jerry Bregstein, the writer\u2019s parents, with the family\u2019s airplane, in July 1971.A secondhand airplaneThe story begins in 1968, when I was 13 and we left Long Island to vacation with a family of lime green lizards in a bare-bones motel next to a windy beach on the east end of St. Thomas, in the U.S. Virgin Islands. My father had recently purchased a secondhand propeller plane with a cruising range of 1,487 nautical miles, making it possible to fly from New York with just one refueling stop.My father, Jerry, grew up in a working-class immigrant Jewish family in Brooklyn, went to Harvard Law School on scholarship, then flew Navy air transport in World War II before going into commercial real estate. He was a master of selective frugality. When white leather go-go boots became the rage among fourth grade girls, my father insisted I get plastic knockoffs, but he didn\u2019t think twice about flying to Block Island for a tuna on rye.My mother, Mickie, was beautiful, with short, blond wavy hair \u2014 a gift from Lady Clairol \u2014 and a wide smile with perfect teeth. She was petite and svelte, but nevertheless swore by Weight Watchers with its low-fat cottage cheese, sprinkled with cinnamon and Sweet\u2019n Low and accompanied by a cool, refreshing glass of Tab. She was one of six women in her Columbia Law School class in the 1940s. But after rejections from all-male law firms, she sold hats at Macy\u2019s, then retired to be Mommy to my sister and me. She channeled her brilliance into presidencies of the P.T.A. and League of Women Voters.We are having trouble retrieving the article content.Please enable JavaScript in your browser settings.Thank you for your patience while we verify access. If you are in Reader mode please exit and\u00a0log into\u00a0your Times account, or\u00a0subscribe\u00a0for all of The Times.Thank you for your patience while we verify access.Already a subscriber?\u00a0Log in.Want all of The Times?\u00a0Subscribe.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":17465,"comment_status":"close","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[4],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-17463","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-lifestyle"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/medexperts.pro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17463","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/medexperts.pro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/medexperts.pro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/medexperts.pro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/medexperts.pro\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=17463"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/medexperts.pro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17463\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":17466,"href":"https:\/\/medexperts.pro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17463\/revisions\/17466"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/medexperts.pro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/17465"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/medexperts.pro\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=17463"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/medexperts.pro\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=17463"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/medexperts.pro\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=17463"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}