​Growing up coming to FUSW, it was the site of so many profound life lessons and formative memories. Most fundamentally, it was the place where ideals like “Everyone should be allowed to believe what they do and be who they are so long as we respect each other” became woven into my worldview, seeming so ordinary, so obvious, that I had no idea how radical, powerful, dangerous, and threatened those ideas really are. 

In childhood, this was the place where Bonnie Hart taught us “We are UU,” with accompanying hand gestures; where Gil Hart played the recorder; where adults watched us dance to Britney Spears' music and did the electric slide with us during Friday night parenting co-ops; where I binge ate cookies after each Sunday service; where we painted the holiday windows every year and looked forward to each winter’s musical-theater-number-filled talent show. When I was thirteen, this was where I was allowed to pour my heart and guts into my Coming of Age sermon, and adults really listened--it was space where I was seen and held during one of the hardest years of my life. During my teens, I had a group of kind, funny, supportive, thoughtful, radiant peers here to grow up with. During my twenties, I was able to come back and speak openly at a couple of services about my fears of not growing up fast enough, and of climate change. 
 
I know that more than anything it is the community–the people, our values, our hearts–that made FUSW what it was, and that that spirit endures wherever we go, even when we are not all together. But for decades, 25 Old Jackson Avenue was the perfect little container for all this growth, hardship, light, and love. Hearing David Bryce and Arlin Roy deliver the most beautiful comments to wrap up candles of joy and concern, and the choir harmonizing on “I thank you god for most this amazing day” as we looked out at the trees and the deer behind the window and stained-glass chalice under the Sunday morning sun is a sacred memory we all made and that I will not forget. Thank you FUSW and 25 Old Jackson for holding so much life-affirming space together, and here is to so, so much more!
 
 Cara Gross

My/our gratitude abounds for the embracing care this living space provided for our family.
 
First and foremost, would be the comfort level achieved, for our father/Grandfather was the proud minister of the community, the loving caretaker of the building, its grounds and fellowship.   
 
The word FIRST is apt here for many official and emotional reasons, for as there were numerous ministers/leaders/nurturers to follow, it was he that embraced this space upon its fruition. 
 
First Unitarian Society of Hastings /of Westchester 
 
Our family treated this location as if a second home. For Bob Smudski, probably in thinking back, it was his first home. The hours he spent in place were many. Our children grew in this building till time of transitioning to Temple Emanuel to enact the age-old family tradition of Bar Mitzvahs, and our daughter grew beyond the gentle pull of Youth Group. Sunday mornings were as much a part of our routine as school was on weekdays, but the other fun adventures were the occasions we would simply drive over on off times to hunt for salamanders under the building and near-by stream.  
 
My father’s golf balls, long after he had moved on to the Orlando, Florida congregation, still prized findings amongst the rushes of the back property for his grandchildren, for when not musing over sermons, he practiced his ‘swing’ on the grounds.
 
The floods then too were an issue, a rowboat was once used to rescue my father as he wrote and read long into the deluge and lost track of time (and mounting waters). But the land was so giving and responsive, so beautiful to gaze upon during services on sunny, snowy, or rainy days. It was a theater upon which our ever-changing world was exhibited. The community within and upon this land so strongly knit together.  
 
Devoted people toiled to keep the meeting place intact from its very origins!  Those names come readily to mind but I’ll not mention them for there are many, and not one outweighs another in importance. Some are still amongst the current congregation (I see this, for I’ve once again been receiving newsletters in a far more modern format than the old, mimeographed pastel colored paper I helped generate monthly).   
 
Even further back, I have rushing memories of my mother composing the ‘church’ newsletter on our parish house spacious stairway landing, where sat a desk with an old black typewriter. Back then there was a delightfully charming little white clapboard church. It was my sister and I that felt the all-embracing comfort as children of that First Unitarian Church, now far behind us.
 
We went by that moniker back then, Church. My mind thinks of it always as such, though I believe I was a very agreeable trustee when we were voted into ‘Society’ status while on Jackson Avenue.
 
I digress.
 
I mentally bid a very fond farewell to the old Jackson Avenue building, the exciting Clark Thompson designed addition, my father’s beloved study, as well as to the back rooms, where my children all played, learned, and formed foundations in Sunday School.
 
These grounds will always, in our minds, remain as a space of bonding, nurturing and happiness.  

​Debbie Smudski Chaim