Saturday, July 26, 2008

Brooklyn: Once Upon A Time

If I close my eyes I can almost hear my mother
Callin', "Go find your brother
Daddy's home, and it's time for supper
Hurry on" ……
Where's it gone Oh, where's it gone …..
I built me a castle
With dragons and kings
And I'd ride off with them
As I stood by my window
And looked out on those Brooklyn roads……
Thought of going back
But all I'd see are stranger's faces
And all the scars that love erases
But as my mind walks through those places
I'm wonderin' What's come of them
Does some other young boy
Come home to my room
Does he dream what I did
As he stands by my window
And looks out on those Brooklyn roads

.....................................Neil Diamond

Oh, dear -- she's back to Brooklyn again. Honestly, there's a reason. A couple. A few. On NPR this morning, a sports writer was professing that black athletes made it possible for Barack Obama to approach the White House. He made an interesting case: from athletes to movie heroes to political figures to the presidency. And somehow -- well, it seemed obvious to me at the time -- I thought of Jackie Robinson and the Brooklyn Dodgers. And then I thought of Brooklyn. When it was our world.

Reason number two: My younger brother and his wife are coming to Boston next week and taking me to dinner. I know that sounds like a rather typical event. It isn't. I'm going to see my brother, and nobody died. This is huge! No funeral, no wedding, no bar mitzvah. Just dinner. Wow! And I'm not being facetious.

Reason number three: My buddy Sharon Louise and I saw Neil Diamond in the movies about 100 years ago. And we literally slid down our seats and almost wound up on the floor. It's Sharon's birthday, and I bought her a copy of the new CD I heard by Neil recently; just Neil and his guitar. The DJ was impressed by the artist's brilliance at the ripe old age of 67. Piffle!!! Listening to the wonderful CD, I recalled that Neil is a landsman of mine -- a pizan -- a Brooklyn boy.

Reason number four: On July 27th 2008, Walter O'Malley -- the owner of the Dodgers who moved the team to LA.-- will be inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame. Those of us who remember those days, are no doubt wondering what makes him deserve such an honor. Not fame, but infamy is more appropriate.

So all of these synchronistic ingredients seemed to deserve another trip back. Although I've dragged you there before -- I promise you, we haven't scratched the surface. Because it's summer time, I think about Coney Island. I think about Steeplechase: Edward Tilyou's fabulous park at Coney Island. We loved it because it contained the best rides and if the weather was bad, we could still go there, be inside, and have lots of fun. It closed in 1964. I really believe that if Coney Island were brought back to its former glory, people would come from all over the world to be there. It would rival Disney. The Steeplechase Horse ride, the Parachute, -- Nathan's, Shatzkins Knishes, the arcades along Surf Avenue....... Coney Island also had (I think it's still there) the biggest roller coaster in the world called the Cyclone. I don't know if it still has that distinction. I rode the Cyclone once. I never rode it again. 'Nuf said.


On New Year's morning, my Dad would wake me up. We'd bundle up and drive to Coney Island. We'd have hot dogs and knishes for breakfast with hot coffee or tea, and we'd take our feast to the boardwalk. The "Brownies --" a club that went swimming on New Year's Day -- would be diving into the freezing Atlantic Ocean, and Dad would laugh and laugh at the madness. I wonder now if he wished he had the courage to do that himself. Maybe he did do that, growing up in Rockaway Beach; maybe he was revisiting his youth. Coney Island was mine.
Brooklyn was about neighborhoods. My neighborhood was really my street. East 10th Street between Avenue I and Avenue H -- partitioned by the trains at the end of our block. Coney Island Avenue ran
parallel to East 10th Street; street cars/trolley cars ran on Coney Island Avenue from Prospect Park to Brighton Beach. Several blocks in the opposite direction was Ocean Parkway. Back in the day, Ocean Parkway had the road for autos of course, but also a bicycle path, an equestrian path, and a promenade lined with benches. One could rent a horse at Prospect Park stables and ride along Ocean Parkway. All that has changed. It's now the Prospect Expressway or something similarly unfortunate. My street was part of Flatbush. It was in essence a village. For example: we didn't have supermarkets. We had Seymour's Grocery Store around the corner. My mom could phone and they'd deliver. My mom would give the delivery boy a sack of deposit bottles for his tip. On the "Avenue," (that was Avenue J for us), there was Stern's Bakery for bread, the fish market, the deli with barrels of pickles out front ("a nickel for a pickle"), the butcher, the pharmacy, and so forth. I remember doing the shopping for my mom, going to the Avenue with my list, stopping in two, three or more shops, and schlepping it all home in a European shopping bag. It was very much like Europe back then. But of course most of the inhabitants were immigrants -- from every where. My friends and I would meet on the Avenue. At the "frozen custard stand." That's what today's soft serve was originally called. They also served the famous Charlotte Russe: a cylindrical cardboard container with a slice of pound cake in the bottom, fresh whipped cream filling to the top, and a maraschino cherry to complete the sin. The bottom of the cup could be pushed up, making it easier to get to all of the cream and the cake (if one cared about the cake). We remember with our senses -- the smells, the tastes, the sounds, the textures of so many little things that make up our lives. On my one big trip abroad, my son and I were in Paris and, walking past a bakery, I saw these cookies that looked exactly the same as the cookies we bought at Stern's bakery. Could it be possible?? Stern's was called a French Bakery. I went in and bought one cookie. It was the same cookie! I almost wept. It was like finding a lost friend. (how silly?) I bought a whole box. We could never eat it all; it didn't matter.

Our village had a downtown neighborhood with lovely shops and department stores - Abraham and Strauss; and the huge Paramount theatre. Built in 1928 by Paramount Studios, the theatre had 4,124 seats. It was closed in 1962 -- the same year the gorgeous Roxy theatre in Manhattan was torn down. The Paramount now serves as a gymnasium for Long Island University -- a rather unusual transformation. The original Wurlizer organ is still in place and still maintained and played for college basketball games. I went to the Paramount as a young teenager with my girlfriends to see Johnny Ray. All the girls completely lost it -- screaming and carrying on. I couldn't deal. Well, I couldn't even hear Johnny sing. I went to the phone to call my Dad, to ask him how to get home. He laughed! He told me to go across the street to Juniors Restaurant, to get a table, to order the Triplet sandwich plate for him (three neat rolls with corned beef on one, chopped liver on one, and pastrami on the third). I ordered two Triplet plates and my Dad showed up in twenty minutes. I was never a candidate for pop concerts! We also had the Brooklyn Academy of Music, which continues to be a cultural force in Brooklyn. Great beaches; restaurants; schools. I went to Midwood High School which stood/stands next to Brooklyn College.
The writer, Erich Segal, graduated from Midwood. So did Woody Allen. Actually, lots of famous people came out of Brooklyn: actors, writers, Nobel prize winners, astronauts, politicians. Midwood High was also famous for a student-run musical event called SING! which was started by Bella Tillis, a music teacher at Midwood, in 1947. I never joined SING! when I was a student. The music teacher at P.S.99 used to walk through the auditorium at assembly, listen to us singing, and tap out the ones she said had to be "whisperers" because we didn't sing well enough. As the music teacher, one would think Mrs. Lefrack might have taught us how to sing. But I brought that voice in my head to high school and never participated in the production.
(A film was made about Sing! a number of years ago.)

My daughter (who is an ardent Red Sox fan) won't forgive me if I don't mention baseball. Well, you can't talk about old Brooklyn without the Dodgers. They were called the Superbas, later the Trolley Dodgers, and in 1913 -- the Dodgers. Then the Robins. In 1931, the Brooklyn Dodgers once again. It was possible in the 1950's to go to Ebbets Field, get a ticket, see a game. It was affordable enough for my brother and me to go, see a game, eat hot dogs, drink cokes, -- all with pocket money. One year, for Mother's Day, my brother Matt bought tickets to a game to take my mom. We all went, but mom was NOT very happy. Baseball was not her glass of tea! Folks dressed up to go to the games. Well, folks dressed nicely to go anywhere in public. If you watch classic baseball on the tv, you'll see what I mean. I always make a fuss about why it was more fun to go to a game back in the day. There was no "instant replay" to confuse you; and a great announcer called the game. So you knew exactly what was happening even if you were in the cheap seats. The Dodgers won the World Series in 1955. I was in downtown Brooklyn with my classmates from Midwood -- we were putting our school newspaper to bed. Suddenly, a huge explosion resounded for miles. And everything stopped.

Buses stopped in the middle of the streets and everyone including the drivers ran out screaming and cheering. Subway trains stopped and had to be coaxed into stations so the passengers could get off. People abandoned their cars to run out and join the party that enveloped the borough. I don't remember how I got home from there. I know it wasn't simple. When I hear the names of the players it's like hearing the names of family long gone: Pee Wee Reese, Gil Hodges, Jackie Robinson, Roy Campanella, Carl Furillo, Duke Snyder, Don Newcombe, Carl Erskine, Clem Labine, Sandy Koufax.....many more, of course. The Dodgers left Brooklyn for LA in 1957. Brooklyn has never really recovered. It was unthinkable; a death in the family. In Pittsburgh, 1958 or 1959, I walked into our campus hangout -- a benign bar nick-named The Greeks (because the fraternity boys were always there). I was with my roommate, Margie Parker. Sitting at a booth with another guy was Sandy Koufax. I didn't faint. I walked up to him (unusual for me) and said in my best little girl voice -- "Hi Mr. Koufax. I'm from Brooklyn; and I'm a fan." Sandy invited us to join them. They bought a round of drinks and we talked. He took my number and the next time the team was in Pittsburgh, someone called with a message that two tickets were waiting at the Forbes Field -- the Pirates stadium at the time. A very special guy, Mr. Koufax.

I can't take you back with me. To play stick ball, potsy, jacks; to sit on the stoop; to go to the Candy Store -- sometimes called the luncheonette -- for an ice cream cone or, better still, a Mello Roll. The ice cream was in the shape of a cylinder, and placed in a suitably shaped cone. The trick was to unroll the ice cream from its paper wrapper without dropping it on the ground. I always dropped it on the ground. I hated Mello Rolls. But ice cream sodas -- yes! -- and a malted milk; sundaes to die for; sitting at the soda fountain. There should still be soda fountains!

I don't remember when it was -- not that long ago -- a woman asked me where I came from originally. I told her Brooklyn. She said in all sincerity, "What a great place to be from!" I don't think that had ever consciously occurred to me until she said that. Yes. Yes, indeed.

Shooting ducks in Coney Island

Mickey on the right; Manny shooting; Ros and Larry













Friday, July 4, 2008

How's Your Bird?

Steve Allen used to say that -- "How's Yer Bird?" I believe Frank Zappa recorded a song with that title. I heard it from my brothers-in-law; it was their favorite greeting for a long time. I didn't know what, if anything, it meant but it was very funny. What the hell is she talking about, you ask. What brought this on??

Well, I bought a really neat bird feeder last week. My very quiet little patch of a garden has had no visitors except a squirrel who's courting his early demise by digging up my plants. I've been hanging out a suet square which has been the sole property of a greedy Blue Jay. So when I went into the pet store to fetch another suet thing, I saw this bird feeder. I was inspired; bought it and a moderately large bag of sunflower feed. I filled it and hung it on a hook that I placed on a slim branch of this very peculiar, Dr. Seuss kind of tree in the garden. It did not take long for the word to get out. Easily a dozen and then another dozen birds of all bird-species arrived and emptied that feeder before evening. Suffice it to say, I need to fetch another bag of seed; maybe a second feeder. It's very lively back there now. There are birds hanging out in the funky tree; I am awakened in the morning by bird songs and chatter right outside my window. I realize that I have always, in one way or the other, lived with birds. It sounds pretty silly, but I have a history with birds!

My mom had a canary. For years. He provided lots of charm to the old kitchen on East 10th Street in Brooklyn. He lived an inordinately long time for a canary. When he died my mom took him to the pet store to find out why. (I think she wanted an autopsy!) She was bereft. This didn't make sense to me until my parakeet -- Boobo -- died after living with me for easily 10 years. Boobo didn't speak but was really smart -- really! I lived in an attic in Jamaica Plain; when I'd come home from work, Boobo would somehow hear me climbing those stairs to the third floor and would immediately make this funny sound. I finally figured out that he was making the sound of my answering machine being rewound. It was really the only sound he'd copy. But he recognized me; and he was very entertaining if you sat in front of his cage and chatted him up.

I got another parakeet when I moved back up to Beverly in 1997. I called him Shnipsel. My grandpa, Pal, called bow ties shnipsels. I think it's a comical word. Then a over-zealous friend brought me a second parakeet. I called him Pushkin. Sadly for me, the birds had each other for company and no longer paid attention to me. They didn't even sing or chirp very much. They just picked at each other's feathers. One day, after 9-11, I came home from work feeling very distraught. I had just been laid off. Without thinking, I covered the cage, grabbed the extra boxes of bird food, and took the parakeets to the local animal shelter. They were adopted within 24 hours. I can't really explain what that was all about.

My favorite bird was a Cardinal who kept me company in Pittsburgh. I was expecting my first son; I was very young; my husband and I were very poor, and ill prepared to become parents. I (literally) had an apple and half a cup of left over breakfast coffee for lunch every day for several months. One day I saw the red bird sitting on my window sill. I quietly opened the window. He left, of course. but I placed a slice of my apple on the window sill and walked away. He came back, ate the apple and took off when I tried to approach. Before long, however, he'd wait there; I'd open the window, put down his share of lunch, and we'd hang out together until the apple was gone. Then he'd leave. Come to think of it, there was a picture of a Cardinal on the bird feeder I bought last week. Maybe that's why I bought it. Maybe I was hoping a red bird would come. I'd like that.

When my grandma Jennie was ill, a Mynah bird came to her window. Jennie invited him in; my mom shlepped out to her apartment with a birdcage and the usual accoutrements. The bird was a great mimic and kept Jennie company and amused until she died. I went out to Jennie's apartment after her funeral. I think I was expecting to see her there. The bird was gone. Window closed. Cage door closed. That's always been a mystical puzzle for me.

So there are flocks of birds in my garden. And it's suddenly alive. Read The Selfish Giant; it comes to mind -- a silent place coming to life because of a small offering. This is my very small offering today. But prophetic coming from one who grew up with the Blue Birds and the Elm. Blesséd be.