PICKEN AVENUE

Growing up in Brooklyn, my Mom along with her sister would on a nice day gather up us kids for a long walk to Picken Avenue, a long commercial center with outdoor vendors and small shops that lined the street.

On these usually sojourns, while Mom and Aunt Marie would gossip and push the two baby carriages, I would look at the different sounds and smells of the area, with its predominately Jewish merchants selling every conceivable dry goods one could imagine. The prices were reasonable I would assume since Mom was thrifty, and we all got something. I would get a belt, or socks or underwear, my Mother maybe a pan or plate or whatever.

Usually these events occurred after the weather had cooled off considerably, and the days were good for the long walk. I can still smell and taste the Knishes, golden brown and salted, being careful not to bite too deeply into one for fear of burning the roof of my mouth. There was the smell of the chestnuts roasting, and hawking of hotdogs and drinks. It was like a giant bazaar, the only thing missing was the camels and donkeys.

One day the two sisters entered the small store of a dress merchant, descending two steps to enter beside the stoop of the building, long rows of dresses hanging on racks. Mom picked one dress off the rack and asked how much.
“For you lady, twelve dollars.”
“Twelve dollars!”
“”Lady, that’s very reasonable.”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk, twelve dollars, let your wife wear it.”
Now you know where I get it from.

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