I REMEMBER IT WELL

I decided to take a stroll down memory lane last week and visit my old neighborhood in Brooklyn. Now visiting the Bushwick section, or the East New York or Bed-Sty areas are done only one of three ways: either you are in command of a military unit with air support, are using your memory which is not reliable as it once was, or you can go on Earth Google and knock yourself out! I choose to knock myself out, and was surprised at what I found.

The first impression I got was how much everything changed yet remained the same. The same street I grew up on had shrunk quite a bit, there were buildings that seemed to lose their grandness, and familiar landmarks were either gone or changed. I’m sure you all have done and discovered the same things.

Once there were historic old neighborhoods based on architecturally distinctive buildings. Old edifices that came from an era of a once great and growing metropolis that were built for permanency in stone and marble or granite, that now are replaced by cheap looking materials that will have a very short lifespan and absolutely no beauty. Sad. No longer do you see as many brownstones, or columns, or tributes to the old master craftsmen who left their imprimatur by the beauty and skills they possessed. Churches that once spoke grandly of God are now vacant lots with poorly designed buildings that leave you hungry for more design, disgust with what they left and anger that we allowed ourselves to see the beauty destroyed or left in disarray.

Once there was a little park that had a uniqueness to it, which filled my imagination and gave me joy and happy memories. Its main entrance was a triangular portal that had old-fashioned park benches, with little gardens and swings as you advanced through it. The swings ran along the wrought iron fencing that surrounded the park and paralleled the Broadway Junction elevated tracks. I would watch as each train rolled by, its wheels sparking and the cars leaning into the turn that connected Broadway to the Fulton Street terminus, as my sister or mother pushed me on the swing. There were the sand boxes and the big kids swings, and of course the giant concrete pools that were filled with more kids than water on a hot August afternoon.

I remember the butcher shop on the corner of Broadway and Hull Street, as my sister and I would purchase meat and see it wrapped in that brown paper, and as the butcher wrapped it so neatly, the overhead el would be rattling, signaling the passing of another train. It seemed that every sound, smell and sight had a reminder that we were in Brooklyn.

The church was indeed the center of our lives, and I hated it. It seemed that I was always under the scrutiny of the brothers and lay teachers of the school, a prison like structure that like a prison, separated the boys from the girls. I guess third grade pregnancies are a nightmare for the administrators, and punishment was always swift, severe and meant to hurt as much as possible. But the church was a source of keeping everyone from anarchy or mayhem. We all feared God, were taught to fear God, and we in turn were to teach our children the same fear. This may have not been your experience in life, but it was mine, and fearing God meant that fearing your teacher, the priests, the police and every person with the slightest authority was in order. To this day I rebel against it even though I ironically in some cases followed and am grateful for the good things it left me with.

As I clicked my way around the neighbor hood, the el that terminated on Fulton Street, just doors away from my grandmothers house was gone. In place of the overhead shadows was a wide-open foreign sense that was not grandma’s hood. Not even Louie’s men’s store where you could buy any Levi style there was on the corner of Rockaway Avenue and Fulton was there anymore. Safire’s Women’s clothing shop, Hoffman’s Bakery were all gone forever from the street that sparkled with business and a thriving neighborhood, all leaving bits and pieces in my memory. Stopping in front of my grandmother house, I wondered what lay behind the wall I see on my computer screen, is the smell of her cooking still lingering in the hallways as you entered? Was grandpa Ralph’s cellar still stacked with home made wine and the most incredible vinegar you ever tasted still sit bottled and lined against the walls? And where are all the old Italian gentlemen who sat outside the Republican Club next door, arguing in Italian and with their hands about politics, and their wives? Did someone call them in long ago?

There was a candy store run by a little bald Jewish man named Sam. He was a kind soul who had a nasty wife, and the only reason people went to his candy store was because of him. He sold not only candy but egg-creams, mellow rolls made by Breyer’s Ice Cream Company, the NY Daily News, NY Daily Mirror, NY Times, NY Post, The Herald Tribune and Journal American in the days when there were morning, afternoon and even evening 'owl' editions. These papers sat outside his window on a newsstand, and if you went inside on your right was the magazines and more importantly comic books, booths that all ran parallel to the long counter which ended with the phone booth and candy case..

It is good to look back once in a while, but not often. You restock your memory base and hope that someday your grandchild will want to know what life was like in your day. For me I will tell him or her that everyday was beautiful, because they all led up to my talking to my grandchild and telling him to remember all he can too.