The Kent

Ok, so the other day my son wants to see some new movie called "Astroboy". And it's really not playing anywhere close to East Fourth street, well, except for the Alpine in Bay Ridge. Yes, the Alpine in Bay Ridge is still there folks and my wife takes both my kids there every so often when they have a day off from school.

So anyway, determined to find another place closer I look on the internet and check out all the movie houses in Brooklyn playing this thing...Court Street, UA Sheepshead Bay, Alpine, The Kent.

The KENT???
The KENT???
The KENT???

I thought this place closed after they played
the last Death Wish 5 movie or Rocky 12
back in the early 80's?

The KENT is still here?
Still showing movies in Brooklyn?

Holy Shit!
The Kent never closed after all!

So I tell my son we're going to see Astroboy at this place called the "Kent" on Coney Island Avenue.

"Hey Dad, is this place nice?"
"Because mom usually takes us to the Alpine,
and the Alpine is really nice and clean"

Well, I didn't want to tell my son that when I reviewed the "Kent" that some people claimed they were bitten by rats there. Because I just chalked that up to some disgruntled customers who probably thought the seats were too small.

So we drive to Midwood, find a spot and walk over to the Kent. I tell the guy in the window "two tickets for Astroboy", I hand him a twenty and he gives me ten dollars back.

"Is my son free?"

"No, first show is five dollars each"

Five dollars?

I think the last time I payed five bucks to see a movie was when I saw "Christine" at the Fortway back in 1983 with my first wife Jessica along with Pete, Ketty, Robert and Maria. A triple kind of date thing you know. Holy shit, did that movie give me the creeps. And mind you I was one of those guys in love with my Plymouth too, except it was a Barracuda rather than a 58 Fury.

But back to the Kent.

So we go inside and the place is broken down into a triplex.
Still the same old stuff inside and probably the same seats from the 70's as well. The room that we're inside of is no bigger than my cubicle at work, but still, you can sit in the back row and be real close to the screen.

I check out the walls, the wood molding, the floor, the fire exit and all looks well. The screen is not stained or anything like the one at the Beverly used to be, well, you know Steve McNally threw that egg at the screen, but thats another story for another time.

So we sit, sit, sit. My son asks me every thirty seconds what time it is and finally the movie starts. And this is the part that gets me. The Kent still runs a projector! Yes the vertical lines are running through the film like some "Planet of the Apes" movie at the Beverly, and you can clearly hear the sound of the projector's gears and the film running by the hot bulb inside.

I'm just waiting for the film to get jammed and the frame to melt like when we used to project porno movies on Neil O'Callaghans house across the street, but once again another story for another time.

So as we're watching the movie I can't help but notice that the upper portion of the movie is clear while the bottom of the frame is blurry. Along with the constant vertical scratches running through the film. I feel pretty bad because I know this place is no "Alpine" where they probably show the movie on a computer screen or something.

But then I turn and look at my son.
He's smiling, laughing and having a
wonderful time seeing "Astroboy".

Yes, just like the old Beverly when we never cared about the scratches in the film or the picture being slightly blurry. My son is just being a kid and overlooking those stupid little things that annoy us adults. Yes, kids see the world in another way, and I'm sure happy they do.

No the world is not perfect and neither are movie houses.
And I'm sure glad the Kent is still here in 2009,
just like it was in the Brooklyn of my youth.

Yes, such a long time ago,
when we didn't care either.

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

Steel Warriors in Kensington

The old rusted corpse just laid there. Like some warrior wounded in battle, the Plymouth sat chained to the long galvanized steel gurney. The live blood of its body was slowly dripping out of its fluid lines and oil pan. Its soul was dying. With the diesel engine of the flatbed revving to a higher pitch, I could see my neighbors staring at it from their porch.
With sheer disgust in their faces, they just watched.

The driver got out of the truck and walked behind the cab, he pulled on one of the black levers. With the sound of an electric bed at Palm Gardens on Avenue C, the patient rose slowly towards the sky. Higher and higher it went, the motor groaned and whined until it stopped. The eyes of the Plymouth just stared at the smokestacks of PS 179 in the distance. Another greasy finger pulled another lever and the Plymouth started to roll gently down the bed. As the bald Goodyear’s slowly turned, a long rusty chain grew from underneath the front bumper. Growing longer and longer, until the car sat flat in front of my driveway. Like a fish with a hook in its mouth the rusty chain extended all the way up the truck, the Plymouth looked dead. The driver got on the ground underneath the front bumper and rattled the cold steel chains. A few moments later he dropped them to the ground. “Ok, she’s all yours.” With that he pressed another button, the flatbed retracted and the chain slowly grew shorter working it’s way back up the bed until the hook could only be seen from the large spool behind the cab. The red transmission fluid of the Plymouth filled the steel bed like blood. I paid the driver and he drove away.

Inside the car there was a human figure, he looked at me through the dirty window and smiled. One of my best friends, Peter LoBianco was sitting inside the old Plymouth since the pick-up at Avenel, New Jersey. Dust and dirt from the ripped headliner covered his hair. He slowly rolled down the window. “So Ronnie, should we give it a shot?” I just nodded my head “yes”. Peter stuck the silver key inside the black steering column. With his thumb and index finger on either side of the Chrysler Pentastar he turned the key towards the hood. With some struggle the starter motor slowly turned the gigantic flywheel with its tiny gears. Turning, turning, turning, until the engine awoke. With the sound of an old Jersey drag racer the Cuda rumbled a loud throaty sound. As blue smoke slowly filled the street my neighbors closed their porch door and went inside. We pulled it into my driveway, the sound was horrific.

Oh, so here we go again, another break-up, divorce or failed romance and Ronnie Lopez buys another car. Just a little something to distract him while he gets it together. No habit to pull me through you ask? Yeah, I had a habit, a real bad one too. They weighed around 3500 pounds, leaked oil, and smoked. And all I had to do was close the door of my garage and leave the real world behind me, never thinking twice about why that last relationship never really worked out, or even giving it another chance. No, forget romance and love for now, because you have an old steel warrior to bring back to life, and it’s going to take you months.

And your friends, well, there going to have to understand too, although sometimes they just didn’t get it. “Hey Lopez, what the hell you doing in this stupid garage all the time?” “There’s a big world out there”. “Just go upstairs and take a shower, we’re going into the city”. I guess that’s why I called them my friends. A night out in the Greenwich Village followed by some Pizza at Rays on 6th Avenue.
But then it was back to work.

Freezing winter nights sometimes turned the water to ice as I wet sanded the smooth red lacquer paint. Just fighting the elements until stone turned to glass. From the driveway of 399 East 4th, you could see the light glowing through the cracks in the door, sometimes till dawn. And on many occasions the “midnight auto repairs” resulted in some nasty letters from my downstairs next-door neighbor. The letters would just appear in the foyer of the house, simply addressed to “Ronnie”. After reading them I would always let her know that she’ll get the first ride around the block once I was finished.
“That’s not funny Ronnie” is all she would say.

And then the day would finally arrive, the moment to unveil out my own hand made “Faberge Egg” from my garage. It was my masterpiece, my novel, and my sculpture. It burnt hands, cut fingers and emptied my wallet. It was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. And most important, it helped me forget “what’s her name” for the past year or so.

So you look at her in all her glory, her engine is new and her paint shines like glass. You sit inside the new interior and turn the key. The brand new 440 Chrysler engine purrs like a kitten. You slowly back the Cuda out of the driveway, making sure not to make too much noise. You can see your neighbors again on their porch, even they look amazed. You park the car in your driveway and open the driver’s door; walking backwards you just admire it, feeling proud of your accomplishment. As you sit on your front stoop and look at the car, all you can say is ”it’s done, finally it’s done.”

Well, I still hold all those cars dear to my heart, and still drive them around Kensington once and a while. Like beautiful crystals in a cave they live in the darkness of my garage. But now a days I don’t get to work on the cars that much anymore, forget about painting them or re-building motors at twelve midnight. I just can’t seem to find the time, and besides, there haven’t been any failed romances lately either. You see my two children and wife keep me quite busy these days. And I can only thank one person for that. No one other than my next-door neighbor who looked at that Plymouth with anguish on her face the day we brought it on that flatbed.
Because she introduced me to my wife right after I finished my second car, and must have been planning it all along.

Ron Lopez

Living on Top in Kensingon

I remember the walls of our apartment always being a collection of very sharp angles. Like old trees in a forest they sometimes looked as though they were leaning on each other and ready to collapse right on top of us while we slept.

And it all seemed quite normal to me too, especially the pitched wall above my bed in our bedroom. A wonderful angled wall that always gave me the opportunity to study my watercolor paintings and classroom drawings when I woke up each morning.

I always felt quite comfortable in our apartment too. It just offered this splendid sense of coziness that I could never find in the enormous square walled dwellings of my aunt and grandmother below us. No, our apartment was just “right”, and I was always glad get back to our “little cabin in the sky” each and every day.

You know you're sitting on the top of the world too. A bird’s eye view of every sunrise and sunset over Kensington Brooklyn. Those magnificent Ocean Parkway apartment buildings could have easily been the “Berkshires” if you squinted your eyes long enough. Old television antennas turned into pine trees and tiny yellow windows were wonderful little farmhouses that sprinkled the mountainside.

Oh, but those sunsets, they were just beautiful every day. And there was never any need to even imagine when it set. Just a magnificent orange ball setting over the house tops of East 3rd and East 2nd. Finally disappearing over the gigantic factory on 39th street in Boro Park. No, even from our attic apartment an old factory looked beautiful with the evening sun slowly fading behind it.

Then there were the storms, and let me tell you there could be nothing as breathtaking as a thunderstorm from our top floor apartment. When the Kensington winds howled loud and strong you could actually feel the house swaying and rocking back and forth. One hundred year old timber and nails never pretending to be stronger than Mother Nature. Like a tall oak in Prospect Park, she just let the gales wrap themselves around her old wooden body, and gently dance a tender waltz. As the torrid rain would beat hard against the large picture window that looked over the “sea of tar” below. We would just hold on to the couch for dear life as waves crashed against her sides. Sometimes being afraid, but always too excited to ever move from that big old picture window in our
living room.

Yeah, sometimes you really felt like you were in the wheelhouse of some old freighter at sea from that apartment. The helm of the good ship 399, and we were lucky enough to live there each and every day.

It’s strange but I still can’t get used to having a lot of space. I don’t know why, maybe I feel as though I’m not worthy and don’t deserve it for some reason. Don’t get me wrong, I love the apartment I live in now, but there’s something about a lot of space and perfectly square walls that still seems odd to me after all these years. Not to mention the “coziness” of a much smaller apartment that I still miss.

But that’s Ok, I know someday the kids will move out and maybe my wife will banish me to the basement. And boy is there a wonderful room down there I already have my eyes on. And it may all just work out fine; well except for the boiler and water heater I’d have to live with. But still, there’s enough room for a bed. And how much room does one need anyway to feel happy? Sure no views of the sunrise and sunsets over Kensington, but at least I’d have my
own fireplace.

So if you live in an attic apartment in Kensington,
remember to watch those sunrises and sunsets every day,
and never forget how lucky you really are.
Because only the lucky live on top.

Ron Lopez

Goldfeather

He used to walk up my block when I was a kid. He was a short man maybe in his 50’s. He had black hair, a moustache and thick “Buddy Holly” style glasses. Sam usually wore a brown overcoat in the winter and a sports jacket in the summer. He could always be seen wearing a brown or black derby too.

Now Sam also walked with a cane, except most of the time it was never touching the sidewalk. Instead he used it to point at people. “Hey ya bum ya, you fuckin bum” those words were Sams trademark as he walked up East 4th. And he usually uttered them when he was drunk.

Now, we were never mean to Sam, and actually liked him. Even when he called us “fuckin bums”, because we may have been only five or six years old at the time and actually thought he was funny. So there he would stand with a newspaper under his arm, his face flushed red and a bottle sticking out of his coat pocket. His old cane right in our faces as we played in front of our house.

“Hey you know what you are?”
“A FUCKIN BUM!”.

We would all start laughing at this point because Sam always had a smile on his face when he cursed at us.

“Thats Goldfeather,
Sam Goldfeather”

And then he would slowly walk up the block towards Avenue C. Just pointing his cane at anyone he saw until he vanished around the corner.

And then there was Sam’s brother Irving Goldfeather” who looked strikingly similar to Sam. Except Irving was always seen walking in the opposite direction towards Beverly Road. Usually on his way to work in the morning. Yet, Sams brother was quiet and businesslike and would always tip his hat to my Mom and say:

“Good morning Mrs. Lopez, a beautiful day isn’t it?.

“Mom, why don’t Sam and Irving ever walk together?”

My mom would usually just say that “Maybe Sam sleeps late”.

Then one day Sam told us while waving his cane in our faces that he was moving to Florida and wouldn’t be around anymore. He said his brother Irving would be staying, and for us to be nice to him. Well, I guess I was pretty naive because I must have been in High School before I figured out that they were actually the same person. And Sam did a pretty good show holding a job during the day only to drink his problems away at the bars on Church Avenue, and then from his pocket before he got home. But truth is from that day on we only saw his brother Irving walking up and down the block. And he never cursed, always wished my Mom a good day, and only walked with his cane touching the sidewalk.

Ron Lopez

Avenue F Reunion Game Video

(Please copy and paste the link)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jUs8exyZ_WI

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

Prophet Allen: a Living Legend of East Fourth

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

What we need more of in Kensington

Tire Spot 453 Coney Island Ave, Brooklyn, NY
(718) 940-7063 (Richie)

Ok, so yesterday my wife calls me at 2 o’clock in the afternoon from Kensington. The front right tire of the Nissan Quest is totally flat and she needs to pick up the kids from school in Bay Ridge at 2:30.

Well, forget about getting home in time from the City, and don't bother calling any one on the block. And that’s for a couple of reasons, number one most of them are moved away years ago, and number two, their parents who stayed behind are all quite old now. No, Bob Brennan's not going to be using that tire iron anymore, because his tire changing days are behind him now, and he's turning eighty in December.

So what’s the FIRST thing a man should do?

Call a local Tire place on Coney Island Avenue and see if they can come over to the driveway to fix it. That’s what.

And that’s when the story of “Tire Spot” starts.

“Hello, my wife is stuck with a flat tire in our driveway at 399 East Fourth, do you think you can send someone over to fix it?”

“Hey man, give me about ten minutes and I’ll drive over there”

“What’s your name?”

“Richie from Tire Spot, I’m the owner”

“Ok, Richie thanks, but my wife has only about fifteen minutes before she has to go to Bay Ridge to pick up the kids. Do you think you can get there in time?”

“I’ll do my best for you man, that’s all I can do”

So of course while my wife’s waiting for Richie from Tire Spot she calls me every few minutes to tell me he’s not there yet. And in the meantime the window is rapidly closing to make it to Bay Ridge in time to pick up my two kids.

So what’s the SECOND thing a man should do?

Well, tell his wife to call car service of course,
Because we live in Brooklyn and not Vermont.

So my wife calls Church Avenue car service and heads off to Bay Ridge with a round trip ticket in a blue Dodge Caravan. And me, well, I’m stuck at work worrying that Richie is going to show up there without anyone paying him or showing him where the van is.

So what’s the THIRD thing a man should do?

Well, call one of his tenants and ask him to find Richie, and show him where the van is and assure him that you’ll pay him for his work.

So luckily my middle floor tenant Jeff Nathan was home and his cordless phone worked well enough in my driveway.

‘Hello Richie, this is Ron I called you about the flat on the Quest”

“Yeah Man, don’t worry about it, I see the flat and the van too”

“Richie, you know my wife just left and she has the money for the job, I’m sorry but she had to pick up the kids”

“Hey Man, don’t worry about it, let me change the tire and take it to the shop and see if I can patch it”

“Do you need a charge card number or something?”

“Hey, don’t worry so much, when I’m finished with the job just come over later and pay me, I trust you man, don’t worry.

And that’s what struck me. Here’s a guy doing a job for me in my driveway totally out of trust and nothing else. He doesn’t know me from Adam and trusts that I’ll pay him after he does the job.
Which isn’t unusual, but he’s in my driveway rather than me being by his shop.

Ok, so let's sum this up here why don't we...

Richie drives over to my house in his truck,
changes my tire, takes the flat one to his shop,
fixes it, and then returns to take off the spare
and put back the tire he just fixed.

A couple hundred bucks I’m thinking, right?

Well, about an hour later Richie calls me at work to tell me
he finished the job and I’m thinking “service call” “hourly
rate”, etc, etc.

“Hey Ron that job will cost you forty dollars alright?”
“I’m sorry but it was a service call”

“Forty Dollars?”

This guy must have wasted a couple of hours on my van and the total bill is FORTY dollars.

“Richie, thank you, you are a saint”

Well, when I dropped off the money over by Tire Spot, I made sure to give Richie a nice tip. Because forty bucks for all that work just seems like nothing in the year 2009.

And when I was there paying my bill I made sure to tell some customers there about how Richie did all this work for me and trusted that I was going to show up later and pay him. A job done on “trust” and nothing else.

“Hey Man, if you want a customer to return those are the things you have to do you know” is all Richie said.

And let me tell you, until the day I die
I’m having Richie fix my flat tires.

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

The Postcard from Havana

Back in 1990 when I bought my house from my Aunt and Uncle, I was faced with the daunting task of cleaning out my Grandmother’s apartment.
In my Aunts old bedroom where she used to stay, there were rolls of silk, lamp shade skeletons along with boxes of nick knacks from my Grandmothers old lampshade store at 90 Church Avenue. Just one of those weeks where you sat in a pile of "stuff" and slowly went through every box, always trying to find something that your family never knew existed. The “Family Jewel” or that
“Lost Photograph”, that’s all.

But interesting enough I came across a bunch of postcards from Havana, Cuba. These were cards sent to my Grandmother and Grandfather at 399 East 4th before Castro took over the place and made it into a perpetual “antique car show”. I have to tell you that side of present day Cuba fascinates the Hell out of me. All those 57 Plymouths running around in 2008, Wow!

But anyway, these cards were all sent from the resorts that my cousins must have stayed at while they were visiting my Great Grandfather there. They all contained loving messages to both my Grandparents here in Kensington, and were post marked from December of 1955.

So you can see I was real excited about this find and wanted let my aunt Dolores know as soon as I could. Maybe she’d want to frame them or read them to her Mother, who knows.

Now, there was always a special spot for the mail when it was delivered to my house, and it was usually placed on the sill under the stained glass window in the hallway. The mail placed there was usually for my Grandmother Isabel, who was now living with my family in Florida, New York. My Aunt Dolores believe it or not, still worked for doctor Sheps at 310 Beverley, and must have made the longest commute anyone has ever known at the time, 85 miles each way to East 3rd street. And on Fridays she would always pick up my Grandmothers mail from the windowsill before the weekend.

So what do I do that Friday morning without thinking? I just throw all the postcards on the windowsill along with the Con Edison and Keyspan bills; no big deal is all I thought.

And remember that “Family Jewel” or that “Lost Photograph” I was talking about? Well, my poor Aunt Dolores, she was just so excited to get that “lost” mail after all those years. Thinking it must have been under some ones desk over in the Kensington Post Office since 1955, and was finally found and delivered. Which wouldn't be too much of a stretch anyway considering our local post office.

Well, I just didn’t have the heart to tell her I put them there that morning without thinking twice. I meant to tell her, but probably forgot. And it’s been almost eighteen years now so why spoil a good thing?, and besides it makes great dinner conversation.

So the next time you get that postcard form some far away place. Just throw it in a box somewhere and pack it away. Because maybe someday it may be another “Kensington Story”, that was almost
too good to be true.

Ron Lopez

Catskill Sunrise 6 am today (WebCam)

Nice WebCam shots of the sun rising this morning from 150 miles away in the Catskill Mountains.

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

Quirky Kensington

Hey, why the heck didn't they get Tracy Noel O'Conner to do this piece? I bet you she would have known how to spell "Caton" correctly instead on "Canton". Quick, someone call the copy edit police before they arrest someone! Or better yet just steal the street sign like we used to do and walk it over to the writer on 33rd street.

http://www.nydailynews.com/real_estate/2009/10/30/2009-10-30_quirky_kensington_hidden_treasures_dominate_this_brooklyn_hood.html

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

When the Sun Sets over Brooklyn

The old woman moved very slowly down the cold concrete sidewalk of East 4th street. Her body was bent forward as she used the tiny blue shopping cart to help steady her walk. With her knuckles swollen and her hands looking somewhat distorted, she gripped the cart's thin metal bar for dear life. Wearing her old favorite tan overcoat and dark sunglasses she had hair as white as a new fallen snow. The wind was bitter cold as it blew against her skin, she seemed to be counting her steps as she walked. The wheels of the cart squeaked quite loudly and made a sound that was almost seemed musical, the spokes just glistening in the morning sunlight. I watched her until she vanished around the corner onto Beverly Road.

She was tall and beautiful with long brown wavy hair and dark blue eyes. There she stood under the big clock at the Hotel Astor in Manhattan. “Hey gorgeous, how about a movie tonight?” The young woman smiled as she glanced back up at the clock. It was five minutes to six and her date would be there any minute. His name was Ray Ravelli, and he was a professional boxer. Tonight there would be a lot of stopping on the way to dinner, because everyone knew Ray when he walked through Times Square. As the clock struck six and the bells gently tolled, she saw Ray walking towards her.
She smiled as he took her hand.

“Hey Ray, when you going to fight Graziano again.” With quickness in her steps she pulled him along through the busy sidewalks of Times Square. Ray, unable to answer the question from the stranger just turned to her and said, “Hey Stella, how about we just get married and move to California?”. She just looked at him and shook her head "No".

She looked into the mirror and closely studied her face. The mirror just looked back at her, staring straight into her eyes. “Who you looking at you old woman!” The lady in the mirror just smiled back. With much caution in her steps she slowly walked out of the bathroom and headed towards her favorite chair by the window, her old bent finger flipped up the switch of her radio. She loved “Prairie Home Companion” on a Saturday night. Then she reached into her bathrobe pocket and pulled out her mother’s old magnifying glass. She placed it against the face of her watch and slowly drew it towards her blue eyes. It was six o’clock and time for another beautiful sunset over Brooklyn.

My Mom never married Ray the boxer. He wanted to elope and move to California, my mom just wasn’t that adventurous and instead decided to stay in New York and make Brooklyn her home. She loved the excitement of Brooklyn and especially the young people. “Do you think I want to live with a bunch of old people and hear all their stories about aches and pains? no, I’d rather live with the young, at least they help you forget that you’re old”.

My mom died on October 13, 2001 at the age of 83.
She never left Brooklyn, and I never remembered to oil the squeaky wheels of her carriage.

Ron Lopez

A Token Memory

The token booth was old and black and it was not very big at all. It's hard to say what it was made of; it may have even been wood. The booth stood in the middle of the station, quite far from Church Avenue and an equal distance to Albemarle Road.

The North/South corridor is now closed because they built an elevator there, but if it ever opens again you could still see the bolt threads that were cut flush to the concrete. I know because I saw them just a few years ago. I remember that my head barely reached the old wooden coin exchange when I would hand the clerk fifteen cents. And of course my Mom was standing right behind me when he gave me the token, which was about the size of a dime at the time. I just handed it to my Mom and then ducked under the large wooden turnstile, making sure not to hit my head. Forget the beeps, lights, and stainless steel that you passed through this morning on the way to work.

It was old painted metal and worn out wood. And you had to be sure not to touch the turnstile; you may even get a splinter. Because the token booth was right in the middle of the station the distance to the nearest staircase was not that close either. So if you ever saw the lights of the F up at Ditmas Avenue from the corner of Church and McDonald chances are you would NEVER make that train. So the Church Avenue commuters of yesteryear certainly got a workout each and every day trying to catch the train.

The Manhattan bound platform was never really pretty either; even as a five year old back in 63, it smelled like things I just didn't understand yet. "The lights, the lights", I would yell to my Mom, pointing up the black tunnel towards Avenue C. And that’s when it happened every time; she would take her very strong Polish arm and just lock it around my chest from behind. Giving me a close look at the gold and diamond ring she wore.

I just said nothing as the very dark and dirty train roared into the station. With yellow lights shining from the inside it almost looked like a hotel rather than a train. My Mom would always grab my hand real tight too when walked inside the car. The seats were bamboo, the walls were a ugly green and there were gigantic oscillating fans spinning on the ceiling. So maybe on second thought it looked more like a bar on Miami Beach rather than a hotel. There was no constant hum of an air condioning system, LCD lights or whatever electronics that make today’s subway cars sound like your computer's hard drive. No, it was this low pitched chugging of compressor motors building up brake pressure, babies crying, people talking, laughing or coughing. And of course the squeaky sounds of the fans turning overhead. The doors just closed too, no bongs or PA system either to tell you to "watch out".

There was also the odor of burning electric, grease and oil. I could only compare it to the "Eldorado" at Coney Island, an electric bumper car ride. We would usually find a seat and I'd watch the dark green doors slowly close. The train would slowly lurch forward, and we'd be on our way. With a low pitched "groan" that slowly built into a higher pitched "whine" you heard every single sound that the electric motors below your feet made. With the yellow tunnel lights passing the outside of each window like a stream of stars, the old train would creak and rattle and dance away on the rails below. The sweet sounds of the subway was all you heard, leaning against my Mom I would close my eyes and fall asleep.

I sometimes take my son to the Pavilion up by 15th Street; instead of driving we just take the train. “Hey Dad, why do you put your arm around my chest when the train comes?” "Oh, did I do that?". “I don’t know Son, I guess it’s just a habit”.

Ron Lopez

The Blue Flame

The blue flame suddenly roars to life, it rumbles deep in the belly of the dark basement below. Cold rusty pipes begin to warm as fire boils dirty brown water inside heavy iron coils. The radiator hisses and drools as hot steam begins its long journey through the highway of conduits that lead to silver valves above. They come alive and breathe a heavy breath, and like warriors they stand guard in the corners of your house. Then it starts again, the tapping of the pipes by the demons in the basement. With iron mallets they smash at the hot iron pipes, daring you to meet them in the dark caverns below. The cold air of your room begins to fade, replaced by a warm vapor of steam. The softness of your pillow, the comfort of your home, you close your eyes and fall asleep. Sweet dreams to you, oh Kensington homeowner, and try not to have nightmares about your next National Grid bill.

Ron Lopez

Foggy, Rainy and Damp in the Catskills

Catskill WebCam today @ 2:06 pm.
Just a real dreary day on the mountain.

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

Bob Brennan of East Fourth

The greatest storyteller Brooklyn has ever known is my friend Bob Brennan. At 78, Bob is a Brooklyn original you know. From sneaking into Brooklyn Dodger games at Ebbetts field to climbing the wall outside Kings County Hospital to see a live autopsy. Bob just always had what seemed like a novels worth of stories to tell at any given moment.

“Oh, do I have a good one for you Ronnie” said Bob. “You know my brother Joey wasn’t one for doctors, and one day he hurts his arm real bad playing baseball down on Brooklyn Avenue. So after about a week he goes to the doctor. Well, he comes home with a cast on his arm, and there’s my brother going crazy every night with this cast. Its itchy as all hell, he’s sticking wire hangers, ice cream sticks, almost anything he can find to shove up the cast and scratch himself. Well, finally after six weeks he goes to the doctor to get it off. So when the doctor takes a small hammer and cracks it open, “Bang!”. He breaks open the cast and hundreds of roaches come running out.
The doctor gets up and runs the hell out of the room.
And there’s my brother just sitting there screaming with
all these roaches all over him”.

Besides being a wonderful storyteller, in many ways I felt like Bob was the Dad I never had also. When my dad died when I was seven many of the fathers on the block pitched in to either show me how to hold a hockey stick or catch a hardball. And of course Bob had the best arm on the block, he was even called for a tryout for the New York Giants Baseball team before he was drafted and went to Korea. So there I am just standing in front of my driveway at 399 East 4th with my new Rawlings mitt. “OK Bob, I’m ready”. With the gracefulness of a pro-ball player, Bob throws the hardball towards me. Like a streak of white it flies through the air crossing East 4th and hits the newly oiled palm of my glove, “snap”. I just stood there with my fingers and hand feeling like they got run over by the B35 bus on Church Avenue. “You OK, Ronnie?” Too embarrassed to say no, or even cry in pain. I dug the ball out of my oil soaked glove and threw it back to Bob. With the gracefulness of the “Tin Man” before he got oiled, the ball flies through the air, totally missing Bob’s glove. It ricochets off the hood of a 70 Plymouth Duster and lands in “Frank form Italy’s” tomato garden. Instead of laughing or being upset, Bob just retrieves the ball from the tomato garden. He walks over to me, “OK, now I’m going to show you how to throw the ball”. Yeah, that was Bob.

You have to understand that Bob’s stories and his personality were almost medicinal too. In some of the darkest days of my life I could always count on Bob to help me forget my pain. All without him ever knowing that he was doing just that.

After my little sister died at 33, I had to go to Kings County Hospital and identify her body. Without a moments hesitation I asked Bob if he could come with me. And without any hesitation on his part he just said “yes”. “Hey Ronnie, did I ever tell you about the time me and my brothers climbed the wall outside the morgue wing to watch them do an autopsy?.” Although I heard it before, I would rarely say yes, and especially not today. “No Bob I haven’t.
When I had to pick out a casket for my sister the next day at Pitta’s on McDonald Avenue. There was Bob with me in the “showroom” down in their basement. “Hey Ronnie, did I ever tell you the time I was at a funeral over at Cypress Hills Cemetery?” The ground is totally covered with ice, and here’s these two guys pulling the casket up a steep hill. Well one of the guy’s falls and the casket comes sliding down the hill like a toboggan at Prospect Park. It hits a tree and the stiff comes flying out of the casket". "What a mess I tell you”.

The Casket cost me fourteen hundred dollars,
but the therapy was free.

And the stories went on and on, from a baby eaten to death by rats in Brownsville when Bob was a kid. To the midget that fixed his oil tank in his basement, because he was small enough to fit inside it to do the repair work. Yeah, Brooklyn through and through, that’s Bob.

You better believe that Bob was one of the first people I saw after 9/11 too. Bob was a tower crane operator and worked on the World Trade Center back in the early 70’s. He used to tell me stories about sitting up in the cab some 110 stories up in the sky. “With the wind blowing it felt like you were on a ship, just rocking back and forth.” Bob pulled a lot of steel from the street to help build those buildings. And on 9/12 there I was, just sitting at his kitchen table. Looking at old photos of him standing on the roof of Tower 2 while the building was still a skeletal frame.

In many ways I feel bad that everyone doesn’t have a “Bob Brennan” in their life. Or maybe the entire Brennan family for that fact. There certainly would be a lot more laughing and less prescriptions being filled out at “Walgreen’s”. Yeah, that was my anti-depressant, a quick trip to 422 East 4th.

The other day my company was splashed across the business section in the “Wall Street Journal” another 2500 layoffs in 2008. So what’s a grown man to do? worry you say? No, just call Bob Brennan for that quick pick me up. “Hey Ronnie, did I ever tell you about the wedding I went to, here’s this guy standing over the bar like this. He has his eyes closed and just looks real stiff. When his wife tries to grab his arm, he’s cold as ice. This guys dead, standing up right over the bar, looking at his martini”.

Yeah, the greatest storyteller I have ever known lives on my block, and his name is Bob Brennan, and I’m proud to call him my friend.


Ron Lopez
(Sometimes the truth is stranger than fiction.)

New Construction Destruction

Now I'm not telling you anything you don't all ready know already. But every time I drive around Brooklyn I'm amazed at all these abandoned and derelict "New Construction" projects. Yes, they are some developer’s dream that went down the tubes. The poor guy is probably sitting in some dingy motel room in Rahway New Jersey and writing out that suicide note right now.

Oh well, I guess "speed" kills,
or was that "greed" kills.

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

Kennys

Long before Park Slope was pretty and “Little Things” was cute,
we had Kensington, Church Avenue and Kenny's toy store.

Kenny's toy store sat on the corner of East 3rd street and Church Avenue. And just about where you would open the door today to
enter RiteAid, back in 1963 you would be walking into Kenny's.
And you would usually have a dollar in your pocket too.

As you walked in the first thing you would notice is how dark it was. Mr. Kenny who looked something like Albert Einstein sat behind a small counter on the left as soon as you walked in. He had wavy
grey hair and a thick mustache. He was short and stubby with a
large stomach.

“Good morning to you young man”.

The wood floors would start squeaking uncontrollably as soon as you started walking around in Kennys. And the floors were dark and dull and looked like they were there forever. Mr. Kenny usually worked with Mrs. Kenny, she too was short like Mr. Kenny and had long grey wavy hair. The squeaking floor was probably a way the Kennys kept tabs on their customers, because no matter where you were in the store Mrs. Kenny always seemed to be watching you.

The aisles of Kennys were very narrow and the toys always seemed to be covered with dust. And as far as the selection, it seemed that the Kenny's sold toys that were popular in the 50’s rather than the 60’s. But still when you were granted the opportunity to go to Kenny's with a dollar in your pocket you never said no.

“Oh, do I have something for you” said Mrs. Kenny.
“This is something that just arrived”

Mrs. Kenny held up a cardboard package with something that looked like a red egg in it. It said “Silly Putty”. Now when you find a toy in Kennys without a layer of dust on it you knew it had to be
something special.

“Would you like this?” said Mrs. Kenny holding the strange looking package with the red egg. I nodded my head in agreement as I walked to the counter. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my dollar bill, I handed it to Mr. Kenny.

Mr. Kenny had this thing for Scotch taping ripped dollar bills, even if they had the slightest tear in them Mr. Kenny would tape them in what seemed like slow motion. Today would be no exception.

“Oh, we have a tear, so we must fix”

Mr. Kenny usually looked at me as he said this, I guess he thought I ripped them for a hobby. His fixing of dollar bills was a surgical procedure, and his process was slow, deliberate and exact, every time. First, came the close examination of the dollar and the tear. Mr. Kenny would always pull down his eyeglasses at this point. Second, he would lay the dollar bill on the counter and hold it with one hand. Now ever so slowly he would reach towards the scotch tape dispenser pulling off the length he needed and gently tape the bill. And when he was finished with one side this whole routine would start all over again for the other side of the dollar. When it was over he would put the dollar in the register and hand you your change. But the torture was still not over. The toy was then put into a small brown paper bag, the bag was layed on the counter, the top was folded over twice, the receipt (usually hand written) was attached to the bag and then stapled. All this within what seemed like hours to the mind of a little boy. “Thank you young man” said Mr. Kenny.

As you opened the heavy wooden door the cowbell on the door would cling and the sunlight usually blinded you from being in the darkness of Kenny's so long as the bill was being taped. But as you walked home along Church Avenue you knew it would not be long before you would be at home playing with a new toy from Kenny's and also taping all your mother's dollar bills before you go there again.

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

Memories of The Fort Hamilton Subway Station

Today on the KWT site I was reading about some robberies committed at the Fort Hamilton station on the F-line. Oh yes, the good old Fort Hamilton stop. From the "token sucking" done by the softball field to the attempted rape of my old girlfriend back in the late 80's, the Fort Hamilton station always seemed to attract some real characters.

And I knew some of these characters, well at least the guys that used to jam the token slot with the broken end of a popsicle stick and then wait for some poor "sucker" to put their token in. The token would just sit in the slot near the top without fully going down. The patron would then curse and walk away while some kid in a black leather jacket would return into the station to actually "suck" the token out of the slot and make himself fifty cents.

Yeah, good old token sucking at Fort Hamilton, it probably bought more than one slice of pizza at Korner for Steve.

Oh, but then there was the "problem" with my old girlfriend. Happened during broad daylight down on the platform. And if it wasn't for her screaming and the person that came to help, who the hell knows what would have happened. But the good news is they caught the guy and he was convicted of attempted rape after a long trail one summer in downtown Brooklyn.

Now back in the 70's and 80's hardly any people used that station. I remember while I was going to Art and Design in Manhattan I would always stand at the front window of the F train. Just counting the tile columns and nothing else, never a soul in that station and sometimes I wondered why we ever stopped there.

I remember talking to my friend who was a transit cop; he said that station was always ripe for the picking for a few reasons.
For one the station was curved, so it was harder to see what was going on from one side of the platform to the other. The second reason was where it was, basically in a residential area where there was much less foot traffic. Just a paradise for the "criminal element".

But today it is much different, I guess moms are going to work and dads travel into the city rather than by the docks in Brooklyn. You see that was my theory about Fort Hamilton, moms at home while dads drove to their "longshoreman" jobs by Red Hook. Who knows if I was right, but the station was always deserted so who knows?

But you know what my best memory of that station was?
Well, one Sunday morning we were playing hockey in the PS 130 schoolyard. All of a sudden my cousin Pete says, "hit the deck" followed by "pop" "pop" "pop". Right there running out of the station were two cops shooting at these two teenage boys running down towards East 5th street.

Man, what the hell? I thought this area was safe?

Oh well, I know crime happens all over the city, but there is just something about the Fort Hamilton Subway Station that brings back some "wonderful" memories for me growing up in Kensington.

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

Manny Campana Rest in Peace

Last night I learned from my cousin Dolores Perri (From the Buzzarama) that my cousin Manny passed away. Manny was 73 years old and really never recovered from a terrible car accident he was in six or seven years ago out in Bell Harbor Queens.

Now my cousin Manny was an excellent artist and did most of the “Clifford the Red Dog” books for something like forty years.
So chances are that when you were reading that book to your kid, my cousin Manny did the artwork for it. Yes, Manny was one of the few people around that actually made a living being an artist, yes that was his full time job, and he was very good at it.

And life is strange let me tell you, because if it wasn’t for my cousin Manny I may never have gotten into the art field at all. And it all boils down to a New Years Eve party at my grandparent’s apartment back in 1974. My cousin Manny dropped by and happened to mention to me that the guys he worked with needed help at their art studio in Manhattan. They were Peter and Nick LoBianco and their studio was on 51st street right off Second Avenue. So here I was this sixteen-year-old kid who only knew how to draw well and nothing else. But because I attended the high school of Art and Design some six blocks away they let me come in right after school to help out.

And they all went to the same high school years before me, so I guess they had a soft spot in their hearts for this sixteen-year-old kid with long brown hair and platform shoes back in 1975.

And the rest folks, well, the rest is just history.

But the bottom line is if it wasn’t for my cousin Manny I may have ended up driving the F-train, because I had my mind set on working for the MTA. I even had the book to study for when they gave the test. No, I wasn’t the best artist in school and I guess I questioned my skills and how I would make it in the real world.

But Manny, Peter and Nick pushed me and taught me well, and like I mentioned folks the rest is just history now and I have to thank my cousin Manny for it all.

Life is indeed strange isn’t it?
Rest in Peace cousin Manny, and thank you for all you did.

Here is a link to some of the books Manny illustrated.
http://www.jacketflap.com/persondetail.asp?person=100839

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

Last week "Balloon Boy" today "Nanny Watch"

I thought nothing could ever out do "Balloon Boy".
But today on the KWT site it's been non-stop, all day,
"Nanny Watch Posting Opinion" A real "Hot Topic" for sure,
and I'm glad they used Initial Caps in the header.

Because "Initial Caps" Makes Everything Better.

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

Catskill Webcam (4:26 pm today)

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

November Days in the Catskills

You know my dad, grandfather and uncle Manuel from East 2nd, were real big deer hunters when I was a kid. And for those who are familiar with the “Buzz-a-rama”, my uncle Manuel was Dolores Perri’s dad. He was a big man who stood about six feet five, and had a loud booming laugh and shoulders broader than the side of a barn.

He was certainly one of those uncles that you always wanted to come over and visit. Just laughing and telling stories and making you feel special, even if you were just eight years old.

And hunting was a real big deal for them. Every November when
I was a kid, we would go upstate to our house for hunting season.
As the men wandered off into the woods carrying their rifles.
We were given specific instructions not to go outside, and also
not to make too much noise, even inside the house.

Just a bunch of “hunter-gatherers” as the women and children
stayed back in the den.

Now for whatever reason my brother Joseph, cousin Pete and I just never got into the whole “hunting thing”. I mean we certainly were exposed to it every year, and even traveled back to Kensington with a deer tied the roof of the Rambler more than once or twice.
And if you want to talk about some strange looks from the Blanks next door, just hang the deer in your garage after you pull it off the roof of your car I tell you.

Yes, the men in my family certainly showed the “natives” of Kensington a thing or two about hunting. "New York Times editors" and "Ferry boat captains" had never seen the likes of the Lopez family, on a quiet street just known as East 4th.

Yeah, a large buck hanging inside the garage in the back of our driveway, and sawed off deer legs for all the kids to play with.
These were the only Novembers that I knew as a child
growing up here in Kensington Brooklyn.

In 1965, my grandfathers best hunting companion, my dad,
died at 39. Leaving the tradition solely on the shoulders of my uncle Manuel and grandfather. And as the years rolled on Pete and I just never showed much interest in the sport my grandfather loved so much. No, for us it was hockey pucks and roller skates, and weekends down at a hockey court simply known as “Avenue F”.

And my uncle Manuel, well, he hunted less and less too, I think he just missed his best friend, that being my dad. And the times up in the Catskills just weren't the same as they were before, especially for my grandfather.

“So young man, would you like to go hunting with your grandfather this year?” I remember the day my grandfather asked me that question, I think I was about 15 at the time. And feeling that maybe that would be something “special” for him, especially after the death of his son ten years before. I reluctantly said yes.

It was always a dream for my grandfather to hunt with his grandchildren you see. And the fact that my dad was gone along with my brother put added pressure on my cousin Pete and I to just do the “right thing” for our grandfather Paco.

Now, we were never afraid of guns, and even used to shoot old cans of tomatoes for target practice once and a while. But the whole idea of shooting a 200-pound deer just wasn’t something I was really interested in. Dragging it through the woods and cleaning it with a knife and my bare hands like my dad? No, that just wasn’t for me, nor my hockey playing cousin Pete.

I remember my grandfather carefully explaining to us where to shoot the deer that day upstate. “It has to be somewhere above their front legs, this way it cannot run away from you”

We politely listened to my grandfather, and then went on our way into the snow-covered woods of the Catskill mountains. I know my grandfather must have been very proud that day. Seeing his two grandsons now hunting with him, just as his own son did so many times before.

I walked over the ridge and sat on a large rock that overlooks a valley. It is a beautiful view and is near where I built my own house back in 2003. I just stared at the snow-covered mountains in the distance, and dreamed about being back in Brooklyn playing hockey.

As my dad’s gun was resting across my lap, I slowly turned it sideways and emptied the bullets from the chamber. I put each one in my pocket and then gently laid my fathers gun on the ground beside me. I just stared at the mountains in the distance, and never saw a thing. After a few hours I returned to the house and met up with my cousin Pete. Never mentioning it to him, we all sat together and had
our dinner.

I never told my grandfather what I did that day. Because I didn't want him to know how I really felt. No, hunting was something my father loved. And I just couldn't feel the same, no matter how I tried.

That was November of 1975, and the last time I ever went hunting.

I remember the phone call my mom got that morning. It was October 16, 1976. I was getting dressed in our apartment on the top floor of 399, getting ready for another day of college in the city.

“Oh my God, No, Oh my God, No”

My grandfather Paco died that morning. In our house upstate, a massive heart attack and 20 miles from the nearest hospital.

It was about a month before hunting season.

And as for my cousin Pete and I.
Well, we never did go hunting again, no that all ended with my grandfather and the day I emptied the chamber of the rifle.

But at least my grandfather’s dream came true,
even if it was for only one day.

It was years later when I heard my grandmother telling my mom the story. About how my grandfather never found the bullets in my dads gun that night when he was cleaning it. And about how he found them in the pockets of my hunting pants instead.

It made him laugh that night because he always knew
I could never shoot a deer.

But most important, he was so proud to go hunting
with his grandsons that day. About it being the last
thing he’d like to see before he died.
Even if it was for only one day.

Ron Lopez

Un-Real Estate in Kensington Brooklyn

I once knew a man, a simple man who worked in a factory down by the East River at the end of Atlantic Avenue. A factory that made boxes, just simple boxes for the aspirin you took when your head hurt.

And this man always had the burning desire to buy a house, a big house where his entire family could live.

So with the savings he had from working at that simple factory where they made simple boxes, he was able to buy a house in Kensington Brooklyn.

Yes a simple job bought a great big house,
and what a wonderful world it was.

Now that person was my grandfather Paco, and the house he bought was the house I now own which is 399 East Fourth. The year was 1948, and the times were very fair.

Today my wife and I know a very nice simple couple. The husband makes a very nice salary even in the year 2009, something like 110,000 dollars. He works in an office and is very proud of all that he has accomplished. They are both in their early 30’s and have two wonderful little children. And no they are not us.

And they save money these two; yes they do, because they know that you won’t be able to do much in life if you don’t save money. They also have a dream just like my grandfather Paco, they want to buy a big house just like he did to raise a family. And considering the cost of everything they would love to buy a three family house and have tenants to help offset the cost of the great big mortgage.

But this is where “Real Estate” becomes “Un-Real” estate, even with a couple that are in extremely good financial condition and have “perfect” credit according to my wife.

So let’s examine some numbers here, why don’t we.

In 1948 my grandfather bought 399 for 12,000 dollars.
He probably made something like 3500 dollars a year
So the house basically cost 3.42 times his yearly gross salary.

In 2009 a large three family in Kensington may go for 950,000 dollars. A very good salary at 110,000 is nothing to sneeze at.
So here the house cost almost 8.63 times his yearly gross salary.

Oh sure you can buy a house two hours away up in Sullivan county and commute your life away. Maybe something for 300 thousand to bring it all in perspective. But my grandfather who worked in a factory didn't have to do that. So why should someone who makes over a hundred grand in 2009 be forced to do that?

And these people are starting to get depressed about it, because it doesn’t look like they will ever be able to buy the kind of house they would like to in Brooklyn. And let me tell you as prices go Kensington is cheap. Fort Greene and Park Slope have prices well over two
million dollars.

And why is it like this and not like it was in 1948?

Well, I for one believe that the current state of “Un-Real” Estate is being controlled by a select few buyers and sellers who have owned property for years. So whatever shots are being called are being called by this group of people who just play a much bigger game of “Un-Real” Estate than the rest of the world. Yeah, right there in the "Skybox" while the rest of the word lives down in the "green" seats.

So what happens?

People like my wife’s friends get shut out of buying a house in Kensington Brooklyn and start to consider moving to Florida. While people like my grandfather Paco probably end up living in a homeless shelter instead of dreaming about buying a house for their family.

Yeah, that's what happens.

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

The Prophet Wears White

Google Street View has "The Prophet" and thats a Kensington Story!

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

1975, ‘ S.W.A.T.’ AND A SMACK IN THE HEAD

I remember the exact day I realized that it was going to be very difficult to ever ‘get one over’ on my Mom. Well, not the exact day, but I know it was in the fall of 1975 and I was 12 years old. 12 going on 19- or so I thought. My ten-year old brother Richie and I were home on a sunny Saturday morning doing what we were best at- being royal pains in the ass.

We were bouncing all over the house, making a mess in every room sounding like a herd of wild boars. This behavior although fairly common for us, was reaching new heights on this particular morning. This was due in part, thanks to a new T.V. show that we had seen earlier in the week. Being kids, September was, of course, our least favorite month of the year. Summer was over and we now had to go back to our local prison (school). But the ninth month did have one redeeming quality. The new fall T.V schedule was upon us. And now as of the past Tuesday, we had a new all-time favorite show.

S.W.A.T. - a brand new police show about the San Francisco Special Weapons And Tactics squad made its much anticipated debut. It had everything a kid loves: cops and robbers, guns, explosions and not a whole lot of dialogue to get in the way. From the opening credits we were both hooked. The typical loud police show music followed by each member of the squad doing barrel rolls and three point combat stances –as their names and ranks flashed across our huge 15-inch television set.

“Street!! Luca!! T.J!! Deke!!”-screamed their captain, Hondo. We were psyched because having a grandfather and three uncles on the NYPD, there was something special about the cops and robbers shows for us. So on this particular Saturday we were reenacting that first exciting episode- much to the dismay of my Mom. After about two solid hours of systematically wrecking each room of the house, and after ignoring the numerous warnings to “Quiet down” “Get off the furniture” “Cut it out” (and my personal favorite)-“I Am warning you two…”-we had finally gotten on my Mom’s last nerve.

“THAT IS IT!!!!!” My Mom bellowed. Both my brother and I started scurrying towards the door because even as little kids we knew by that tone that the game was now over. “GET OUT! GET OUT OF THIS HOUSE-NOW!! GO OUT AND PLAY! DINNER AT 5pm. GET OUT”. Now we also knew that we were going get a little something more than the yelling. As my Mom stood by the dining room door waiting for us to go out, we both knew what was next- a parting gift in the form of a slap to the back of the head. There was no getting around it at this point. My brother, Richie goes out first and takes his medicine. But as I move towards my fate, the craziest notion comes into my silly little head. For some inexplicable reason I decide that I was not going to take my comeuppance today. So in a fit of genius, right before I get to my Mom and the door, I decide to mimic my new hero TJ from S.W.A.T. and I execute a perfect barrel roll under my Mom’s backhand. She misses me completely- nothing but air. I then scrambled up and bolted out the front door, into the afternoon sun. Of course, I half expected my Mom to come after me but I think she was too shocked by my brazen attempt to escape her justice. Anyway I was probably out of the front gate before she even knew what happened.

As I caught up to Richie who was already a half block away, trying to climb up onto the roof of our local library, I proudly told him what I had just done. And in his much older than his 10 years manner he just said. “Sweet move- wish I had done it” Let the games begin as we both head into the afternoon having no plans and really no idea what the day ahead holds for us. That was one of the greatest things about being a kid back then- time sort of stood still, when we were out together every day. Well not really- fast forward about 4 or 5 hours later. Richie and I have been out and about the neighborhood involved in various games of skill (Basketball, Baseball, Football) and chance (Apple ‘borrowing’ from various neighbor’s trees; annoying the local library guard-Vinny Cannucci) when we are suddenly told in no uncertain terms by the church bells, that it is 5PM, and time to get home for dinner.

So we bound back towards the house-very hungry and very, very dirty. All the way home we try to guess what we are going to have for dinner. I am hoping for Roast Beef and mashed potatoes and Richie says he’s in the mood for Baked Ziti. We slam through out front gate towards the door. There was always a great feeling going back home for dinner after a good, long day at play. Only today along with dinner, I would have a revelation. So I splashed through the dining room door and asked loudly; “Hey Mom, we’re home- what’s for dinner?”

I was greeted. No words- just a solid backhanded to the noggin. As I spun around to protest indignantly “HEY WHAT WAS THAT FOR…?”, I stopped. I turned to see my Mom standing there with her arms folded and a slight grin on her face. And all she said to me were these three words: “Thought I’d Forget?” I had forgotten- the blissfully ignorant and short term memory of a 12 year-old. And as I stood there looking at my Mom with a new found admiration, I realized that it was going to a very long time before I would ever be able to get one by her. There would be no more barrel rolls for me and I would forever remember those words of wisdom from another one of my favorite cop shows-‘Baretta’: “Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time”. It wasn’t all bad that night. We did have Roast Beef and mashed potatoes for dinner.

Matt Milbouer
2009

Save some money this winter!

I have seen a few posts so far about insulation, window replacement and so on. And I’m sure it’s all in an effort to save fuel this winter. Now I’m not an expert on this stuff but I can tell you what I did to lower the cost of my National Grid and old Keyspan bills.

My house has over sixty-five windows and kills me every winter when it comes to amount of money I have to spend to heat its old body.
It’s a large wood frame and lacks the proper insulation between the walls that much newer houses have.

Well the first thing I did over a period of time was replace all the old windows with modern double insulated windows. And made sure to have the windows “capped” properly and caulked. This was an instant success when it came to saving money, probably a few thousand dollars the first winter.

And let me give you some real numbers on this so you can understand the importance of windows. My house is over 4000 square feet and my gas bill is about four thousand dollars a year with new windows. My good friend down the block owns a house that's about 2800 square feet. He pays about six thousand dollars a year for his gas because he still has the old windows from 1963. I keep telling him to change his windows, but still he hasn't.

Then we looked into having insulation blown into the attic crawl space above the third floor ceiling. This was also an instant money saver and helped keep the house cooler in the summer and warmer in the winter. The cost also was much less than having insulation blown between the walls of the entire house. Maybe 1500 dollars about five years ago.

My wife also read about these really thick insulated drapes that cover the windows, they are very and heavy and really keep the cold out during those 10 degree days. And in the summer they really help in keeping the hot sun out of the apartment. Once again a smart move and I have seen my gas bills go down once again.

Also make sure that there is nothing blocking the area where your boiler pipe goes into the chimney. Every fall I make sure to “ShopVac” this area clean, because your boiler needs to breathe properly or otherwise it will choke itself.

I still have other things in mind but once again it all costs money. For instance I can either have insulation blown between the walls, which is about ten thousand dollars. Or remove all my vinyl siding, attach those 2-inch thick insulation boards and then put my siding back on. That would be the ultimate, but once again a big expense.

These are just some ideas and I hope
they can save you some money this winter.

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

Remember the Beverly and the Trolly

Now even I don't remember the trolly. But according to my family my dad once lost his brakes going down the McDonald Avenue hill and broad-sided a trolly right below on Fort Hamilton Parkway. And according to all accounts no one was hurt. Now hows that for a story? But the Beverly, oh yes do I remember the Beverly and the Planet of the Apes marathon without any air conditioning.
Too bad they let it go, huh?

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

Over the Snake Bridge (Matt Millbauer)

The following story was sent to me by Matt Millbauer,
an old friend and Windsor Terrace native. Thanks Matty!


Back in the summer of 1979 my brother and I had a problem. There weren’t any good neighborhood bars for us to enjoy a nice cold brew and a good ballgame. Well, actually, there were about six or so within a ten block radius, but they were not for us. Those bars asked for I.D., so that was a big problem.

Now, trying to get a beer at these bars was a dangerous proposition. First of all, I was 16 years old and my brother was 14. Second of all, if my parents found out that we were in a bar, we definitely would not have made it to 17 and 15, respectively. And lastly, back then the neighborhood was a different place than it is today. People looked out for each other and that included other people’s kids. If we attempted to get served at one of the local bars, one phone call and we would be dead meat before we got home.

We were actually smart enough to know this too, so Terrace Bar (East 4th & Greenwood), Harold’s Bar (East 3rd St. & Ft Hamilton), Ulmer’s (Vanderbilt & East 3rd) were out. Since we lived on East 5th off Ft Hamilton this would be akin to ‘Shitting where you eat’. There was a bar on Church Ave and East 5th called the Sportsman Lounge, but our Mom’s good friend lived right up the street. Too risky, so in comes Pat’s Pub.

Pat’s Pub was on Prospect Avenue off of Greenwood Avenue down the block from the local firehouse. In order to get there you had to cross what was called by local youth the ‘Snake Bridge’-a fairly ugly green bridge that crossed over the Prospect Expressway. This expressway kinda separated these two areas of the neighborhood. Even though it was really only a stones throw away, we rarely ever ventured over it.

For whatever reason the bridge and the expressway acted as a boundary, and kids from over that side stayed over there and we stayed on our side. Every spring, however these two factions would come together at I.H.M’s annual Bazaar which sometimes involved the local authorities.

So Pat’s Pub was far away enough for us to try to get that beer, but close enough to stumble back home and more importantly not be seen.

We had grown a little tired of having to buy our beer at Wholesale Farms on Church Avenue-the only local store in the neighborhood that didn’t proof. Having to deal with Mike and his mutant fingernails and exorbitant prices was getting tiresome. Not to mention having to traipse all the way back up to the bocce courts on Vanderbilt St. to drink them.

In truth however, the impetus for us to attempt to visit Pat’s might have come from that fact that we had recently ‘procured’ my brother-in-law’s old draft card. It showed that he was 25 years old. This of course did not deter us. Now when I was 16 years old, I looked about 12. Seriously- about 5’4 and 100 lbs. My younger brother actually looked older than me, and with his ‘who gives a shit’ attitude was the logical choice to buy the beer once we got to Pat’s. So with our new I.D. we walked over to the other side on a bright Saturday morning.

It was about Noon when we walked into Pat’s Pub. Actually I scurried in and made a beeline for the back, as my brother Richie sauntered over to the bar. If you have ever seen the movie ‘A Bronx Tale’, think about the scene when the motorcycle club meets up with the mobsters in their bar. That bar was very similar to what Pat’s looked like. It was a very small place, with a square bar in the front and a Jukebox, some tables and a shuffleboard in the back. I think it used to be a place called Jerry’s Hardware a few years before. Either way, it had the vibe of a social club in someone’s living room. As I nervously fumbled with my selections, my brother bellies up to the bar, confidently puts two five dollar bills on it, while lighting up a Parliament. Right now there are exactly two people in the bar besides us. One is the bartender, and the other is a grizzled older man who sits nursing a beer and probably a hangover from the
night before.

“What’s Up. Gimee a pitcher of Bud and two mugs please”
my brother asks calmly.

I am standing there watching this out of the corner of my eye, trying to act cool. It’s not working. The bartender, a guy with many tattoos stares at my brother for what seemed to be 15 minutes without saying a word. He then leans over the bar and asks him:

“Do you have any I.D. kid?”

My brother, as confidant a 14 year old you would ever find, now seems pissed that this guy has the audacity to proof him. So with a roll of his eyes, and cigarette in the corner of his mouth, he flips my brother-in law’s draft card over to him. By this time, I am shitting it out over by the jukebox. I am having visions of the barkeep pressing a silent alarm and S.W.A.T appearing at the front door any minute now. Another insufferable minute passes as the bartender looks over the I.D. then my brother about 58 times.

“ So Mr. Ortiz, it says here that you are 25 years old.”

“Yep, that’s what it says.”
my brother answers quickly, now clearly perturbed.

I feel the moment of truth is upon us as the barkeep looks one last time at us and then looks over to his lone customer who has been sitting quietly, clearly amused by the scene playing out in front of him. At last the bartender turns to his other customer and says:

“Do you believe the size of the balls on this kid?”
The customer shakes his head as he stifles a laugh.

The barkeep doesn’t say a word as he tosses the I.D. back to my brother. That’s it I figure we are done. He then, to my shock and amazement, silently pours a pitcher of beer and grabs two glasses. He looks at us and says:

“One pitcher, sit in the back and leave when you’re done.”

My brother smiles at him through his cigarette smoke
as he grabs our bounty.

“Keep the change”, he says.

Needless to say that was probably the fastest we ever drank in our lives. We stumbled out of Pat’s Pub into the afternoon sun and found our way back over the snake bridge into our territory. We were late for dinner that night, allowing for many basketball/softball games to help us sober up. I really don’t remember going back to Pat’s again, it closed down no long after that summer and by that time age didn’t matter. I think all the fun was in the chase, anyway. Now if we could only get served at Ulmers- no bridge to deal with.

Matt Millbauer

When The Walls Come Tumbling Down

I remember waking up in the middle of the night in my bunk bed. My heart was racing, my hands were sweaty. I ran from the tiny bedroom that I shared with my brother and down the hall to my mother and father’s room. I was crying.

“Get them away from the house, get them away”.

“Get who away” said my mom.

“The Bulldozers, the Bulldozers”

I must have been no more than five years old when I saw them on East 4th and Beverly road. I remember standing about where the underground garage entrance is for 303 Beverly. At the time a row of wood frame houses stretched all the way from Church avenue to Beverly Road, Along with even bigger houses on the North side of Beverly Road. They pretty much mirrored the ones that are still there now on the South side of Beverly between E4th and E5th.

But sometimes in the mind of a 5 year old, things just don't make sense. These beautiful Victorians would soon fall to the ground. Just an X on a developers building plan, and a new nightmare for a child.

The massive yellow monsters were billowing black smoke from their pipes. They had large high silver steel blades that pushed everything in their path away. I remember holding my moms hand watching as it started crushing the side of the house. The wall of the house started to buckle as a stained glass window slowly began folding outward, suddenly shattering into tiny pieces. Like confetti the colors fell to the ground. The sound of cracking wood and glass breaking filled the air. The house groaned an awful sound, its heavy wood beams struggling not to crack against the power of the bulldozer, and then without warning, the front porch collapsed. The pillars that held the porch up slid sideways and hit the ground,dancing for a moment until they were still.

The house was just like the one I lived in . A massive three story wood frame with two large porches. I wondered if there were people living in it. Little children holding onto their moms, crying as the wood floors below their feet cracked and snapped. Windows that they must have looked out of suddenly shattering, walls falling. Holding on for dear life as the house twisted and contorted itself. Trying to stand as the monsters growl began to get louder and louder, both white and black smoke shooting through its nostrils. I cheered for the house to defeat the monster, hold on, please just hold on. But then my mom tugged on my arm and we started walking away, down east 4th street towards our house. I looked back towards Beverly Road, there was suddenly a loud crash followed by a cloud of dust that engulfed the entire corner, then only silence.

The next day on the way to the A&P (where Rite Aid is) we walked by the construction site. The house was gone, just a pile of broken wood, pipes, glass and dirt. The yellow bulldozer was working away, crushing the remains of the once beautiful house with it’s massive steel treads. There were other houses next to it which were still standing, soon to fall victim to the roaring machines.

The day of conception was coming soon for the building now known as 415 Beverly.

Sometimes as parent you try to shield you children from things that you believe may give them nightmares, I don’t blame my mom for letting me watch the bulldozers tear down those houses. I don’t think she really knew that I would ever have such nightmares about it. Not knowing if they were going to start tearing down our house next, moving down East 4th like house eating monsters, flattening everything in their path. No, I can’t blame her.

But one day a few weeks ago we were driving through Brooklyn, they were tearing down an old house on a block I cannot remember.

My son asked:
“Dad, can we stop and watch?”
I thought about it for a moment and then said,
"No, how about we just go to Greenwood Park instead".

Ron Lopez

Another comment about Drew Thomas...

What a beautiful tribute.
I didn't know Drew back then, but it sounds like some things just never change -- the dynamic kid described was the brother-in-law I met and got to know and care about. The love Drew had for life -- and all the people in it -- was so genuine, so pure, and just being around him made you feel like you were having the best day ever. My husband, Peter, loved Drew like an older brother... and Drew is with him every day. We both miss his light, his presence, his groan-inspiring jokes, his warmth... Drew Thomas was a true rock star, and then some.
Dennie

You know Dennie since I started this Blog along with the Avenue F hockey blog many of the guys that used to play in the league back then have re-connected with one another. And hearing about Drew's passing has been quite a shock for many the boys that played roller hockey with Drew. He was one of those people you never forget, and we are all blessed to have known him. Drew was also one of those guys that everyone wished they had for a best friend.

In my recent venture of trying to find some of the guys I played roller hockey with years ago, I found my old little black book with many of my friends phone numbers in it. And right there on one of the pages was "Drew Thomas's number along with the blade of a hockey stick I had drawn next to it.

I had a real hard time turning that page,
and I just wanted you to know that.

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

October 16th Snow @ 7am

I told you so.

And Yes, It Snows Again!

Check out the little flakes in front of the WebCam folks.
Yes, it is finally snowing again in the Catskills, oh, but
didn't it just finish snowing just a few months ago in May?

I will try to update the picture every hour or so.

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com


Long before roof mounted DVD players, side curtain airbags and air conditioning, there were just four wheels, shiny chrome bumpers and a big steel body. No, forget about seat belts when you were inside. Because all I ever did was lay across the back seat or just sleep on my mother’s lap when we drove to the Catskills on a Friday night.

“Is everybody inside, because we’re leaving”

With that said my Grandfather and Dad would put my dog “Poochie” in the back. They always left a small spot right near the rear lift gate for him to sleep. It must have been no more than a one by one foot square, which always gave him a nice view of Route 17 as we drove through the dark mountains towards Downsville, New York. Poochie was just surrounded by boxes of food and suitcases full of clothing, but never once tried to open anything to sink his yellow teeth into. Yeah, he was sure a good dog, even if he liked to chew on rocks and keep them in his mouth all day.

Oh well, I guess everyone must have some kind of weird fetish, including a dog.

With the Lopez family safely inside, the 58 Plymouth would gently back out of our driveway in Kensington. The tail pipe scraping the sidewalk was always the last sound we heard before pulling away and driving down East Fourth Street. Usually when that happened my grandmother Isabel would make the sign of the cross while my grandfather Paco would just shake his head.

The car must have been as long as an “air-craft carrier”, and the inside as big as the Beverly theater. Or at least that’s how massive it felt. But truth is the car was “gigantic” and much longer than the Nissan Quest that we drive today. Maybe 20 feet long or something like that. And the O’Callaghan’s who lived across the street from us had a similar model, except theirs was the “Airport” version and had an extra row of seats. But what the heck, there were about a dozen of them anyway, so they needed the room.

“Who wants to get ice cream at my restaurant?”

With that said, my Dad would veer towards the right after we got out of the Battery tunnel and park on Trinity Place in front of “McPherson’s”, the place where he worked in Manhattan. With a silver key he would open the door and walk through the darkened restaurant towards the freezer that held the ice cream. Sometimes he let us inside, but most of the time we just watched through the glass window from the sidewalk.

He’d soon return with a handful of vanilla and chocolate ice cream cones. We’d all take which ones we wanted and then run back inside the Plymouth and take our seats.

With the taste of ice cream we were eating, and the smell of a fresh cup of coffee my dad and grandfather Paco were both drinking, the Plymouth would continue it’s journey up the West Side highway towards the George Washington bridge.

With my eyes felling heavy, I’d usually fall asleep somewhere right before the Bridge. The sound of the road beneath the floor boards and the panting of our dog “Poochie” would somehow enter my ears no matter how deep I slept. Always playing a part in whatever dream I could have inside the hallow steel walls of a 58 Plymouth station wagon. But somehow I would always wake up once we got to our house in the Catskills. Maybe it was the cold mountain air or maybe the millions of stars above in the sky.

And with East Fourt street and Kensington a thousand miles away, my grandfather Paco would put the Plymouth in park and shut off the huge hot V8 engine. And just like every time before, my grandmother Isabel would make the sign of the cross and say the same words as always.

“Thank God we made it, thank God we made it”.

Ron Lopez


Above is a picture of our 58 Plymouth parked in front of 399 East Fourth back in the late 1950’s. I was lucky enough to find the original bill of sale too. My dad bought it from a Plymouth dealer across from Ebbets field back in December 1957, the month I was born. The car cost a little over five thousand dollars new and probably got less than ten miles per gallon in Brooklyn.

Oh Boy, those Catskills!!

So you thought I was kidding you when I said snow in the Catskills.
Winter starts in October and ends in May, I kid you not!

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

For Old Kensington Photo's...

Check Out:
Betty Blade's Photo Stream:
http://www.flickr.com/search/?q=kensington&w=64348052%40N00
Some really cool photo's of Kensington from the 50's, 60' and 70's.
And generally a wonderful site!

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

The Buick

It's always hard to forget your first boat. Mine was about 18 feet long and a dark forest green. It had light tan captains chairs and a 350 Buick V8. And you had to be real careful when you backed it out of the dock too, not to sideswipe the house or scratch the freshly compounded paint on the bushes.

Then when you’re rolling down the river you gotta make sure to have your “Boston” 8-Track on full volume, and at least one hand on the wheel. Just washing the kids and the elderly into their front stoops from your powerful wake. Oh, and you better not have any small stones in-between your hubcaps and the whitewall tires, because that noise just ain’t cool. Ting, Ting, Ting.

And you never have to worry about getting lost at sea or Prospect Park either, because all you’d have to do is shoot up a flair and have the Coast Guard land right on your hood.
Yeah, that hood was so damn big!

I think it was late October back in 1976 when I got the bug to buy my first car. I was 19 at the time and always imagined it to be something real cool too. Oh, lets see........70 Cuda, 68 AMX, 69 Dodge Charger. All the car models I built as a kid with my cousin Pete upstate in the Catskills, on those very rainy days. And now, I could own one all for myself!. Heck, my friend from work Peter LoBianco even had a Pontiac Astra lined up for me, nice two door with a small V8, but the deal fell through.

“You know Ronnie, my sister and Frank are thinking about selling their car” said my Mom. “Oh, I don’t know Mom, that’s not the kind of car I really had in mind”.

Now, let me tell you about my Aunt Beatrice and Uncle Frank’s Buick. It was only three years old but looked like it went through the mill. Although my Uncle Frank worked for "Wonder Bread" in Queens, by the look of the car you’d think he used it as a cab. It was constantly dirty and the interior was yellowed and smelled like cigarette smoke. There were scratches all over it and it had a big dent in the rear passengers side quarter panel from when my Uncle Frank sideswiped a Amish Buggy in Lancaster, PA. Oh, and buy the way don’t believe that crap that those people don’t go in cars, they chased my uncle and shook him down for 300 bucks. In a red pick-up truck no less. So you see the idea of buying that car and possibly being a marked man for the rest of my life in Amish Country wasn’t exactly something this Brooklyn boy had in mind.

“I think they want 2000 dollars for it” said my mom. The price wasn’t exactly a bargain, but then again the car did have low mileage and with some Clorox, compound and wax, you never know what you could come up with. “My sister said that if you don’t want it they would buy it back”.

Oh right, my aunt would send bogus letters to GE, saying all her light bulbs were defective just to get a box of free ones. So, I knew the car was “never” going to be returned. “So, what do you think Ronnie?” “Should I tell her OK?”. At that point I looked towards the heavens asking my Brother and Father what I should do. Hoping to hear some voice whisper in my ear. But, there was no voice, and all I could think about was the time we got stuck on route 17 near Monticello, in my Dad’s 63 Rambler on our way to Downsville. Thinking we were going to never be found and freeze to death just a few hundred feet from a Jewish bungalow colony. And then those two letters just came out of my mouth, there was no turning back now. “OK”.

So the next morning we went to see my next door neighbor Mr. Blank over at Nationwide on Church avenue for the insurance cards, and then Greater on McDonald Avenue to cut us a money order for 2000 dollars. It was down the subway stairs to the F-train, and a long ride to 179 street Jamaica, last stop.

Now at 19, I was an F-train veteran you know. From changing prices on hockey sticks at Mays on Jay street, when I was 12. To my daily ride to the High School of Art & Design on Lexington ave. until I was 17. I had it down. But today the ride was especially long, and forget about Queens. Anything after Lexington avenue should just as well be Kansas, because I never really go to Queens. Except of course to see Aunt Beatrice and Uncle Frank. But “Queens Village” is so close to Long Island, I never really considered it was part of the city anyway. As we walked up the stairway I could see my uncle Frank in his new 77 Olds Cutlass waiting by the curb. “So, you must be excited Ronnie” said my Uncle. I got inside the car, smiled and nodded to my uncle. As we got closer to their house I started to become more excited, and with a money order for 2000 dollars in my pocket, I knew I would be driving back to Brooklyn in my first car.

My uncle parked his car in front of his house and it was up the driveway we went to take a look at the Buick. “I didn’t get a chance to clean it or anything” said my Uncle. Knowing my Uncle never cleaned it anyway, I just said “that’s OK”. And everything was just like I remembered it, cigarette butts in the ashtray, the yellowed interior, the smell of stale smoke, and the dent from the Amish Buggy. Not to mention the scratches and the overall look as though it was waxed with sand and Brillo.

Well, we handed my aunt and uncle the money order and celebrated with coffee and cake on their kitchen table. It was congratulations, kisses and hugs and then it was on our way to Kensington, Brooklyn.

The ride on the Belt Parkway was smooth sailing, My poor Mom indured about an hours worth of WPLJ. “Meat Loaf” “that’s a real funny name” said my Mom. “In my day singers used their real names, like Tony Bennett and Bing Crosby”. “What a bunch of idiots today”.

And then finally I saw it, like a beacon in the night. Exit 7N, Ocean Parkway! We made the right off the Belt and on to the service road, another right onto Ocean Parkway and it wouldn’t be long now. As the alphabet got closer to C, I started to feel the excitement and reality of finally owning my own car. We made a big left hand turn onto Beverly Road and then another onto East 4th.

To this day I clearly remember the reflections of the trees above moving along the dark green hood as I got closer to my house. I just felt so damm proud finally driving my own car. Another big left and up the driveway we went. The guys were there too sitting on my front stoop, just watching. I guess word travels fast on my block. As I put it in park and started opening the drivers door to get out, Glen, Neil, and Pete opened up both back doors and got in. “Hey Lopez, what do you think you’re doing?” “Lets go for a ride” “I think Coney Island sounds good” “Don’t they have a Nathans there?”.

Well, from that day on the “Buick” became the car for the guys on the block. I cleaned her and polished all the scratches from her hood and fenders. I scrubbed the white walls and hung a cherry air freshener from the radio knob along with a disco ball from the rear view mirror. The “Buick” was nothing less than a Saturday night cruiser. We also had the latest in technology too, an 8-track and a CB, along with bowling balls in the trunk for a stable ride. But don’t read me wrong here, the “Buick” was also tough as a Hummer too. On one ill faded camping trip to Downsville NY, I drove her up our logging road on a Friday night. Too tired to carry all our backpacks and equipment, we just set up camp as an electrical fire from the starter motor almost sent her to “hubcap heaven”. But regardless the beat just went on and on for the Buick. Although sometimes it almost stopped for us as well.

One Sunday morning back in 1980 on the way to McCarren Park in the wasteland known as Williamsburg, we lost some valuable hockey equipment that was piled inside our hockey net strapped to the roof. I stupidly stopped the Buick on the other side of a curve, just East of the Brooklyn Bridge on the BQE. We almost became a newspaper headline that day, but thanks to an alert oil truck driver all we got was cursed at. And there were weddings, funerals and everything in-between for the Buick. All the time nourishing itself on an endless supply of Diehard batteries, alternators and tail pipes. Yes the late 70’s and 80’s were surely this dinosaurs heyday, but the "Ice Age" was coming soon. And the asteroid just hit the earth, and its name was “Monte Carlo”.

I don’t exactly remember how it happened but one day I woke up and the Buick just didn’t look the same anymore. She was looking old and worn out, her lacquer skin was cracking and peeling and the seats were all ripped. The 8-track was out dated and the cats sleeping in the back seats during cold weather wasn’t exactly impressive on a first date either. I tried my best to spruce her up with a new paint job and rubber mats. I even sealed up the hole in the floor so the cats couldn't get in anymore. But still, the feeling just wasn’t the same anymore. We were just growing apart.

So out came the automotive personals simply known as the “Buy Lines”. With other candidates being circled in red along with late night phone calls to “for sale by owners”. My quest for something young and new was making me restless. And all along she slept right outside my window, just leaking her tears of "Dextron transmission fluid" on the cold concrete floor. Unaware of my wandering feelings. Then one day I just saw her, the “Monte Carlo” of my dreams. With smooth lacquer paint, two perfect doors and a magnificent tail panel. I just couldn’t wait any more and had to do it. Well, it was another trip to the Greater on McDonald and 8,500 dollars less in my account. The cash was all I needed to bring her home from Seaford Long Island. And it was just a part of life you know.

I did try my best to keep them both, just bumper to bumper in my driveway. But the beauty of the new won over the memories of the old. And the insurance was too damm much anyway. A “Big Love” this was not, and the Buick had to leave. I tried hard not to get emotional when I took off the plates, just gently counting rotations as I backed off on the screws. Trying not to look into her GE headlights. But then without warning it suddenly all came back to me, the trip to Queens Village, the cigarette butts in the ashtray and the image of my uncle Frank sideswiping an Amish Buggy. The ride up my block, the trees reflecting on the hood, the guys watching me as I pulled up the driveway. No, I just couldn’t do it, No!
I reversed the rotation of the screws and put the plates back on.

I think I kept the Buick for a few more years and finally just gave it away to a friend at work in 1990. She tried to offer me money for it more than once. But you know, like they say. Some Brooklyn memories you can buy, while others remain priceless forever. And that 73 Buick was nothing less than “Priceless” to me, in the Brooklyn of my youth.

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

Crazy Times on Avenue C

David and Russell Siegel had to be the two smartest and coolest kids at PS 179 back in the late 1960’s. While the rest of us were walking around with button down shirts, red bow ties and our hair short and slicked. The Siegel brothers wore tie die t-shirts, "earth shoes", and had long blonde wavy hair way past their shoulders. They were just a couple of “Park Slope” PS 321’ers way before their time. And their parents looked like real hippies too; with sandals and matching tie die t-shirts, they probably dragged the kids up to Woodstock back in 1969 in their Volkswagen bus they parked Avenue C.

Now, while the rest of us were mostly “low achievers” and branded by our high class numbers, 4-15, 5-15, 6-18, the Siegel’s were both “SP” students, which meant they were in the “smart kid” classes. These were always the 4-1, 5-1, 6-1, low digit classes. I guess in today’s world you would just call them the “gifted” classes that everyone wants their kids to be in.

Oh, God, maybe I was in “special ed” and never knew it?

And you know what? I don’t think the Siegel’s ever studied either.
I never saw them reading or doing homework, and when they were
in school, they were always laughing and fooling around in the hallways. So just like some of us are born to be tall or short, the Siegel’s were just born to be smarter than anyone else.

The Siegel’s also lived directly across the street from PS 179, on the first floor of an apartment building on East 3rd and Avenue C. Most of the time they never even wore coats to school, because all they’d have to do was run across the street to class.

Now you have to understand we hardly ever saw them in school, because they were always in the “SP” classes on a different floor at PS 179. But the Siegel’s were a kind bunch you know, and always made themselves available for us to hang out with after school. Which usually meant a “play date” in their apartment directly
across the street from the school.

Now our “play dates” were a little different from the ones we have today. Sure we had the same kind of “fun” your kids may have today, we laughed, played games and told jokes to each other. But the biggest difference about our late 60’s Kensington version was that our parents were nowhere to be found.
And that included Mr. and Mrs. Siegel.

So what kind of “play dates” did we have you ask? Well, forget water balloons out the window or shooting marbles with a slingshot at a city bus. Killing roaches with a hair dryer?, No, we’re talking about the 60’s here, that’s 70’s fun. And Russell and David would be way too advanced for that anyway, and besides they were “SP” students. So all of our suggestions were just kid stuff in their eyes. No, we just left it up to the Segals to run the “play date”.

And the Siegel’s had a special game; a game that only a PS 179
“SP” student was capable of making up. And it usually started with them handing out real Army helmets when we walked in their apartment. I guess the ones their parents must have used during Vietnam War protests at Washington Square Park.

So what do you think? playing Army men with toy guns?
No, you better think again because these were the brightest PS 179 had to offer, and you could only expect the “best” from the Siegel boys when it came to a “play date”.

“Ok, everybody put on your helmets and get behind something fast”.

With that, we would all strap on our metal Army helmets and get behind a couch or wall. With a silver frying pan in his hand, David would place it on the stovetop, and light the gas. A few moments later he would take the box of 22 caliber bullets that he pulled out of a closet, and pour them into the pan. Quickly he would run away and hide either behind a wall, console TV, or just go into his bedroom. After a couple of minutes the shells would slowly start to fry and make a "sizzling sound", and then just like popcorn popping, they would start to snap and explode. "Hit the decks" said David. The bullets just flew through the apartment, breaking glass, hitting furniture, or embedding themselves in the heavy plaster walls.
And we would never move until we got the "all clear" message
from David. What do you think? we were stupid.

So like I told you, only the “best” from the Siegel’s.

And yes, I know what you’re thinking, what the hell were a bunch of “low achievers” doing with a couple of “SP” students who probably became Doctors or Lawyers twenty years later. Well, I don’t know either; and all I can think is they probably just found us “entertaining”, that’s all.

So the next time your 10 year is walking around with a frying pan on his “play date”, you better check his pockets and pat him down. Because somewhere in Kensington along time ago, kids were making more than just “popcorn” on their parents stove, and sure had "fun" on their “parent-less” play dates.

Ron Lopez

You see, I'm not fibbing!

A screen capture of this week's weather from upstate.

Frost time in the Catskills

Yesterday morning we woke up to a thin covering of frost in the Catskills. Basically ice covering everything including the roof of the house. Well, it's October in the Catskills and already they're calling for snow later this week. Just count your blessings that Winter in the City starts a little later.

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

90 Church Avenue

You know those subjects you can’t bring up at the dinner table, the ones that get some people mad. No, were not talking about politics or religion here, it’s something worse. You see back in the summer of 1956 my grandmother and grandfather decided to take a stab at the big fat cash cow called
“Church Avenue”.

Now, Church Avenue has always been excellent when it came to simple “foot traffic”, even back in the summer of 1956. Except for one slight problem according to my grandfather “Paco”. The more affluent people with money in their pockets simply made the left from the F-Train and walked along Church to Ocean Parkway.
They never looked towards Dahill Road or even bothered to give it a second thought.

The name of my grandmothers store was “Isabel’s”; it was located at 90 Church Avenue. Basically the cash cows “tail”, which rarely moved to swat a fly no less.

My grandmother Isabel was always a working woman you see. And she usually held positions such as supervisor or “floor lady” wherever she worked. One of her specialties was hand-made lampshades, and she was proud of her position at Krasnours Lamp Shade Factory on Prince street in Manhattan. She was the floor lady there; basically supervising the workers to make sure the quality of the shades were up to standard. A job she held for many years until she decided to give her own business a shot one day.

So with the knowledge of Kensington and a “store for rent” sign at
90 Church, my grandparents took a plunge into owning their
own business.

The grand opening was sometime in the summer of 1956. They sold custom-made silk lampshades, imported plates, crystal, porcelain figurines and various other “high end “ knick-knacks. The entire family worked there and helped to keep it a float. My mom, dad, aunt Dolores, and uncle Pete helping out my grandmother and grandfather any way they could. Making deliveries, working the register or taking the F-Train to Canal street to buy the lamp shade skeletons that gave them their shapes.

I always remember my grandfathers face getting red when he used to talk about “the store”.

“What a waste of money, we should have invested in
another property instead”. “God damn store!”.

Now you have to remember that as kids growing up we only heard about “the store”, because it closed down before my cousins and I were even born. Although we knew something had happened once, there was an entire room in the basement full of lampshade skeletons, rolls of silk material, plates and porcelain figurines. And a wonderful large old-fashioned gold cash register in the garage. A huge monster that just sat in the corner gathering dust. As kids we used to play with it, pushing hard down on the buttons to make a metal numeral flip up in a glass window. Or just hide Matchbox or Hotwheels cars in the coin slots.

“There they go, never walking this way” said my grandfather Paco standing in front of the store at 90 Church Avenue.

“This side of Church Avenue is invisible, this store may as well be in the middle of the woods up in the country”.

“With all their money in their pockets, they just walk to their castles in the sky on Ocean Parkway”.

“The people that walk past this store are the working class poor, who only look and never buy”.

My grandmother just looked at my grandfather and said;
“You mean just like us?”

My grandfather just shook his head and my grandmother just kept working away, cutting patterns and sewing the beautiful silk shades and hoping for a miracle. Because she always believed that those who worked hard survived, and they both survived the great depression right here in New York City. My grandfather Paco selling Good Humor ice cream off his back in Central Park and my grandmother making hand made silk flowers from their apartment on Pearl street in downtown Brooklyn. Now the site of Metrotech.

So there was going to be no giving up here,
at least not without a fight.

I remember it was something like 1984 when we sold the cash register. I think my aunt listed it in the Buy Lines. And it must have weighed at least 100 pounds. My cousin Pete and I both helped the man carry it to his car. I think he gave us 25 dollars for it. He was opening up his own business somewhere here in Brooklyn, and he liked the old fashioned register. We tried selling the lampshade skeletons back in 1990, the man who looked at them thought they were beautiful, but the rust on them was too much and would only destroy the silk. When he was leaving we even offered them for free, he just smiled and said “no thanks”.

With rent being paid on time and little business coming in, the store closed about two years after it opened. There was no meat on this “cows tail”, and my grandfather Paco always had his reservations about that side of Church Avenue. And unfortunately he was right.

My Dads 1957 Plymouth station wagon pulled up in front of 90 Church Avenue that day. All the contents of the store were hauled to our house at 399. The inventory was split between my aunt’s old room, the basement and the garage.

A month later the store was for rent again.

The lamp shades made great props for parties when we wore them on our heads as teenagers. And not to mention there was always an endless supply of porcelain doll eyes for us to look into as kids, constantly worried that they would move, or blink.

I spoke to my aunt Dolores the other day, and she said the basic story about her mothers store could be summed up as “wrong place in the wrong time”. I laughed and told her that grandma would have made a killing in today’s Park Slope with a store like that. She said that grandma would have loved to open the store in Manhattan, but just couldn’t afford the rent.

But not all family stories have crash landings like “Isabel’s”. About ten years after my grandmothers store closed, her niece Dolores and husband Buzzy opened up another place you may have heard of. Its still called the “Buzzarama” and managed to survive over forty years on the “cows tail” of Church Avenue.

And my grandfather Paco, well he always believed real estate was your best bet and bought two hundred acres of land in upstate New York. Right before the store fiasco and just five years after he bought 399 East 4th. So “Isabel’s” was just a bump in the road, a bad decision, and a “wrong place at the wrong time”. Sure they lost money with the store and it made my grandfathers face turn red at the dinner table. But hell, that one hundred pound cash register was sure fun to play with along with those dozens of lampshades on New Years Eve.

And like they say, if you never try, you'll never know.


Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

Article from Thursday's Flatbush Life

From left: Charlie Gili, Josh Seff (flew in from Texas), Jimbo Drudy, Ronnie Lopez, Pete Liria, Bill Webster

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

Can't get enough of Kensington and WT?

Well, here's the link to the NYC DOT website and a real time traffic camera mounted on the Prospect Expressway pointing Northbound towards Park Slope. In fact the bridge in the distance is the overpass over by Greenwood Avenue. Hey Matty, isn't that the "Snake Bridge?".

http://nyctmc.org/xbrooklyn.asp#
Choose: Prospect Expressway @ Ft Hamilton Parkway

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

A comment from Glenn Thomas (Drew's Brother)

Ronnie,
My best friend Steve Finamore who produces the Container Diaries sent me today 10-9-09 the piece that you wrote on your blog about my brother Drew. I just wanted to say thank you and how appreciative my family was to read that and hear those great stories involving Drew from friends that we have not heard from in many years. My parents are getting up there in age. My mom is 78 while dad turned 84. As expected their memory is not the best. My mom recently had surgery on her eyes for her glaucoma and was not able to read the story that you wrote. I printed it out and read the piece to her. After I finished reading the story my mom started to cry...partially from missing my brother but also so happy that people remembered him in a good way that made her very happy that in some small way his memory lives. The blog response was funny with some great stories. I remember the sky rink trips and the Ave F camaraderie with his friends. He loved that league on Ave F and the friendships that he had with so many guys from that time in his life. He loved hockey to no end and that league was the reason why he did so much. I am sure that he is somewhere playing with Inky, Chuckie Hadjar, Powell, and the rest who no longer walk this earth and who are in a better place. Thank you so much again for your kindness and generosity in writing that piece. You put a lot of time into your blog for it is well written and well done. Hopefully I'll run into you one of these days and chat more about those times. Take care.
Sincerely,
Glenn Thomas

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

Patty D in the House

I went to kindergarten with Patty D. at PS 179 in 1962.
Yeah, and after almost 50 years we are still close friends.
That kind of stuff doesn't happen much anymore.
No it doesn't.



Ronnie Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

More Top Ten reasons why Kensington is better than Park Slope

Number 10…
When someone trips on your sidewalk in Park Slope you always wonder if you’re going to get sued because chances are they’re an attorney.

In Kensington when someone trips on your sidewalk they just usually lie there until they sober up and then go back to Denny’s for more food, fun and drink.


Number 9…
The Kensington Post Office is much larger and cavernous than the one on 7th Avenue in Park Slope. Thus giving it a much more appealing “Theater of the Absurd” quality when the clerks berate you for not speaking “English in America”.


Number 8…
When we hear the “Call to Prayer” every night from the Mosque down on Church Avenue we get a warm feeling knowing that we live in a “multi-cultural” neighborhood where all nationalities and religions live in peace.

In Park Slope when they hear a “Call to Prayer” they
usually dial 911 and hide in their basements.


Number 7…
When the F-Express returns we’ll have a seat,
while you’ll have to stand.


Number 6…
In Kensington we treat the “special people” with compassion and respect. Sending them to special schools or workshops throughout the boro where they can feel good about themselves. And always making sure they ride on a school bus to avoid ridicule on the streets.

In Park Slope the “special people” are paraded throughout the streets by their teachers wearing grotesque lime green vests with the shameful words “Park Slope Food Co-Op” emblazoned on them. Only to be mocked by the simple minded of Kensington who wear hockey jerseys instead.


Number 5…
In Park Slope the “Elitist” only worry about getting published, trying desperately to score that hundred thousand dollar book deal.

While in Kensington the “Elitist” make millions by owning construction companies and hiring day laborers.


Number 4…
A “teaching moment “ in Park Slope means pushing your kid on 7th Avenue and pretending to be so excited along with them when a jet flies overhead. But the truth is you actually couldn’t give a shit and would rather look at the falling prices of real estate in the Brooklyn Properties window while they're throwing a tantrum in the stroller.

In Kensington a “teaching moment” means smacking your kid in the ass after they were found wandering in the street and were brought to you by the driver that almost hit them on Beverly Road. And yes folks, there’s no pretending here because I've seen it actually happen.


Number 3…
A hockey friend of mine is a Deputy Commissioner for the NYC Parks department and works in Park Slope. In fact he was born in Kensington and still remembers all his friends here. So watch what you say about us down the hill because he can shut down the 9th Street Playground if I give him a call.


Number 2…
I can buy an illegal handgun or switch blade
knife at the Church Avenue Street Fair.

What can you buy at the Park Slope Street Fair?
Some stupid Dan Zanes and Friends CD?
Try stabbing somewhat with that.


Number 1…
You will never, never know what it’s like growing up in Brooklyn with people like Louie Mattera, The Rev, Bob Brennan, The guy who sits on the milk crate on Church Avenue, Mike the Greaser, Side View Woman, Crazy Mike, Freddie Schefferman, Bobby Wilson, Accident Man, Chestnut, Train Man, The Whistler, Opera Man, Steve McNally, Sam Goldfeather, Zorba the Greek, The Blanks, Elmer Fudd, Viola, Mario from Cow Tree, Izzy and Benny, Joey Gallo, Chu, Chu, The Kenny’s, or the Matron from the Beverly.

And you know what?
I think that’s a shame.

Ron Lopez (Park Slope born & Kensington raised)
Mopar195@yahoo.com

More Avenue F reunion pictures

A comment form Josh...

Some Louie-isms:
"I'll hit ya in the head with a pipe!"
"I throw ya down the stairis!"
"What a world!"
"Ya strictly from hunga."
"You don't go for spit!"
"This city is goin' down!"
"F_ _ k the 'ankees-do they buy ya a pair of shoes?"
"Hello Dr. Albin. This Louie Mattera, M-A-T-T-E-R-A. Look I got hit in the head with a hockey puck. Can ya see me right away?"

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com


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Louie from Kensington

Just a word about Louie,

This past Sunday down at Avenue F Louie dropped by to see his "boys". It has been over 35 years since I last saw "Louie", and seeing him after all these years was quite a thrill for me and the rest of the guys.

Now Louie has the best "Brooklyneese" accent you have ever heard, and it was heartwarming to hear him say; "Yeah, dats right, dats right, you don't know nuttin you f _ _ kin scumbags"

You know what folks, they don't make
them like Louie anymore, no they don't.

Below is a picture of Louie with Charlie Gili.



(This is a story I wrote about Louie last year)

Louie was standing outside Izzy and Bennies luncheonette near the corner of Church and McDonald Avenue. The smoke from his cigar blew gently into the Kensington sky. Like white snakes dancing a gentle waltz they only lasted a few seconds and then just vanished into the night.

Louie looked down McDonald towards Avenue C, the lights of another F-train could be seen far in the distance. The yellow headlamps of the train slowly moved out from the Ditmas Avenue station and downwards towards the tunnel opening near the Gel spice company.

Down, down, down, until they disappeared under the street.

Louie continued smoking his cigar and was now trying to blow smoke rings from his mouth. Out of his lips they came, but not the kind of rings Louie wanted. No they all had a break near the top of the circle. Probably the result of Louie’s mustache that was getting
in the way.

“Ahh, fuckin rings!, why doin’t dese God damn tings woik?”

By now the rumble of the Manhattan bound F-Train was right below Louie’s feet. Not liking the feel of the sidewalk vibrating beneath his soles, Louie squashed the cigar against the red brick wall outside the luncheonette, leaving another tell tale black mark along with thousands of other cigars he squashed. He then made his way back inside and sat on his favorite chrome stool, his cup of warm coffee was still there untouched by the counter.

Now Louie was what us Brooklyn guys
called a real Brooklyn “character”.

Louie was about fifty years old, stood no taller than five foot one, and combed his thinning black hair straight backwards. He also used some type of grease to slick his hair back, because it always looked shiny and never seemed to move. Louie always had a cigar sticking out of his mouth sideways too, sometimes the tip would be a glowing orange while at other times it was black and un-lit.

But what had to be the funniest thing about Louie was his thick Brooklyn accent. Louie had the thickest, deepest, Brooklyn accent you have ever heard. It was just so “Brooklyn” that it even amused us, a bunch of Brooklyn boys ourselves.

Louie also made Izzy and Bennies luncheonette his second home. He could usually be seen sitting on one of the chrome-plated stools by the counter with a cup of coffee and a small spiral notepad and pencil. Most of the time before he saw us walk in, he would usually be scribbling in his notepad unaware of anything around him.

Although we were probably too young or stupid to realize it at the time, by all accounts Louie was probably a good ol’ Brooklyn “bookie” and ran his “business” from the luncheonette on
McDonald Avenue

“Hey, what chu guys doin here again?”
“I tout I toll you’s to stay on East Fort?”

At that point we’d all start giggling
because Louie was speaking “Brooklyn”

The language of our forefathers.

“Hey what you boys smiling at?”
“Did I just say sumptin funny?”

At that point Louie would get off the stool and charge towards
us like a raging bull. Well, actually a raging bunny, because
Louie was a real sweet guy and was was always laughing
when he saw us.

He especially liked my friend Glenn Gruder, and would sometimes show up at his hockey games down by Avenue F to cheer him on.

“Hey Glenn, you gonna score a goal for me today?”
“Because if you don’t, I’m gonna kick your ass”.

Glenn would usually pat Louie on the shoulder
and assure him he’ll score that goal.

“Don’t worry Lou, I got you covered, I got you covered”

After finishing our egg creams we’d all say good night to Louie at the candy store. Sometimes I’d look back and see him quickly immerse himself into his little notepad and start scribbling with his yellow pencil.

Just another night for Louie in Kensington Brooklyn.
Just another night.

It’s been over twenty-five years since I last saw Louie, and the luncheonette once known as Izzy and Bennies is long gone too.
Now some kind of nameless cell phone store on McDonald Avenue.

But the funny thing is there’s still all these black marks on the red bricks that used to surround the entrance to the candy store. And I can’t help but think that they’re the old burn marks from when Louie used to squash the tip of his cigar.

Just the “drawings” on a cave wall from a real Brooklyn guy.
A real Brooklyn “character” that we simply knew as Louie.

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

Over 500 Dollars raised for Inky's family

I just wanted to say thank you to all the guys who came down to the reunion game today. We were able to raise just over 500 dollars for Inky's family. It was a total blast and I'm sure we will all see each other again.

Hey, Sunday November 1st looks like a perfect day to play again,
how about it boys?


















Ronnie Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

Today is the Day

Today down at Avenue F Park on McDonald between F and 18th we play a little hockey and remember Inky. Old legs, old hands, and repaired knees will try to make little round wheels spin on the court we used to love so much back in a time when we were kids.
Long brown hair is now short and gray, while for others
there will be no hair at all.

But you see it does not matter at all, because the eyes never change. And the eyes of everyone will be 17 years old again today along with our laughter.

Anthony Incarbone would be here today, but because God had other plans for him he will not. I will think about our old friend when I play goalie today, because just like me Inky was a goalie too. And many times in the Brooklyn of old I have looked down the court seeing him looking right back at me. A Black Hawks logo on his red jersey along with a Northland goalie stick in his hand. Yes, a fellow goalie was Inky, and that I never will forget.

Inky used to laugh all the time when we played hockey, and we will keep that tradition alive today. Because I know Inky would never want it any other way.

We will also be making a collection of behalf of Inky's famly today. All proceeds will be sent to his wife down in Florida.



Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com



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Catskill Webcam 6:30 tonight

Here's a shot from the Webcam/time 6:30 pm Saturday (today).

Ron

My Land, Your Water and Two Little Voices

“NYC DEP Wants Ban on Marcellus Drilling in Certain Areas"
If New York City's Department of Environmental Protection gets its way, 500,000 acres in the city's watershed would be off limits to Marcellus development. The request includes banning drilling in a one mile perimeter around the city's Catskill reservoirs and all infrastructure”

Ok, so let me get the ruler out because I think my property upstate is just about a few inches over a mile from the Pepacton Reservoir and the water you drink every day from your tap. And so what if a little benzene, ethylbenzene, toluene, xylene, naphthalene, polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons; methanol; formaldehyde; ethylene glycol; glycol ethers; hydrochloric acid; and sodium hydroxide get on you while you take a shower on East Fourth Street. Hell, I bet you a little “Lava” soap can get that off you in a few minutes and it may make your skin softer too.

So bring that truck in and lower that big iron head, because today we’re drilling for Natural Gas and I’ll never have to cut my grass again, because the run off from the drilling chemicals may just kill it forever. And tell my boss I won’t be in on Monday or forever for that matter, because today I'm quitting my job.

Oh, but back to reality and the two little voices in my head.
You see my family and I own over 200 acres just up from the Pepacton Reservoir in Delaware County, New York. We are smack in the middle of the NYC DEP Watershed area, and if the city has it’s way we’ll never see that check for 38,000 dollars a month from Suburban Energy or National Grid. Yes, right on top of Bryden Hill and some 1800 feet above sea level sit our two little Catskill houses. And given the fact that sometimes they have to drill down five miles to get to the gas it’s highly unlikely that they’ll ever ring my doorbell because of how high we are on the mountain.

And that’s ok, that’s ok, because I would never want to be tempted by greed and green. No keep it to yourself and ring that farmer’s doorbell over in Delhi. Because his barn’s falling apart and his cows look pretty darn skinny, and I’m sure the National Grid logo would look great painted on the side of his barn along with a new Escalade parked in his dirt driveway.

“So Ronnie what do you think about those gas companies trying to drill right in the NYC Watershed”

“Could you imagine what kind of shit is going to end up in our water?”
“Are they crazy or what?”

Good Voice: “Oh, it’s terrible and I know no matter what the gas companies say the water’s going to get polluted somehow. Yeah the old “the air is safe to breathe down by the WTC on 9/11 kind of shit”

Bad Voice: “Are you freaking crazy? I’ll drink bottled water and make my kids bathe in Poland Spring every night, am I going to say “no” to National Grid when they screwed me for so many years and I spent hundreds of thousands to heat my house? Over 35,000 dollars a month and finally have enough money to buy a new Prius?

Sell me, sell me, I have no soul.

And then I thought about my grandfather Paco, and how he would be ashamed of me. How he scraped up every dime he had to buy 204 acres at 18 bucks a pop back in 1953 so his family would have a place to go every summer and get away from the hot steaming streets of Kensington, Brooklyn.

“You know Ronnie, there is nothing as beautiful as the mountains and the green of the trees. Someday this will be for you and your family, and I hope you keep it just the same”

“Yes Grandpa I will, and I will always think of you when I’m here”

The long drill suddenly stopped and was pulled out of the bedrock.
I could see a little benzene, ethylbenzene, toluene, xylene,
naphthalene, polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons dripping from
its ugly head.

“Oh, COME ON!
What the Hell are you doing?”

“Do you know what kind of money this baby’s
going to pay you every month?”

“Forget what your grandfather said and just
“Drill Baby Drill”.

“Drill Baby Drill?”
Now where did I hear that before?

The image of matching “his” and “hers” Priuses in my driveway at 399 suddenly flashed in my head along with that new 14 Mpg Dodge Challenger with a Hemi no less.

“Just stick that drill head back in and watch
my wife’s perennial garden.”

“Oh, now you’re talking, now you’re talking”

Good Voice: Do you realize that your house
sits right above the Pepacton?”

“Do you see the little skull and crossbones on
those five gallon drums that they’re pouring down that hole?”

“You were born in Park Slope man not Dubai”

Bad Voice: “Oh right don’t tell me for one second some Subaru owning, politically correct Park Slopian is going to turn down 38 grand a month?” “They can be sold just as easily as me” And I bet they’ll still keep their Greenpeace bumper sticker on their car along with the National Grid one. Yeah protesting the Atlantic Yards and then taking their kid to a Brooklyn Nets game. Don’t tell me about being a hypocrite”.

Good Voice: Morals, Goodness and Kindness.

Bad Voice:: Greed, Green a Prius and a dead lawn.

“Ok, OK, stop the drilling, I just can’t do this! And besides that benzene, ethylbenzene, toluene, xylene, naphthalene, polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons is starting to melt my shoes.

With a look of utter disgust the hard heads pulled the drill out from the hole in front of my wife’s perennial garden.

Oh well there goes buying my way into Berkley Carroll or PS 321.

“Well Pal, I hope you’re happy because we’re never coming back”

The hardhats all got into the big GMC and started her up, black smoke spewed from the stack as they put her in drive. Slowly they drove away as the National Grid logo faded in the distance on the big chrome rear bumper.

Good Voice: “You know you made the right choice
and your children will be proud of you”

Bad Voice: “This is National Grid and your bill is overdue”

For more information on the effects of Natural Gas Drilling:
http://www.riverkeeper.org

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

The Good Cakes of Kensington

At one time they both stood, proud and mighty. Just daring the next to be better, without ever throwing a punch. With clean glass and stainless steel each was an awesome giant, forever protecting their good name and block.

Their weapons were soft and sweet, and known to many throughout Kensington. Come early Sunday at the break of dawn, you could smell their proud aroma along the deserted sidewalks of Church Avenue. Tempting those who were brave enough to wait outside their locked doors until they opened, hoping the pleasure would soon be all theirs to enjoy.

Next to the Beverly stood “Ebingers” and about a block and a half down by East 3rd street stood “N.E. Tells”. These two bakeries had
to be the finest in the land, and they were all ours, right here
in Kensington.

As a kid growing up you’d sometimes argue with your best friends about which one was better. And always hoped to see either one at a Birthday party on the block. Because when it came to great cakes, they were both truly the best. And it really didn’t matter which was was better, because they were both the most wonderful bakeries
in Brooklyn.

Yeah, what a lucky bunch we were, In the days when giants roamed the land, all you’d have to do is walk up to Church Avenue and open their doors.

“Oh yes, how sweet it was”.

Ron Lopez

The Deadly Sewer Cap

We could hear the sound of the engine accelerating from the far reaches of Church Avenue. The moan of the small block V8 was fast approaching, its demise was in reach.

“This is going to be a good one,” someone said.

We all quickly got up from my front stoop and ran into the street. Our eyes were all fixed on a late model olive colored Pontiac, it looked like a 68 or 69 GTO. As it raced down East 4th and approached Beverley we prepared ourselves for that horrible sound.
A familiar sound we heard hundreds of times before, a sound that wounded or killed many a car engine or Torque flight transmission. Or maybe worse, ripped an entire motor from its warm enamel painted nest.

As the racing Pontiac crossed Beverley, it’s front nose quickly dipped downwards towards the asphalt. From the distance it looked as though it’s four headlights and painted rubber bumper were gently kissing the black-top below. But then in an instant its face lifted upwards towards the Brooklyn skies above.

BAAAAM! BAAAAM!

With two quick hard hits to its stomach, the Pontiac bounced up and down like a child’s toy. Blue smoke and sparks quickly seized the area under its hot undercarriage. From a high speed one moment to a slow crawl the next, the grasp of the monster had just ripped its guts out right before our very own eyes.

The sound was so loud you could probably hear it from Greenwood Avenue too. It was the sound of metal being crushed and bolts being ripped from the flesh of the car. A transmission pan being slashed down it’s belly, or even worse a heavy steel frame snapping in two.

It was the sound of automotive death on a warm Kensington day.

The Pontiac slowly limped down our block, spewing blood and entrails behind its broken tin shell and warm red tail lights.
The 350 four barrel was just “chugging” a slow horrible song,
gone was the glorious melody of its real V8 power.

The driver quickly pulled over to the right in front of an apartment house, the Margaret Court across the street. He quickly got out of the car holding the top of his head. He was all right, but the force of the impact must have lifted him off his seat and into the air, hitting his head on the roof of his car.

The Pontiac was still smoking and spewing both white and blue smoke. Through the mist of its destruction you could see that the body was broken in two. The nose looking downwards at the ground, while the taillights were angled upwards looking towards
Windsor Terrace.

Yes, this was indeed a bad one, for the Pontiac looked dead.

The driver just stood there staring at the car, and then turned around and slowly walked away up the block. He made a left on to Beverley Road and was never seen again.

That GTO must have been there for what seemed like months.
Like the corpse of a great racehorse, it just lied there rotting in the Kensington summer sun. Until one day it was gone, leaving us only with a puddle of motor oil and red transmission fluid.

Just another insurance payout in the Boro of my birth.

And even today, some thirty-five years later, I still slow down before I cross East 4th street at Beverley. Just taking it real slow and gentle before I get to my house.

I guess some habits are just hard to break you know.

Because you see, a long time ago there was a horrible iron monster that lived in the street. It was probably just a few inches too high for it’s own good. Heavy cast iron, with holes for its eyes. And I’m sure it must have weighed well over a hundred pounds, and took more than one man to move.

And it had the blood of a hundred cars on its face and always thirsted for more. It was murderer plain and simple and proudly bared it’s name to all, never caring when it killed. Just heavy bold letters and in capitals no less, forever reminding us of its deadly presence here
in Brooklyn.

And if the name wasn’t tearing apart the bellies of cars, it was instead emptying the bank accounts of New Yorkers with blue and white bills being slid through a mail slot.

A long time ago there was a killer on the loose
and it sat at the edge of my block.
It showed no mercy and never picked favorites.

So just drive slowly my Kensington friends,
and remember the deadly
"CON EDISON" manhole cover.

Because it’s long gone now,
and only a distant memory
in the Kensington of my youth.

Ron Lopez

And the colors keep changing!

This picture was just snapped on the Catskill Webcam
today at 2:12 pm. Check out those Fall colors!

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

What’s there not to understand?

I get a kick out of all these people against anything that’s trying to be done to correct our shitty ass healthcare system. I’ll put it to you in simple terms:

If I lost my job and had to pay health insurance for my wife and two kids I’d be looking at something like 2500 - 3500 bucks a month.

So what’s there not to understand?

Most people are not in my position to pay this kind of money so they just don’t pay it. If they get sick, they go to the emergency room and pay nothing. Thus good old Ronnie Lopez ends up paying for them through my high premiums.

So what’s there not to understand?

If everyone had to have health insurance like car insurance more money would be in the pool and the premiums would be much less than 3500 bucks a month. Because let me tell you there are a hell of a lot more people walking on the streets than lying in hospital beds.

So what’s there not to understand?

Yeah, lets just keep it the way it is and let me keep paying for you.
Because that just makes sense, right?

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

The Nassau Coliseum

The other day I heard this story about how Gary Bettman called the Nassau Coliseum the worst facility in the NHL. And that Nassau County needs to build a new building before the Islanders move somewhere else in the country.

Well, the funny thing is when the team was winning Stanley Cups back in the 80's, I never cared once about the ugly concrete building they played in. In fact it was kind of tough looking and rough just like the Islanders were back then.

No, give me a winning team before a new building,
because the building doesn't win Stanley Cups,
no, the players on the ice actually do that.

And you should know better Mister Bettman.

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

500 East Fourth and the Cornfields of Kensington

Last week my good friend Patty D told me a story about 500 East Fourth street. The story was basically about all the VW's he used to keep in the driveway along with the small barn in the back of the house. The owner of the house was something like 95 years old and actually grew up in the Kensington as well. She used to tell my friend Pat about how the area was just farmland and cornfields when she was a little girl. And about all the land her family owned before they sold it to developers around the turn of the century.

And thinking back it all makes sense now, because most of the wood frames here were built around 1905 or 1906, so being that this woman was 95 years old in 1975 puts the time line in order. And even the house too is coming back to me, I remember in the 70's there was this small wooden house on East Fourth with a dirt driveway and grass down the center. Something straight out of the Catskills rather than Kensington Brooklyn. And it looked nothing like the other houses built around it either. Small and square looking, plain and simple, rather than overstated like all the large Victorian houses to the left and right of it with their high peaks and Southern style front porches.

No, the farmhouse was just this small functional looking wooden building that was just a place to rest and sleep after a hard day of tending to the cornfields of Flatbush Brooklyn. And maybe even a place where a little girl can dream about the future, and how her world might change around her someday. Yes, that was the little house I remember, and it's all coming back to me now.

Oh, but don't go looking for this house today, because the other day we drove by and it was replaced by a large three story brick Brooklyn "McMansion". Complete with a concrete driveway, concrete front yard,
and no place for the corn to ever grow again.

Gee, imagine a time when a little girl could run though cornfields
in Kensington and not run into a 99 Cent store or Nail Salon
every fifteen feet.

It really makes you smile doesn't it?

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

Kensington Fury 1973

The blower motor in Robert Brennan’s Plymouth Fury was on full force. With hot air blowing like a hurricane on my snow-covered boots, the heat of the Fury did little to defrost my feet and toes. No, once again my boots felt like two blocks of ice, and it would certainly be a while before they’d feel
warm again.

“Let me show you how she rides Ronnie, this ones real heavy duty”

With that Robert put the Plymouth Fury into gear and stomped on the gas. The huge 440 four barrel suddenly came alive and moaned a loud throaty sound. With the rear wheels trying desperately to grip the cold frozen asphalt, the Fury started to wildly squeal and fishtail in front of my house. I just held on to the dashboard for dear life until the Plymouth finally found its way and started rocketing up the block in a straight line.

“I told you she’s heavy duty”
“I told you”

The Plymouth barreled up East Fourth at about fifty-five miles an hour and then suddenly screeched to a stop at the corner of Avenue C. The little air freshener pine tree that Robert loved so much swung crazily from the radio knob.

“And she stops on a dime too”

“ Robert, she started skidding about six houses back?”

“Don’t worry kid, she’s seen all kinds of action”

Now Robert Brennan was one of my best friends from the block, and for some reason he always liked to buy old worn out police cars at the city auctions up by Willis Point. And because Robert was a couple years older than the rest of the guys, he was the first to own his own car. And when you can’t drive what you don’t have yet, you just get into anything your friends are driving, no matter what.

And for my cousin Pete and I, it was a 1970 Plymouth that Bobby drove around all the time. A retired New York City undercover police car that drove like a tank and flew like a rocket.

“How about a trip to White Castle Ronnie?”

Oh God, that freaking White Castle up on Fort Hamilton Parkway. The place had bulletproof glass where you ordered, white tiled walls and floors, and the most horrible looking stainless steel tables and seats. And to top it off, it was always filled with the scariest looking people Brooklyn ever produced. Just a perpetual “freak show” that made any thing over in Coney Island look like kids stuff. Just shoot me and preform the autopsy on one of those stainless steel tables, but just don't forget to clean up the blood.

Oh, and they also had an armed guard inside the place, just standing in the corner with a black handgun in his holster. A real nice place to take the kids for a night out in Boro Park.

“ Robert why do we have to go there?”
“Why not the new Burger King over on Dahill Road?”
“One day we’re going to get killed over at White Castle”

“Ronnie, there’s nothing to fear, you got me and we have the “car”

Now because we drove around in an old unmarked police car, the truth is everyone thought we were cops. Including all the freaks over at White Castle who looked like they just got out of the Brooklyn House of Detention.

Even the security guard who worked there used to salute us. So when it came to feeling safe, I guess there was nothing better than driving an old police car and looking like a bunch of undercover cops.

And Robert, well he stood at six feet five inches and bigger than a bear. Yeah, I never felt tall or big around Robert, no not even at six feet three and two hundred pounds.

Robert always seemed like an older brother to me too, and in many ways reminded me a lot of my brother Joseph who passed away just a few years before Bobby became one of my best friends. He was loud like my brother, he sometimes bossed me around like my brother. And he always had the last word like my brother. Yeah, maybe a friendship that would never work for others, but somehow oddly worked wonders for me.

Yes Robert filled the void that was left after my brother died, and I certainly loved being around him all the time. But most important, I always felt safe around Bobby no matter what.

We made the left on to Fort Hamilton and drove past the brand new Burger King on Dahill road. I could see the blue and white logo of White Castle way in the distance by Forty-second Street in Boro Park.

“Oh God, that freaking place again Robert?”

“Don’t worry kid, you’ve got me and we got the car”

Robert made a hard right into the parking lot of the White Castle. And as usual the place was chock full of “hard nighters” and the scariest residents of Brooklyn. The Plymouth made an abrupt stop against the concrete slab by the front tires. Once again the little fragrant pine tree swung wildly on the radio knob. Robert shut off the now hot 440 engine, my feet were finally warm.

“You ready for action?”
“I guess so, lets do it”
We both opened the door and walked into White Castle.
Just another night in Brooklyn, the year was 1973.


The other day I was in an auto store with my son, we were standing by the counter when I happened to notice one of those little green pine tree air fresheners. I picked it up and threw it on the counter with the rest of my stuff.

"Dad who's that for?"

"It's for an old friend son,
it's for a very old friend"

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

Bobby Wilson and East Fourth Street

Bobby Wilson had to be one of the toughest looking guys around when I was growing up on East Fourth street. With jet-black hair and piercing blue eyes, Bobby stood about six feet tall and was kind of husky. His jaw was as square as a pizza box from Korner and his head always looked like it was on the verge of exploding into a
million pieces.

Yeah, if there was anyone who looked like they were going to kick some ones ass on my block, it had to be Bobby Wilson. Because Bobby just looked that scary.

Bobby also drove a tow truck for Al and Leo’s collision over on 36th
street right off of Fort Hamilton Parkway. A bright yellow GMC
with “Bobby” painted in script letters on the driver’s side door along
with his kids names gracing it's big steel hood.
Bobby Jr., Richie and Eileen.

Bobby would always park the truck in front of his house at 418 East Fourth Street too, right by the “Johnny Pump”. I could always hear the police scanner he had in his truck from my house, that’s because Bobby put it full blast while he was upstairs having lunch with his family. Just waiting to hear about an accident somewhere so he could quickly jump in his truck and chase it down.

You see in the days before the police outlawed tow trucks racing through Brooklyn at 70 miles per hour to be the first “hook” at an accident. Guys like Bobby Wilson were around doing just that. But Bobby never drove down our block that fast, no when it came to East Fourth Street, Bobby would never cross that line.

Now Bobby had to be about thirty-five years old at the time while we were all about seventeen. And we used to spend a lot of time hanging around on his stoop just to hear all his stories about Brooklyn and driving his tow truck.

Well, actually we used to just hang out with Bobby because we all really liked him that’s all. And besides, if your hanging out with him, there’s a much less chance that he’d kick your ass over something.

But the funny thing was that no matter how tough Bobby acted, it would all just melt away when he was around his kids, especially Bobby Jr., his oldest son. Bobby just loved Bobby Jr,. maybe it was all because he had the same dark blue eyes and long eyelashes as Bobby. I don't know, but Bobby just loved that kid the most, and we
all knew it.

Yeah, those long black eyelashes and deep blue eyes, both Bobby and his son had the most beautiful eyes that would make any woman green with envy.

And Bobby loved his kids more than anything in the world,
more than anything.

“You know Ronnie, if something ever happened to one of my kids I don’t think I could ever live” “I just don’t know how your mom can go on, I would have blown my brains out along time ago”.

Now Bobby was good friends with my mom and knew all about the fact that her son died when he was thirteen years old. And Bobby just couldn’t understand how my mom existed on this earth knowing that her son was dead and buried. Seeing him die a slow death in the hospital bed and then kissing his ice-cold face in a casket over at Pitta’s on McDonald Avenue.

No, there was no living if something happened to one
of Bobby’s kids, and he always let me know it.

Now I always used to spend a lot of time in Bobby’s apartment too. Just hanging out and bull shitting about anything and everything by their kitchen table. And I guess I kind of liked Bobby’s wife Eileen too, I mean she was more than pretty and certainly caught my eye, even if I was only seventeen while she was thirty-five.

And I’ll never forget the night I was hanging around in their kitchen, Bobby and the family just got back from Lake George and Bobby junior was complaining that his head hurt during the whole vacation.

“Ah, the kid probably needs to get his eyes checked, I but you he needs glasses”

Bobby never worried about the headaches Bobby junior was getting, no it was all going to be all right because little Bobby just needed glasses that’s all.

But the headaches didn’t go away, and little Bobby who was about five years old at the time was told to see a doctor about the pain in his head. And Bobby Wilson’s life was about to be shattered.

And then something very strange happened on the block, Bobby wasn’t hanging around on the porch anymore and we didn’t see his tow truck that much on the block.

No, little Bobby was diagnosed with a brain tumor, and Bobby Wilson was planning his death. Because there was no way Bobby could live without his son, no there wasn’t.

Little Bobby died not too long after the doctors told Bobby Wilson about the brain tumor. The Wilson’s were never the same after then and neither was Bobby. There were no more visits to his house and no more stories on his front stoop. Bobby Wilson was dead, and you could see it in his face.

I’ll never forget the day I was coming home from work back in 1985. There were just a lot of people milling around on my block and a lot of people hanging around in front of Bobby Wilson’s house.

“Hey Ronnie, did you hear Bobby died?”
“They found him upstairs in his bedroom”

The first thing I thought was that Bobby blew his brains out, just like he always said he would. But no, there was no gun and no suicide note, because according to the medical examiner Bobby died of a brain aneurism and nothing else.

And although Bobby left a gaping hole on East Fourth Street and in his family, at least he was with his son Bobby junior. Because he told me he could never live without him. And I guess he was telling the truth, because their both buried side by side over in Greenwood Cemetery.

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

Almost Fall in the Catskills (Webcam shot today)

This year Fall is arriving a little early in the Cakskills. The locals say it's because of all the rain we had along with the cooler weather. Either way you got to love it. This picture was taken a few minutes ago from my webcam mounted in the house. Too bad I'm here stuck at work, but then again at least I'm working.

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

Readers Comments, you got to love them!

Ron -

Just came across your web site today, and couldn't get enough of it. Not sure how our paths never crossed, at least I can't remember if they did. Here are just a few mentions of common references.

I was born in August 58 in Brooklyn and lived near Caton Ave,
betw E7 & E8. My father was born in that house in 1917.

Inky was in my class at IHM, I graduated from there in 1972.
His mother was I believe a crossing guard.

My mother taught at IHM from 1965 - 1981

The Gili twins I believe were a year older than me.

Eileen O'Callaghan was in my class, too, as was Ralph Pabon,
Peter's older brother. Joey Matera was in that class as well.
Somewhere I have a class picture from either 6th or 7th grade
that I'll have to scan in

From 75-78, I worked at the Grand Union on McDonald Ave. Think a Paul McNally may have worked there too. Have a distinct memory of closing the store down the night of the blackout of 77, thinking I caused it by turning off the outside lights.

Don't have access to a lot of photos right now. Here is a short video of my christening at IHM, about 1/2 thru, I'm being carried into the E. 4th st. door to the church. http://mllsj.us/christen.wmv My kids look at the video and ask 2 questions, where's the sound and how come there's no car seat!

Also, spent many a Friday evening racing slot cars at Buzz-a-rama. I remember the owners there and they were on the tall side. Years later I remember the son playing basketball at PS 230 playground.

Never was a big fan of Korner Pizzaria as I recall they placed a screen under the pizza and it was usually soft.

I'm sure there was more, but hopefully these establish my credibility.

Mike Murphy

Thanks for the comments Mike, I'm sure you also worked with
Nunzio Competiello over at Grand Union back then as well.

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

A word about Inky from Mark O

"You know it's interesting that Inky was the one who grabbed me at the 2005 reunion game, where he made an appearance but couldn't play, and asked me what ever happened to the slides I took and used to show at awards nites at the old 70 PYC hall. He thought it would be cool to see some of those shots again. Well, his request finally got me digging through some old metal boxes of slides going back to the early 70's and there they were. Then to bring the images into the 21st century my brother Neil and some of his folks took on the task of digitizing them. Lo and behold we all have something to take us back to a simpler time in our lives. I think it is really appropriate that we take this opportunity to remember Inky and the others we have lost from that era in our lives and I want to thank Inky myself for getting me off my duff and getting these images out there where more of us can enjoy them"
Mark O

For those of you who didn't know Inky, he was a fellow goalie down at Avenue F who volunteered down at the WTC site after he retired and came down with lung cancer a few years later. What ever kind of crap the EPA tried to sell us was total bull shit. Those poor people who worked on that pile of "poison" are paying for it now.

And in Inky's case he did already.

On October 4th 2009 from 9 am - 12 pm we will be holding a reunion game in Inky's honor. We will be making a collection for his family and all proceeds will be sent to his wife in Florida. BTW, she's getting NOTHING from the city, because they still claim his death had nothing to do with the WTC work he did.

Can you smell the "bull shit"?
Well, I can, and I hope you do too.

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

Terrorism, Kensington, Park Slope and petty crime

So this morning I heard on the radio that the New York City subway system is once again in the crosshairs of another terrorist attack. And once again I have to laugh when I hear about these congressmen from “Hayseed Iowa” looking for money form Homeland Security to make their grain silo “bomb proof” or have enough iodine pills for the cows when that “dirty bomb” goes off in the middle of their cornfield.

Um, sorry Gulmer, I think I’ll end up splattered on the white tiles that say “Church Ave” long before your cow gives birth to a two headed calf with webbed feet. So fuck you and your quest for Homeland security money, no, we are still the target and the bulls-eye still
says “NYC”.

Oh, and petty crime…
Ok, I blame the shitty economy on the rash of car tires being stolen and dashboards being ripped apart on the side streets of Kensington and Windsor Terrace. Did I ever tell you about the time we had our copper leaders stolen right from our house here on East Fourth in the "depression" 80's? It’s a good thing I have the cheap tin ones now, because they’re not worth shit at the scrap metal yard. But still I stress that it’s much safer here than in my birthplace Park Slope. In the land of the beautiful brownstones where every parent and child is “smarter” and "funnier" than you are. They usually find thieves in their apartments late at night rather than the front seat of their Toyota Corolla parked on Prospect Park West.

So count your blessings folks, even if Church Avenue sucks and we’re not as "witty" as those who live on the streets of “slant”. At least we don't have to leave milk and cookies out for that 3 am burglar watching TV in our living room while choosing the best jewelry
to steal.

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

Here come the 80's again

Sorry to hear about all that stuff happening just a couple blocks North of me up East 4th. Living here my whole life I have seen 77 Caddie bumpers vanish overnight, 79 Chevy Impala tail lights stolen, and even a 71 Plymouth Fury drive shaft taken from good ol Doctor Langsam's car one night. But don't take this stuff lightly folks, car owners or not. Because after the tires and gps's are gone, these people may end up in your living room at night as well. Yes, in the late 70's and 80's we experienced all that here in Kensington.


From Joy Rich...
"The theft of car wheels is being reported to at least one other police precinct. The article "Cops busy with 'hot wheels,'" on the front page of the September 17th issue of the newspaper "Kings Courier," talks about the theft of car wheels in the 61st Precinct, which covers Manhattan Beach, Sheepshead Bay, Homecrest, and parts of Midwood.

In that precinct, the wheels most frequently stolen are from the 2009 Maxima. "Trying to stem the tide, the precinct identified 120 residents in the 61st Precinct who own '09 Maximas and alerted them to the spree of thefts. In a letter sent out by the precinct, Maxima owners were encouraged to invest in tire locks, as well as other precautions, like making sure their cars are parked in well-lit areas."

You might want to go to a meeting of your local precinct's community council, your local community board, and your local neighborhood association. For Kensington, the meetings are listed http://karmabrookly n.blogspot. com. For Windsor Terrace, they're listed at http://windsorterra cealliance. org/calendar. html.

Joy

Ignorance is Bliss on Eight Little Wheels

I remember feeling somewhat perplexed and insulted when this older ice hockey goalie over at Skyrink asked me why my goalie pads and catch gloves were all torn up and dirty looking.

“Oh, I use these pads and gloves for roller hockey”

“Well, your pretty good kid, I saw some of the saves you made, you ever think about playing ice hockey instead?”

“Ah no, I think roller hockey’s it for me”.

“Well, you know there’s no future for you in roller hockey, if you ever want to get anywhere you need to be playing ice hockey”.

I just said nothing as he skated back onto the ice and returned to the crystal clean confines of his crease. Looking at his perfect un-torn jersey along with his un-blemished, and un-ripped Cooper goalie pads.

And me, well, I got back on the ice and skated to the other goal,
I laughed to myself when I looked at my crease, it was as brown as a pig sty and looked like someone just took a shit in it. And that’s because the grime and dirt from Avenue F which was still on my goalie pads and gloves was being slowly cleansed by the cold ice below me every time I made a pad save on one knee.

What the hell does this guy know about Avenue F and especially roller hockey? Who’s he to tell me what’s better for me? Screw ice hockey, I’m a roller hockey goalie and one of the best around. And when I play at Avenue F everyone knows my name. Screw you and your college jersey and clean pads, you don’t know nothing!

That was probably around 1973 and I had to be no older than
sixteen at the time.

You see although we all played roller at Avenue F, sometimes Steve McNally would rent out the ice on a Saturday night over at Skyrink on 33rd street in Manhattan at these strange times like one or three in the morning. And that’s because those were the only times the ice was available, most other times either the Rangers were using it or pretty young figure skaters were. Maybe training for the Olympics or just doing what their parents wanted them to do.

And us, well, for us this whole ice hockey thing was one big joke, just a way to have some fun and laughs together and not take the game so seriously as we did at Avenue F.

Now, usually the night began on the corner of Church Avenue and East Fifth Street by Royal’s with the likes of Willie Ratka, Jimmy Webster, Hank Holloway, Drew Thomas and the rest of the boys. Piling in the back of my 73 Buick Century or my cousin Pete’s 69 Pontiac with hockey sticks out the side windows and smelly equipment in the trunk. Headed towards the Brooklyn Battery tunnel with the "Cars" playing on my 8-track, just looking to have a total ball playing ice hockey over
at Skyrink.

Yes, ice hockey was a blast, and thats because
we never ever took it seriously you know.
Never.

But then Sunday morning came and it was back to business, yes very serious business, because we had a roller hockey league game down at Avenue F. And the coach doesn’t want to hear about being out all night or the fact that you slept for just two hours. No, you have a game at Avenue F and you better be prepared.

Because the hockey we played on McDonald
was "professional" hockey in our eyes.
and always played on “quad skates” and
asphalt rather than two silver blades
and cold clean ice.

Lets see…we had our own 1980 Olympics when the Americans beat the Russians at Avenue F back in 1975. And that happened when my cousin Pete’s Terrace Rangers took down the mighty 67th Pct. Blues in the playoffs. With a rag-tag team of no more than seven players on their bench they defeated the Blues with their roster of twenty players and endless amount of talent. Yes, Robert Brennan the goalie for the Rangers playing the best games of his life, stopping everything and anything the Blues shot at him.

“Do you believe in Miracles?”

Well, that line was probably uttered down at Avenue F, five years before the Americans beat the Russians in Lake Placid.

And no, never once was there a pro scout
watching us or a chance for a college scholarship.

No thats for wimpy college kids,
and we were already in the "pros"

And Avenue F was our own Madison Square Garden too. Oh, lets see, we had orange seats in the form of old plastic milk crates, green seats being the park benches, and blue seats on the subway train that used to roar above our heads.

So there mister fancy ice hockey goalie, we
already played at Madison Square Garden.
Where did you play?
Some unknown college arena?

And the Stanley Cup you ask?

Well yes, we had our own version of the Stanley Cup; except it was called the “Kenna Cup” and yes I raised it high above my head too back in the spring of 1975. Always feeling kind of bad that we won the championship against my cousin Pete and Robert’s Rangers.
Seeing Pete in my house and Robert on the block kind of kept me from fully celebrating you know. Feeling kind of bad that I beat my two best friends.

And friendships you ask?

Well I made more friends down at Avenue F than you could
imagine, and many of us still keep in touch with one another
after all these years.

And guys like Bill Webster, Fred Allen, Louie DeBiasi, and
Jerry Cartolano?

I know your fancy college doesn’t have guys like that around; no these were guys who just did it because they wanted to and not because it was their job.

And we had hockey dinners with Bill Chadwick over at the Farragot Mannor, skate dance parties on Friday nights, and dozens of hockey players and sanitation men chanting my name after I made a great save against the "dreaded" Blues.

“Ronnie!, Ronnie!, Ronnie!”

Oh yes, it was such sweet music to my ears and
never once did my mother see me play hockey.

So skate back into your crease mister clean pants ice hockey goalie, and don’t ever tell me what’s good for me and my game called “Roller Hockey”.

Because after you fade into obscurity on your ice skates,
I’ll still be living in my world of roller hockey where
everyone knows my name.

And "Blissful" as ever,
on my eight little wheels.

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

Ode to Inky (click photo to enlarge)

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com



Free Counter

Mid Life Hockey Crisis

I'm proud to say that I am officially going through my mid-life crisis.
I guess it should have happened when I was forty, but for some reason it never did.

Well, at almost fifty two I can feel it in my bones, and maybe thats why I am even trying harder to do the things I did when I was seventeen years old.

I carry my hockey stick, hockey gloves and skates with me when I go to lunch at my office every day. Finding myself shooting hockey pucks at concrete walls in school yards or low fences in the "skate dancing" area of Central Park during the hottest time of the day. Getting the strangest looks from other associates on the elevator in my building along with little school kids and German tourists at Central Park.

"You play hockey at lunch?"

"Well, you got to have fun you know"
is usually my standard response.

And I got it down too.

I was telling my cousin Pete that I developed this technique of shooting the puck as hard as I could at the high curb in the skate dancing area of Central Park, and then making a goalie save with my forward stick when it deflects back at me.

Real sad stuff you know, but at least I'm doing what doctors say you should. Get that 30 minutes of exercise every day even if it means looking like you are totally insane in Central Park or some school
yard downtown.

I know, I know, I should just ride my bike to work more often.
But then again there's something just so wacky and crazy about playing hockey at lunchtime that won't let me go. Maybe it's my own Catskill trailer "Meth" addiction that I just can't break. And now I'm even thinking of wearing my hockey jersey when I do it,
because up to now I have just been using t-shirts.

Hey Charlie, how about a transfer to Central Park?
You shoot lefty or righty?
Maybe we can hide the net in bushes behind Strawberry Fields?
No one will notice, I promise.

Oh, and buy the way Bernie Parent was my favorite goalie
when I was growing up. And maybe some day I'll tell him that.

Ronnie Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

A Comment about PS 179 from Dr. Alfred Cresci

It was exactly 50 years ago today, Monday, September 14, 1959, that I started school with my first day of kindergarten. My teacher's name was Mrs. Steinic. I can remember my mother taking 8mm home movies of me at around 8:45am that morning at the front stoop of the school right up the three or four stairs leading to the front door on the left. I was very brave until the camera was turned off, and then I cried and cried.

It was a tough day, but soon afterwards, I began to love kindergarten and school in general. I went on to Catholic School at nearby IHM and then to Holy Innocents.

Today, I am an administrator in New Jersey, and I hold six college degrees. I'm still very active in the neighborhood as well, as I serve as Organist and Director of Music at Holy Innocents Church, where this year, coincidentally, is the parish's centennial.

It all started at PS 179 and Mrs. Steinic's Kindergarten class. I've been thinking about her and the school all day today, and I never forgot my short experience at the school!

Thank you, Dr. Alfred E. Cresci, BA, MS, MS, PD, EdD, ChM Cert.

Please check out my educational foundation, "Education Through Renovation" at: educationthroughrenovation.com.

Thank you Dr. Cresci
Mrs. Steinic was also my kindergarden teacher as well.

Ron Lopez

Mike the Greaser

Back in the 80’s there was a building on the south side of Church Avenue between East 5th and East 4th street. It was just called “SUPERMARKET”

As far as I remember it only opened
up when it was dark outside,
and the hours of operation were
very sporadic.

Most of the food inside was usually covered with dust, and most everything was past it’s expiration date. The floors were pretty dirty and I didn’t think they were ever cleaned. It was a fairly big place, about the size of “Rite Aid”, yet there was only one employee.
And this person was no one other than “Mike the Greaser”.

Now Mike was about forty years old at the time and stood about five foot nine. He had thinning black hair that he slicked back most of the time, and of course his favorite shirt was a “greaser style” t-shirt. Mike was also very hairy, thick black curly hair covered most of his body that normally would have just been reserved for flesh for you and me. He also spoke with some type of accent that we could never figure out. It could have been anything, Italian, Russian, Greek, Turkish, Arab. We had no clue.

And to this day, I still don’t know how he did it, but he used to park his 1978 Buick inside the store. Between the beer and the chips. There was probably a back gate to get it into the store with, but we never saw it and never asked. We would only buy food at Mikes when everything else was closed, and for us it usually meant buying beer and chips for a late night card game over at Glenn Gruder’s house.

Mike never asked anyone for ID either, but then again my cousin Pete had a full beard when he was 15. So he was usually our “mule”, sort of speak. Mike’s prices varied depending on what day it was or what kind of mood he was in. And he usually charged us 5, 10, 15, or 20 dollars. His numbers were always in even dollar amounts, "no tax" he always said. I don’t think he even had a cash register in the
store either.

One night while we were hanging out on my porch at 399. There was a lot of commotion up on Church Avenue. Tons of cop cars, flashing lights and a few ambulances. The next morning when I woke up, word on the block was that Mike was shot something like 5 times the evening before. Some kind of an armed robbery. So all the cop cars the night before made sense. Thinking the worst, we all started reminiscing about Mike, figuring he was dead. Thinking about him in that dirty shirt, the stale chips, the expired milk and the Buick Skylark parked in aisle 5. And not to mention the rare occasions when he lost it, and threw us out of the store. But through it all we loved Mike and were surely going to miss him.

So that same night we decided to take a walk to the avenue, and visit the scene of this horrorific crime. “Hey remember the time Mike threw that tuna fish can at you” “What about the time we rolled Mike’s car into the Ice Cream freezer” As we made the right onto Church Avenue from East 4th, we could see the store. Yet, there was no crime scene tape, and in fact the gate was up and the store was open. So we decided to go inside and see what was happening.

As we walked into Mikes I noticed a few holes in the front window. They looked like bullet holes too, very round with tiny jagged edges on the inside of the hole. There was someone behind the counter, he was bending over and was fiddling with something on the ground. He had what looked like a white rag wrapped around his head too. And then, he stood up, and our jaws dropped. We couldn’t believe our eyes, it was like we were looking at a ghost. There he stood in all his “Greaser Glory”. With his head bandaged up, his arm in a cast, and a large stained gauze pad on his side, taped to his skin with silver duct tape. It was no one other than “Mike the Greaser”

“Hey, you thought I was dead, huh?”
“You think five bullets can kill me?”
“Bullshit, that’s what I say”
“I shot the guys eight times”
“You see that blood?”,

Mike was pointing to where he usually parked the Skylark, so it was hard to see the blood because of the oil on the floor. “That Fuck died right there”. At that point Mike motioned us around the counter to take a look at something. There inside a small pigeon hole shelf right under the cash box was the handle of a black pistol.

“Dont’ta fuck with me, huh?”

We all looked at Mike and smiled and then celebrated his survival by buying some expired chips and beer.

"20 dollars, no tax".

I gave him an awkward hug before I left, trying to stay clear of his blood stained gauze pad at the same time. And then just said our good nights and went on our way back home to East 4th.

I think Mike eventually sold the property and today
in its place are a nice row of clean stores.

But along time ago there were stale chips,
old beer and a Buick in aisle 5.
And a man we once knew,
a legend by no other name.
And he was simply known to us as
“Mike The Greaser”

Ron Lopez

The Apartment House on Avenue C

When I was growing up in Kensington we only knew
this place as “The Apartment House on Avenue C”.
No, forget an address or anything like that, it was
just “The Apartment House on Avenue C”.

I could tell you that in the 60’s this place was a mix of
young parents, children and the elderly. Many of my
PS 179 classmates lived here and it was not uncommon
to find their grandparents living in the same apartment.
With white pillows propped on concrete windowsills
they’d wave to their grandchildren as they walked up
Avenue C towards school.

And the “Apartment House on Avenue C” was mostly
Jewish too. During the holidays when East 4th was
ablaze with Christmas lights and plastic Santa faces
nailed above doorways. The “Apartment House”
was chock full of brightly lit Hanukah Menorahs”
with orange bulbs in just about every window.

I had friends there; my Mom had friends there.
It was just a wonderful extension of my block,
and was a very solid pillar that made Kensington
that nice in the 60’s.

But then something happened in the 70’s and like
every other “great exodus” it just happened
without warning.

The "Apartment House on Avenue C" had changed,
all my friends were gone and there were no more
elderly leaning on the windowsills. Yes, other people
were living there now and they weren't exactly as
nice as my friend "Harold Levy" from PS 179.

No, instead of placing an orange bulb in a plastic
Hanukah Menorah late at night, a 38-caliber bullet
was being placed in the cold chamber of a handgun.

And seeing a Police car racing down my block and
parked in front of the “Apartment House on Avenue C”
was the norm. And don’t ever mess with
“Lucky and his gang” because he always had a handgun
that he’d flash us when he walked by my stoop.

Yes, the houses on my block were being robbed,
people were getting mugged and my block was changing.
It was time to leave Brooklyn folks, this was it,
and it’s never going to be the same again.

And they did leave, they left in droves.

Now, I’m not going to say that that apartment house
was all to blame for everyone leaving. But it certainly
must have played a major role in some of my friend’s
parents deciding to move to the suburbs. I mean having
the cold barrel of a gun placed on the side of your
temple doesn’t speak kindly of Brooklyn at all.
And I’m sure it “somehow” prompted that real
estate page to be looked at touting the wonders
of “Kings Park Long Island”.

Yeah, forget about East 4th and especially that
“Apartment House on Avenue C”.
a safe place is where we want to live.

So let’s pack up the station wagon,
And say goodbye to the neighbors.
Goodbye “Motherless Brooklyn”,
Kings Park here we come!

Wow, it was amazing how one building and
a few shootings could scare away my whole block.

But then there were those that “stayed”.

And just like in that movie “Escape from New York”,
we sat around the fires we made from burning
car tires and kept ourselves warm at night.

Yeah, some huddled masses never left.
Doomed to suffer on East 4th and Kensington.
All because of the “Apartment House on Avenue C”.
Just waiting for the world to end.

But then something happened.
After a while there were no more police cars racing
down my block, and no more shootings.
Lucky and his boys were finally gone and we heard
the “Apartment House” was going co-op.

It was all so baffling, because East 4th was
headed towards oblivion you see.
And we were all supposed to go to
Hell along with that “building”.

But it never really happened.
Because it went co-op.
Yes, because it went co-op.

And even today some thirty years after
“Lucky and his boys” left that “Apartment
House on Avenue C”, I’m still amazed at how
that placed has changed. Young parents
with children along with some the brightest
minds around always stroll down my block.
All living in a building that would
make 60’s Kensington proud again.

And me, well I'm feeling good these days.
Because instead of "Lucky and his Boys"
walking by my stoop, there are warm smiles
and "good mornings". And no one from
"The Apartment House on Avenue C" ever
flashes a 38-caliber handgun when they
walk by my house.

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

Miracles On Ice

Anyone who is a hockey fan and is about 35 or older or is in anyway affiliated with the greatest sport on earth, knows the significance of 1980. We’re talking ice hockey of course!

I remember exactly where I was when the game known as “The Miracle on Ice” took place, the day the 1980 US Men’s Olympic Hockey Team beat the vaunted team from the Soviet Union. Ask any in the group that recognizes this feat and they will tell you that it was absolutely the single biggest upset in team sports history. It was certainly the most insurmountable obstacle in Team USA’s road to winning the Gold Medal at the 1980 Winter Olympics held in Lake Placid, New York.

I was living in an off-campus apartment in Corvallis Oregon attending Oregon State University. Oregon was not then, nor is it now exactly what you’d refer to as a hockey hotbed. The game that would become the game for the ages was being played 3 time zones away, back in my home State. There was no cable TV in Corvallis. Fellow Kensingtonite, hockey teammate and Corvallis neighbor of mine Josh Seff, occupied the apartment right next to mine.

As the US Men’s Team progressed through the preliminary rounds, we followed the games as closely as we could, catching a news clip here and there. None of these games had been televised in our part of the country, so for a couple of former hockey players from Kensington, the situation with the men’s Olympic hockey coverage or more precisely, the lack of it, was unbearable.

Josh and I remained hopeful of some TV coverage and of the men’s chances to get some sort of a medal, but we knew that both were long shots. Team USA beat the Russians? Not a chance in hell. The same US team had played an exhibition against the Russian team at Madison Square Garden just a couple of weeks before the 13th Olympiad opened. Final score: Russians 10, USA 1. The Russians had won every hockey Gold Medal since 1960! They had even beaten pro teams from the NHL during their warm-ups for these Olympics. Since then, this powerful juggernaut had won every single game they'd played in Olympic competition.

Well before the new-age Dream Teams and pro athletes being allowed to compete in the Olympics, the Iron Curtain countries had stacked teams. Most players from these eastern-bloc nations were in their military, so technically, these guys were considered amateurs and thus eligible for Olympic competitions.

In the US and other democratized countries, the best athletes went on to play in professional leagues and so our stars were not eligible to compete in the Olympics. Communist countries had no official professional leagues, although their best athletes would surely have been professionals had they lived anywhere in the free world.

The guys playing for the US Team in 1980 were basically the same as Josh and me. They were college students, who played ice hockey and the ones deemed the best at a tryout earlier that year, were picked to play for the team. Average age on Team USA was just 22!

The Iranian Hostage Crisis taking place at the US Embassy in Teheran had become a nightly broadcast of its own, unemployment was lousy and the general mood in our country was very down. In this atmosphere, a mere handful of our peers were about to play a hockey game in a small town in New York's Adirondack Mountains and in doing so, turn our world on end and give our national morale a huge shot of adrenalin.

I think it was a Saturday morning in Oregon and I was in the shower. We hadn’t heard if the USA-Russia game would be televised, but we kept checking our TVs for news. I heard a frantic banging at my apartment door and my wife Beth calling for me. The other familiar, excited voice and the author of the door pounding was my pal Josh. He kept yelling to put the TV on. “The game is on!” “The game is on!” I came stumbling out of the shower with a towel wrapped around my waist, still soaking wet and I made a bee-line for our television.

We were glued to the screen for the duration. It was a back and forth struggle and as time clicked off the clock, the young Americans were giving the Soviets all they could handle and the unthinkable, the impossible, started to creep into our consciousness as a possibility.

The game went to commercial with about 14 minutes remaining. Instead of an add, we were presented with one of those special news briefs. A reporter for the local ABC affiliate popped onto the screen and stated that the US Men's Hockey Team had stunned the world and beaten the Russians in Olympic Hockey, "Details on the six-o'clock news!"

We looked at each other in disbelief trying to confirm if we each had heard the same thing from the voice on the TV. WHAT, did she say? Could it be true? We began to realize that the game we were watching was probably on a tape-delayed broadcast and that just maybe, there was truth in the news report. Holy shit was the emotion of those moments, but the thought was so incomprehensible that we still didn't believe it. We didn't see it, so in traditional hockey-player superstitious mentality, just shut up and let's just get back to the game to see for ourselves!

We watched in disbelief and a few minutes later, USA team captain, Mike Euruzione scored with just 10 minutes left in the third period to break a 3-3 tie! The young Americans held on, as they played one of the most inspired hockey contests I have ever seen. “5, 4, Do you believe in miracles! YES!….” Was the wonderful call made by play-by-play announcer Al Michaels.

David had struck down Goliath, West had defeated East, Democracy had defeated Communism and Good had vanquished Evil...and it all happened in a hockey game! The incomparable celebration had begun. The next day, the American team wrote their final chapter by beating Team Finland 4-2 to lock up the Gold Medal.

I have been coaching hockey for nearly 20 years and I’ve been on the bench from rinks south to Virginia and north to Vermont, Canada and the Mid-west, but I have never been to the Olympic Rink in Lake Placid.

Last week I had a fatherly task to perform. Get my 15 year-old, hockey playing daughter to the US Olympic Training Facility in Lake Placid. She had been invited to spend a few days there with some other very good female hockey players as part of a prestigious women's hockey training program.

Lake Placid is just about a six hour drive north of Brooklyn. We made it to registration on time and Katie got checked in to her assigned room. I actually had to leave and go back to Brooklyn as soon as I could due to work responsibilities. Getting the paperwork done and the room stuff knocked out left little time for anything else. We were instructed to bring Katie's hockey gear directly to the rink. All players were assigned a locker room for this purpose. Katie had to be back for a player briefing in 40 minutes, so we really had to hustle.

We plugged the rink address into our GPS and headed over there. This mind you, is the same rink where the 1980 Games took place. It's one thing to visit the site of the Miracle on Ice game and it's another to be bringing your own kid there to play hockey as part of an invitation only program. With all the running around and driving, the specialness of what was happening hadn't dawned on me until just about then.

We parked in the rink lot and followed the instructions around to the side door. A friendly security guard greeted us at the door and asked, "Which locker room?" "Locker room #6." said Katie. He pointed the way and said, "It's all the way down on the end. On your left."

Locker room six was at the end of a long, quiet hallway under the stands. When you're in a place like that, a narrow, ill-ventilated space, you can clearly smell the rubberized mats that make up the flooring. After you visit enough of these venues, you can even smell the age of the place by the kind of smell in the hallways and locker rooms. It's not a bad smell. It's a hockey smell. It's a smell that brings memories of hockey games past and connects them with the current day. If you are a baseball player, what I'm talking about would be similar to how the smell of cut grass makes you feel.

We had been hurrying around for nearly 7 hours at this point and we were still up against a tight schedule, but here we were finally slowing to a walk as we both realized where we were. The building was nearly empty, so there was that kind of quietness in the place that allows you to hear the echoes of your own footsteps.

As we passed the first ramp to the arena itself, I could almost hear the distant, 29 year-old chants of USA! USA! USA! still reverberating through the rafters. I could feel the ghostly presence of Coach Herb Brooks extolling his young team and saying, "This is your time." I turned to look at Katie and did my best to put the hustle and bustle of what we were about to rest for a few minutes and to enjoy that walk down the corridor with her. This, is her time I thought to myself.

There is no doubt in my mind that the ripple effects of that 1980 game had brought us here together at this moment. My daughter had been invited to train and play hockey at one of the US Olympic Team Training Facilities. The daughter of a Kensington roller hockey player! This moment was in many, many ways, a second miracle, our own personal miracle on ice. I didn't need a TV or a commentator to tell me that. What was even better, was that Katie knew it too.

PS Back in Oregon: Once Josh and I were secure in knowing that Team USA had actually won the game, we called the local ABC affiliate to let them know how upset we were that they had prematurely blurted out the score of the game, before the local tape delayed broadcast had ended. Due to our efforts (and a little help from Team USA), hockey led off the six o'clock news that night in Oregon. Probably the first and only time that has occurred. The station made a public apology for blowing it!

Charlie Gili

New one by Charlie Gili coming tomorrow!

Stay tuned!

Ronnie

How about a new look?

Well, instead of buying a new Dodge Challenger today I spent nothing on giving the blog a new look.

What do you think?

Ronnie



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Remembering Drew Thomas

Drew Thomas was one of my roller hockey friends down at Avenue F back in the 1970’s. A real sweet kid with a wicked sense of humor and more intelligence than all of us put together, yes Drew was a real smart kid and we all knew it.

Now Drew was real “cool” too, with long brown hair and good looks, Drew was our own “Peter Frampton” and certainly had a “Rock Star” look even while wearing his light blue Penguins jersey. Drew was also the captain of his team, which really meant a lot in our world of “Avenue F” roller hockey. Being the captain of your team certainly propelled you to a much higher level in the eyes of the players and everyone else.

I was on the senior Northstars and was probably three or four years older than Drew, so we never got to play together in league games. But once the “real” games were over many of us hung around afterwards to play “choose up” games, which always-included Drew Thomas. In fact for me most of the fun I had at Avenue F was probably during those choose-up games, because most of the time we were laughing and having a good time with each other, rather than trying to kill one another.

Now most of us never played organized ice hockey, but at times we would rent the ice at Skyrink on 33rd street at these weird times like 3am. And Drew was always part of our late night trips into the “Big City”. Sitting in the back seat of my 73 Buick Century looking like a “Rock Star” on his way to Madison Square Garden rather than a hockey rink on the West side of Manhattan, there was Drew Thomas. Always a smile and never a bad word out of his mouth. Yes, Drew Thomas was one of those people that you always wanted to hang out with. Be it on the hockey rink or at Cosmos diner afterwards, we all liked it when Drew was with us.

I remember seeing Drew in the lobby of my building at 9 West 57th street once back in 1987 or 1988. We had a nice conversation and then went our separate ways, that was the last time in my life I ever saw Drew.

I don’t remember who told me about Drew passing away. But when I heard it I was in total shock, and I thought about all the times we played hockey together and those late nights at Cosmos Diner after renting Skyrink.

Yes, hearing about Drew Thomas sent shockwaves through our little world of roller hockey and through us as well.

I just wanted to let Glenn Thomas, Drew’s brother, know
that Drew was a very big part of our “roller hockey youth”.
The kind of person you will always remember and never forget.
Always feeling fortunate that you knew him once.

And from me, who lost a brother a long time ago as well.
All I can say is; you never forget your brother, never.

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

Take a Walk (by Peter Pabon)

My point of destination when I started my walk was Church Avenue. For those of you unfamiliar to the world of Brooklyn, Church Avenue was a major thoroughfare running about five miles through what was at that time known simply as Flatbush. Today, however, I think the area names change every five blocks or so. But that’s irrelevant.

As I approached Church Avenue walking south on Ocean Parkway, a voice calling my name rang out from a third floor window of one of the many apartment buildings that make up Ocean Parkway. The voice was that of a relatively new acquaintance named Lloyd who had relocated back to the east from Oregon, where he had been living with his widowed father and younger brother. I had been introduced to this former Duck by his older brother, Vince, who wanted more age appropriate friends for his young brother. I had known Vince both as a competitor and a teammate in various athletic venues and it was Vince’s hope that Lloyd would be a fit with my crew.

Apparently, Vince had decided to move out of the apartment he had graciously shared with his younger brother and they were in need of some moving assistance. Not having anything of great importance on my agenda that day, I allowed myself to become mover number three. The move passed without incident and Lloyd ended up with his own apartment some 3000 miles away from where he lived only 12 months earlier.

Some fifteen years later (just about nine years ago) I was finally persuaded to move from the city to the sprawl (by Brooklyn standards, anyway) of Monmouth County. It didn’t take long to acclimate myself to this active suburban lifestyle which, when it all boils down, is not that much different than that of the busy urban lifestyle. You work, you take your kids to school and little league and CYO basketball, and to travel sports games in far away towns. You go to PTO meetings, you go bowling and play softball, and you meet your friends at a pub to watch “the” game of the week. Take into account that people are people wherever you go, with their individual habits and idiosyncrasies and biases, and their funny accents, the transition was not all that difficult.

The major difference in all this lifestyle relocation is the sprawl of it all. No longer was the distance between these social points measured in blocks, it is measured in miles and half-miles and quarter miles. So it became easy, to the point of habit, to simply jump in the car for the simplest of jaunts. Not only do we drive the ½ mile to the local sports field or rec center, we drive through our bank (where we wait in line in our car as opposed to waiting on line inside the bank, which is oftentimes faster), we drive through for meals and even for our groceries. We’re even prohibited from getting out of our car to pump our own gas.

Life was becoming a point to point existence; home to work, work to home; home to school and back; home to supermarket and back; home to the ball field or gym or rec center or dance studio and back. This, of course, is not terribly different from the urban lifestyle from which I had hailed and it is certainly a way of life which you could make work. It is at these social points that we make our acquaintances and foster new friendships. And as these acquaintances and friendships overlap at different social points, meaningful relationships are forged.

But what’s happening between these points? As we drive to our next stop we acknowledge our neighbor mowing his lawn with a friendly honk of the horn or offer a quick hand wave to that familiar face from the PTO passing in the opposite direction in her car. Life in a passing lane.

And then it dawned on me that what was missing from my social diet was the pedestrian interaction that no longer takes place between the points, the interaction which makes up the fiber in our social diet; the type of interaction which makes you the third mover or the caring ear or shoulder; the type of interaction which replaces the friendly honk with a friendly voice; a voice that may have the answer to your tree fungus and crab grass problems.

Over the past year, the energy crisis has come crashing into our everyday lives. It is no longer something that we only read about in the newspapers. The cost of energy has had a severe inflationary impact on the budget of every working American, even though the Government discounts the rising cost of energy from its inflation index.

So, with the weather settling nicely into spring conditions and gas prices making a run at $3 a gallon for the second time in 12 months, maybe it’s time we all put a little social fiber in our diets. Let’s not be so quick to jump in the car the next time we need to make a bank deposit or buy a quart of milk. Instead of loading your little leaguer or soccer player into the car, take the kid for a walk to the field. You may be amazed at the wealth of information you can get from your kids during a 15 minute walk. (Now that’s Fiber!) And think of the wisdom you can impart to the child in those same 15 minutes. And you never know who you might meet along the way. Maybe someone whose life you can impact in ways you never would have thought; or maybe someone who could impact yours in the same way.

What better time than now to decide to stop living life in a passing lane.

BTW, Lloyd is now someone I consider a Life Long Friend. We’ve vacationed together, participated in each other’s weddings, attended a dozen or so home openers at Shea, as well as playoff games and Met - Yankee World Series games. We’ve played innumerable rounds of golf and some good softball. And when it was time to relocate, the house I bought I bought from Lloyd.

You never know where a short five block walk could lead!

Peter Pabon

Thank you for the great tale Peter!
Ron Lopez

ELO, Queen and the F express

In a time when ELO and Queen ruled the jukeboxes of our local Windsor Terrace and Kensington bars, we had the F-Express to Manhattan. It was our own European “Bullet Train”, and it stopped right here, at Church Avenue.

Now I was a pretty lucky kid you know. Back when all my friends were either getting mugged or beat up at Erasmus on Flatbush Avenue, I was going to the “High School of Art and Design” on Second Avenue and Fifty Seventh Street in Manhattan. Talk about culture shock for a boy from Brooklyn. A school where kids of all races just got along with each other and never had a fight. A school where some of my best friends turned out to be “gay” without me ever even knowing or even caring. A school that had to have the best-looking girls in NYC hands down. It was such a wonderful place that was so different from anything you could have ever imagined, including Ditmas JHS, where I had just graduated from earlier
that year.

The guys from the block just could not comprehend what I was telling them when I described the “Halloween” party there in October of 1975. Guys in drag, girls hardly dressed, and a walking condom squirting milk. Not to mention we actually "voted" not to have a prom. But then again what would you expect from the Alma Mater of Harvey Fierstein and Tony Bennett. We were just too cool. Oh, A&D, it was just the best school in the world, and much more fun than "Commuter College."

But back to the F-Express, the train I took every day to High School. The F-Express stopped at Church Avenue, 7th Avenue, and then Bergen Street. It was really a time when hardly anyone got on at Fort Hamilton Parkway or 15 Street Prospect Park. Maybe all the Moms were home and the Dads worked in Brooklyn, who knows. But bottom line, those stations were not very crowded back in the early 70’s. And I know because I was there every day if I missed the F-Express.

Next Stop Seventh Avenue, Methodist Hospital

Then there was Seventh Avenue. The “Park Slope Pioneers” just walking on to the F-Train with their New York Times. Why the hell would they all want to live in that “rat-hole” of a neighborhood for? A place where all the streets are on a slant and no one has a driveway? How many times this week did you get mugged? You can keep that joint, I’d rather stay here in Kensington. Imagine we actually had better schools than Park Slope in the 70’s.

Next Stop Bergen Street.

I remember the train used to barrel out of the 4th Avenue tunnel at speeds well over 55 mph. The F would pass the platform in less than 5 seconds. The local would look like a blur as we rocketed by it. Before you knew it you were passing Smith 9th street and going down the big curve. This is when I would be lucky enough to see the progress on the World Trade Center. Just a skeleton of a building getting higher every week. It was really history seeing that building go up on the way to High School every day. So sad what happened.

Forget Carroll, next stop Bergen Street.

Now the characters that got on at this stop, I don’t know. Just a bunch of tough guys either going to their construction site or maybe to my school to kick some “sensitive” artist's ass. All I can say is they all wore black leather jackets and did not look like "yuppies." Yeah, how ya doin, are you some kind of artist or something?

Next Stop Jay Street Boro Hall.

Ok, so that was it. Even though I still had over a dozen stops still ahead of me. But let me tell you, I was at Lexington Avenue and 53rd street from Church Avenue in about 45 minutes, no kidding.

So remember the F-Express and a time when ELO and Queen ruled the juke boxes in Kensington. A time when PS 179 was the "school" and PS 321 was not.

But hey, I bet you that Denny’s still has ELO and Queen on their jukebox. And how does that saying still go?
Just two dollars and a dream, just two dollars and a dream.

Ron Lopez



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The Best Medicine

Although it’s long gone in the world of roller hockey the “Scotch 88” holds a dear spot in the hearts and minds of many old and gray roller hockey players. The smell of the tape, the feel of the sharp edges, along with the “Quoop” sound the plastic container makes when you open it up for the first time.

Hey boys, you know up in Brooklyn the days are starting to feel crisp again in the mornings. And I’ve even seen some leaves dropping off
a few trees here and there.

So why don’t you get out some “3 in 1” and start dripping it into those bearings, change those old laces that have more knots in them than a new groom before he gets married. And fetch that old stick in your basement that has a player stamped on the side that retired over 30 years ago.

Because the best medicine in the world smells like PVC
and still makes a “Quoop” sound when you open it up.

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

Wrong week to be working

Last week while we were upstate it rained six out of the eight days we were there. Today's webcam shot is just like yeaterday's and will pretty much be the same through Labor Day. It's real nice sitting in my "cubicle" at work while it's sunny as all Hell upstate.
I guess I picked the wrong week to be working, but at least
I have an hour for lunch to roller blade in Central Park.

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

8/29/09 A Hard-to-Get-My-Head-Around Kind of A Day (by Charlie Gili)

Ever been confused? Today was one of those days for me. I got up early and headed out of Brooklyn and out east to Long Island.

I was in route to meet up with a very special group of folks, to take care of something that I needed to be part of. A young Marine had been Killed in Action last week in Afghanistan and he was brought home to his family by his fellow Marines. I couldn't make the services, but I knew through the great folks from The Patriot Guard Riders, that Lance Corporal Damas would be taken to Kennedy Airport for his final flight to North Carolina for burial.

I finally caught up with the Damas escort at the funeral home. I said hello to some of the other volunteers and got some direction and absorbed the protocol for the last leg of the escort. The casket had to be made ready for air travel and this was the purpose of the stop at the funeral parlor.

Six Marines in their best dress uniforms loaded the casket carrying Lance Corporal Damas into the hearse. The police escort pulled out of the driveway to block traffic and those of us making up the Patriot Guard escort got underway and headed to Kennedy. Most of the traffic along the Belt Parkway yielded when they noticed that this was a service member escort and those that didn’t were encouraged to do so by those of us providing the escort.

We were taken through the back roads of the airport and right up to a fence that marked the tarmac. The civilians in the escort were stopped short of the tarmac, so we lined up just outside the fence, while the uniformed personnel proceeded ahead. Moments later, Port Authority Police Officers invited us through a building and onto the tarmac so that we could be part of the proceedings. This was a very nice gesture on their part and we formed ranks around the back of the hearse on one side and a group of Police Officers did the same on the other.

The six Marines went through their movements to remove the casket to a mechanized gurney. As the Marines slowly brought their right hands into the military salute position, the Police Captain ordered his Officers to do the same and we all followed suit.

We held the same salute until the casket was rolled to the waiting jet and loaded aboard. It was a very solemn few moments. I have attended several such services, but this was the first time I was involved in an airport departure. Once the formal recognition was concluded, we shook hands and were on our way back to resume our regular lives.

I had to go straight to work since there was a huge event being held in a Brooklyn Park and I was responsible for many of the logistics. Spike Lee was sponsoring a "Tribute to Michael Jackson" and when I arrived at the event site, the music and activities were already underway. The crowd estimate was 12 to 15,000. Everyone was having a great time and it was a nice event, with everyone well-behaved.

I don't know if I was just a bit tired or if I am just getting old, but I couldn't get the scene on the JFK tarmac out of my head. A local Marine had been killed, brought home and sent to his final resting place. Lance Corporal Damas is a true hero. Yet, at his final farewell on the grounds of a windswept local airport, there were about 40 of us who witnessed his passing and in the same day, just 35 minutes from the tarmac at Kennedy, there were more than 10,000 nice people celebrating the music of a pop icon.

I wondered how many people in the crowd were aware of why they could celebrate in such a wonderful way? If they realized how the death of Lance Corporal Damas and the hundreds of thousands of patriots who went before him was directly related to the freedoms they were enjoying on this day. I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

I understand the dynamics of how these things work in our society, but even though I do, I just couldn't get my head around the backwardsness of my day. I don't think I ever will. Semper Fi Lance Corporal.

Charlie Gili

Kensington vs. Niagara Falls

This past week was our annual "Summer Vacation", and this time we decided to take a trip up North from the Catskills to Niagara Falls New York, for a few days.

Now, I have to tell you that I'm New York City born and bred, tall building jaded, Fifth Avenue un-impressed and so on and so forth.
I mean I was born here guys and have been making the daily trip to Manhattan since 1972 when I started High School. So what do you expect? This is my "small town" and I've been all over it for almost
52 years. No, I never moved here from anywhere else, because there is "no" anywhere else to me.

Oh, but Niagara Falls, let me tell you that's something to check out one day if New York City has jaded you. I mean not even opening up the "Johnny Pump" in front of Freddie's house on East Fourth made that much water. This thing was gushing like a son of a gun and even big old Ron Lopez felt as tiny as a bug while standing next to it.

Yes, Niagara Falls, write it down on your "Bucket List" and check it out someday. Because there's nothing like it here in New York City or even Kensington Brooklyn.

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com



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Kensington Tough Guys

Ode to Freddie

Sometimes we go through life never realizing
what kind of influence we had on other people.

I have to tell you I was caught totally off guard when Jimmy Spinner, one of the younger kids on my block. Told me what kind of positive effect I had on him while he was growing up. I mean there I was, this goofy longhaired teenager sitting on my stoop with a bunch of younger kids, including Jimmy, all around me. Just telling jokes or listening to the Eagles on my “boom box” until the stars came out. No, not once ever thinking that I was influencing them in any way possible. Especially in a positive manner.

But Jimmy recently told me that his choosing to hang out with me, instead of his other friends on East 8th street probably kept him away from some very bad stuff. Including drugs. And I have to tell you, I really didn’t know what to say. In fact I actually felt a little embarrassed for the first time in my life. Yeah, big old Ronnie Lopez not knowing what to say, because I always have an answer you know.

Me a positive influence?
You have to be kidding, right?

Well, this all brings me full circle to Freddie Schefferman.
A wonderful creative person who had the most “pied piper”
effect on all of us, including me.

Just a bunch of young teenagers sitting around Freddie,
talking about anything and everything until the stars came out.
And not once ever wanting the night to end, because we were
all just hanging out on Freddie's stoop and having the
time of our lives.

Freddie should only know what kind of
influence he had on all of us including me.
And he probably never knew it at the time.

Ron Lopez



On any given August night back in 1975 you could find me down the block on Freddie Schefferman's stoop. But not just me you know, the rest of the boys also made Freddie's stoop their perpetual brick and mortar home. Glen Gruder, Robert Brennan, Neil O’Callahan, Jimmy Spinner and my cousin Pete Liria.

Now most of us were anywhere from fifteen to twenty at the time, and Freddie was much older. Freddie could have easily passed for Jesus or Tommy Chong from “Cheech and Chong”. With long wavey black hair, a beard and little round glasses. It was hard to imagine what Freddie really looked like too.

Freddie may have been 35 years old at the time. His mother and father owned the house he lived in. And from the stories Freddie told us all the time, we were pretty sure that he grew up on the block too. I know Freddie graduated from Pratt in Brooklyn and did work “freelance” from time to time. Hey, he even owned a 68 Triumph Spitfire convertible, so he had to have some kind of dough. But most of the time Freddie just loved to “hang out” on the block. Just looking like “Jesus” in his bell-bottoms, sandals, and yellow and white striped shirt. Leaning against the white picket fence of his house talking to anyone who wanted to “hang out” with him.

Freddie did spend some time in Vietnam too; I think he told us he used to make maps there. But we never pushed it because who knew if he would “Freak out” about it. And Freddie knew just about everything you know, politics, art, religion, history, philosophy, and most important, Brooklyn.

“You kids should have been around here when the Trolleys ran on Church Avenue. You couldn’t imagine the shit we used to do with the Trolleys”

Freddie did share many of his Church Avenue Trolley stories with us. From squashing pennies on the rails to making late night explosions on the high wires by throwing a metal pipe up at the lines, hoping to arc them both at once, and causing something to blow. I guess it did work sometimes, because Freddie told us many stories about being chased by the cops up our block too.

“What the hell are you guys doing here with me?”
“you should be out getting laid somewhere,
you guys are really schmucks!”

Now we never asked Freddie the same question, because it was
still a Saturday night, and the clock just struck midnight for him
too. But we just took his insults in stride, and just listened to
more of his stories.

“Did you guys check out that new program “Saturday Night Live”, now that’s some funny shit. Hopefully NBC won’t cancel it next year like they always do. Bunch of schmucks!”

Freddie was a Jewish 60’s flower child with an edge.

“You guys are little assholes, didn’t you see
that girl walk by and smile at you?”

“Why don’t you talk to her and get her number?”
“When I was your age I had a girl on each arm every night”

No one ever dared to ask Freddie what happened,
because we never saw him with anyone on the block.

No, instead of a beautiful girl on each side of his shoulders,
Freddie had us instead. And let me tell you, we were far
from being beautiful.

Freddie hated the establishment too,
every President sucked,
every Governor sucked,
every Mayor sucked.
But then again we never asked Freddie if he ever voted.

On very rare occasions Freddie would let us down into his basement to see all his photography equipment. Freddie knew all about mold making and casting too. In fact he made me my first fiberglass goalie mask that I still have today. We may have even seen “pot roaches” in empty cat food cans down there too. If Freddie did smoke pot, we never knew it, because he kept his personal life in the basement.

Sometimes some of my friend’s dads would playfully rib Freddie about the fact that he seemed to be blissfully un-employed. Especially my friend Robert’s dad Bob Brennan.

Now Bob worked on the World Trade Center and told us countless stories about being up on the tower crane some 110 stories up. About how it swayed back and forth and almost got him sick on windy days.

“Hey get a job you bum”

Freddie would just laugh with all of us sitting around him.
Like overgrown Santa’s elf’s around our spiritual leader.

“Hey, I am working” “I’m teaching these kids about life,
including your son” “I’ll send you the bill next week!”

Sometimes another great Brooklyn philosopher and storyteller, Freddie’s downstairs tenant “Bobby Wilson” would join in on the conversation. Bobby Wilson was stocky and stood about six feet tall, with a big square jaw, dark blue eyes and midnight black hair. Bobby always looked like he was on the verge of murdering someone. He drove a tow truck for “Al & Leo’s” collision on 36th street near Fort Hamilton. In fact the place is now called “36th Street Collision” and Al is still the owner. Bobby always wore a dark blue jump suit with red script letters “Bobby” on his left chest, With the police scanner blaring and the volume up high, you always knew when Bobby was on the block. And don't forget, he had his name painted on the truck also, so you just couldn't miss him.

I think if Bobby didn’t know Freddie, he may have just beaten him up because of his long hair. Bobby hated hippies, freaks, the un-employed, the protesters, and the left-wingers. I think you get the picture. Yet together they were our own "Curtis Sliwa and Ron Kuby" right on East 4th street. Just arguing about everything and taking opposite sides on any subject. And of course Bobby’s solution for everything if conversation and debate didn’t work was to just “kick their asses” Most of Bobby’s stories were about his adventures driving his tow truck for Al and Leo. And usually when he was the first person to get to some horrible accident somewhere before the cops.

“Now who has a weak stomach here?”
“Because if you do, I don’t think you want to hear this one”

“OK, I heard this call on the scanner about a roll-over on McDonald and avenue C. It was late at night and I’m just a couple of blocks away. I get there and the car's totally in flames. It looked like a 69 Charger but I wasn’t sure. And the guys still in it because I see his head. So I try to pull the guy out of the car and the only thing I can grab is his head. So I’m on the ground squatting like this, just pulling and pulling. And them “Boom”, I fall backwards and the guy’s head comes off right in my hands. I’m on my back just looking at his head in my hands. I think he was even trying to talk to me too cause his lips were moving”.

At this point Freddie would be looking up at the
sky above East 4th, just rolling his eyes.

“Hey Freddie you think I’m bullshittin?”
“Cause if you do I’ll go upstairs and show you the guys ear,
I cut it off as a souvenir”

Freddie would just shake his head.

And the stories just went on and on, and the hot summer nights just rolled on by. I guess our parents were torn, on one hand they wanted us to be going out more, but then on the other all my mom had to do was poke her head out the window and see us all on Freddie’s stoop.

But just like everything when you were young,
you thought it would never end.
Until one day our nightmare came true.

Freddie told us he found a job and was going back to work.

Well, back to work, that’s ok. Because I worked too, and went to college also. So maybe Freddie couldn’t hang out till 2 AM anymore.

And then it hit us like a brick, my heart sunk, my world ended. Freddie told us his job was in Alaska, and he was leaving within a week, and would not be back for years.

We left the stoop that night feeling very depressed, but still held out some hope that Freddy was full of shit.

But then the day came that would be etched in my mind forever. Just a few days after Freddie told us the news I was sitting on my porch with some of the guys. Across the street was some guy walking with a clean white shirt and kacky pants. He crossed the street and started walking towards us. He had short black hair, clean smooth skin and a big bright smile. He also wore little round glasses.

“Do you guys know who I am?”
We just looked at him perplexed and said “no”
“You’re kidding, you don’t know who I am?”
“Sorry” we said, “we have no idea”
“You schmucks” the voice sounded familiar, yet the face wasn’t.
“I’m Freddie, you assholes”

Oh, my god, it was Freddie, he cut his beard, hair, and was wearing a white button down shirt and dress pants.

We all just stared at him in shock.

“I told you guys I got a job,
what did you think, I was full of shit?”

I guess maybe for once Freddie wasn't
full of shit, no he was really leaving the
block, and wouldn't be back for years.

I don’t remember the day Freddie left,
I may have been working or in college at the time.

We tried to pick up the pieces with Bobby Wilson and his tow truck stories, but it wasn’t the same without Freddie. Then tragically Bobby’s son Bobby jr. got real sick and died of a brain tumor. And Bobby just wasn’t the same anymore.

From what I heard he just stayed inside
his apartment and did a lot of crying.

The stoop in front of Freddie’s house was empty, yet there
was still hope that at least Bobby would be back someday.

But then one day when I got home from work I remember seeing a NYC morgue truck in front of Freddie’s house. I figured it was Freddie’s mom that died because she was quite old. As the black body bag was being carried out of the house, Bobby’s wife Eileen was holding on to it and crying. It was Bobby Wilson.

The doctors said it was an aneurism,
but we knew it was just a broken heart.
Because Bobby just could not live without his son.

I remember the funeral at Pitta’s on McDonald Avenue.
The whole block must have come that night.

And there was Bobby in the casket.
With a cigar in his pocket, and still looking like he could
kick someone’s ass, even in death.

Yeah, it was over.
Everyone was gone.

So the stoop remained empty forever at 418 East 4th.
And after Freddie’s parents died he sold the house.

We moved on with our lives. Found girlfriends or got married.
Some of us even moved away far from the block.

I heard Freddie finished his work in Alaska
and finally did get married.

In fact, rumor is he still lives in Brooklyn.

But truth is, I haven’t seen him in almost 30 years,
and neither has anyone else.

And I hope that some of those late night stories
about Brooklyn and life rubbed off on me too.
Because I grew up with some of the greatest storytellers
in Brooklyn, although at the time I don’t think they had
a clue that they were just that, “story tellers”.

And Freddie, wherever you are.
Thanks for all those great nights on your stoop.
Just hanging out and passing time,
and giving me a "gift" I will never forget.

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com


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Riding the train with Donald

He was tall and thin and carried a black garbage bag onto
the subway car. His skin was dark and his face unshaven.

I remember looking at another homeless man that day on
the F. He walked on to the train at the 14th street station
by Union Square, and just stood there across from where
I was standing.

And people gave him his “room” too, because that’s
what you do when the homeless walk onto your train,
you just give them their space, and hope they don’t
bother you.

I just stared at him and looked at his eyes, because
the eyes never change, even when you’re homeless.

He looked back at me, his eyes were as dark as coal,
he said nothing.

I know he felt strange when I saw him too. So he just
walked away and sat down on a seat facing the opposite
direction so I couldn’t notice who he was.

The people sitting next to him all got up and found
other seats in the subway car.

I walked towards him though, and sat beside him.

“Hey Donald, remember me?
it’s Ronnie from Art & Design”

He turned his head towards me,
but didn’t look in my eyes this time.

“How you doin man?” is all he said

“I’m fine Don, I’m fine”

“Yeah, well, you know since High School
things have been a little rough for me”
“I’m ok, but things are just not that good”

I remember my first day of high school back in 1972,
Donald was one of the first people I sat with at
the lunch table in the back of the cafeteria.

Donald always wore these really cool tinted sunglasses and
had a small goatee. While most other kids weren’t even
shaving yet, including me, Don looked like he may have
been about 20 years old.

Along with Donald, I also sat with Ernest and Sandy.
Donald and Ernest were black, while Sandy was Jewish.
We were certainly a cross section of New York, but hey.
That’s what made the High School of Art and Design
so cool back in 1972.

Yeah, the High School of Art and Design. I never knew
some of my best friends were gay until my senior year.
And to tell you the truth it never really mattered either.
Because we were all such good friends, and all artists anyway.
All going to a school were nobody cared about “what” you
were. And no one felt they were better than anyone else.

We all just loved that school so much,
including my friend Donald.

“Hey man I’m getting off here”

I reached into by jacket and gave
Donald a twenty-dollar bill.

Donald just looked at me and said “thanks”.

That was about 25 years ago and
I haven’t seen Donald since.

So the next time you see someone riding
the F-train with a bundle of sorrow.
Think about my friend Donald, and never
ever feel that you’re better than anyone else.
Because someday that person just might be you.

Ron Lopez


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Life Before Cable & Satellite TV (by Josh Seff)

One of my best childhood memories was watching my favorite shows and sports on a black and white TV. The TV screen was small and of course had a rabbit ear antenna sitting on top. Remember how you had to get the antenna in just the right position to get decent reception? Usually this involved a family member (that would be me) having to hold the antenna to get the best reception. If you didn’t get the antenna just right, you get the dreaded lost horizontal control where the picture would scroll around and around making your head spin.

The TV’s back then had tubes and took a while to “warm-up.” There was a TV repair store on Church Ave. and Dahill Rd. that had a “Tube Tester” to check if you had a bad tube and get a new one if it was burned out. Unlike the hundreds of channels we have now, back then we only had 7 channel choices-2, 4, 5, 7, 9, 11 and 13.

Changing channels actually involved some physical effort-getting off the couch and turning the dial. Remote control? We didn’t need no stinkin’ remote control! I’ve always been a channel changer whether it’s a radio or a TV. I actually broke our TV channel changer dial. I would spin the TV dial like a Vegas roulette wheel! The only way to turn the dial after my rough treatment was to use a pair of pliers on the little metal stub that remained. I remember watching TV at Charlie Gili’s house and changing the channels. When Charlie’s father saw me spin the dial he called out, “Hey, that’s not some part from a submarine!”

We finally got a color TV in 1975 or ‘76 but the rabbit ears remained a necessity. Now, the problem was not the horizontal control but losing the color if the antenna was not positioned perfectly. Many people had roof antennas but we rented and landlords usually didn’t like you messing with their roofs or chimneys. Roof antennas were not always the solution to bad reception either. You had to make sure the antenna was pointed towards the World Trade Center where the TV stations broadcasted their signals. I discovered the perfect solution one day-an antenna that rotates sold at RadioShack! A small motor that you control from your living room turns the antenna until you get the best reception. With the help of Steven Marshak (spelling?) we installed my rotary antenna on the roof above the second floor balcony. Hey, we weren’t on the actual roof of the house so no need to inform the landlord! The other selling point of the rotary antenna was the possibility of picking up a TV signal from Philadelphia and watching hockey games. Unfortunately, I was never able to pick up a strong signal out of Philly. I might have been hallucinating, (it was the 70’s) but a couple of times I could make out the resemblance of a hockey game mixed in with mostly TV snow.

Remember, this is before cable came to Brooklyn and we could only watch Ranger away games on channel 9 (WOR) with Jim Gordon doing play by play and Bill (The Big Whistle) Chadwick commentating. The home games were shown on the MSG Cable Network only in selected Manhattan areas around the Garden. My aunt and uncle lived in co-op apartment near the Garden so if we couldn’t get tickets to a play-off game, I would ask them if we could watch on their cable TV. Eventually Charlie, Alfred Guerrero and I got Ranger season tickets up in the blue seats-section 440! I think it was only around $180 per season ticket or around $4.50 per game! The problem is there were three people for only two seats. Fortunately, Charlie created a spreadsheet (pre-computer) and a schedule that had the three of us going to an equal number of games. The other amazing thing was that Charlie set up the schedule so we would each see the same number of visiting teams. Of course, there were complaints occasionally if someone didn’t have tickets to a big rivalry game. We even found a way around this problem so all three of us could go to a game. We would get an old ticket stub and wrap a ten dollar bill around it and hand it to the ticket taker. We knew which ticket takers would accept the “bribe.” The three of us would actually sit in the two seats if we couldn’t find an empty seat. It’s ironic that today Alfred is a security guard at the Garden! Look for Al and his big mustache at ice-level. He opens the gate to the dressing room between periods.

Today you can watch any game and team with the NHL Center Ice package on cable or satellite TV. The games are now broadcasted in high definition which is great for hockey viewing. It would’ve been nice having all these viewing options and technology when we were growing up. However, we sure had some good times trying to watch as many games as possible.

Josh Seff
　

Grandpa Carmelo; His Shovel & The American Dream in Kensington by Charlie Gili

Carmelo Gili circa 1920 (Far Right with shovel)

Waves of immigrants came to America and are still coming. The American dream in its conception and pursuit is almost unfathomable in its design and yet perfect in its simplicity. Live and let live. Worship or not as you wish. Put your faith in yourself and what you can do through hard work and fair play. Some folks still believe in such things and others might think they are owed something and that life is all about getting over. Well, this story is not about that group.

Carmelo Gili or Charlie as he would later be called, left his homeland on the tiny island of Malta, in the Mediterranean Sea in 1907at the age of 13. Imagine that? 13 years old. I certainly couldn't imagine my son or daughter or myself being on my own at that age. I guess back then it was a lot more common for young people, kids really, to venture out and try making it on their own. Just to make his situation a bit more challenging, Carmelo not only left Malta and his family, but he went to sea as they say, to sail the seven seas.

In those days ships didn't really sail much anymore as in sail boats or clipper ships. For the most part, ships were powered by steam. Steam ran the engines that turned the cork-screw propellers that drove those ships through the oceans of the world.

To describe making steam as hard work would be a bit of an understatement, especially by today's standards, but that's what 13 year-old Carmelo did. He stoked furnaces in the bellies of ships from Valetta to China and San Francisco, to South America, Australia, India, Casablanca and Madagascar, Jamaica, Liverpool, Cuba and probably 100s of ports all over the globe, in his seventeen years aboard ship.

Stoking a ships furnace in those days was dangerous, back breaking work. The "stokers", later called fire-man (a person who tends fires), would basically shovel coal into a furnace. The coal would burn and heat water that would create steam to power the engines. Simple right? Except that there was no OSHA on those ships, no unions, very little safety precautions for the laborers and little law as we know it. Basically, it was tough it out or simply, just get out.

Grandpa Carmelo entered New York Harbor to stay, in 1924 and he brought with him arms wrapped in anchor chain tattoos and a chest adorned with a tattooed, fully-rigged ship, broad shoulders, the money he'd saved from his years at sea and his shovel.

He met and married my Italian grandmother Eva Colombo an accomplished seamstress in 1927and they rented a walk-up apartment on Mulberry Street in Manhattan's Little Italy. Carmelo went to work for the Heide Candy Company (founded in 1869 by another immigrant from Germany.) Grandpa made use of his shovel again and his ship-board education of boiler systems was valuable experience, since boilers were also used in the candy making process.

Hard work and determination eventually earned Carmelo and Eva enough money to buy their own home on East 2nd Street, in Kensington. They had two children; my Aunt Angel and my dad, Anthony. Later on there were 8 grandchildren, with me arriving first and named after my grandfather. (If you ever meet a Charles or an Anthony Gili anywhere in the world...guaranteed, they are a relative of mine!)

Working for the Heide Candy Company had its rewards! Around Christmas time we'd all wait for "The Box" to show up in the mail at grandpa's house. We lived just across the alleyway from my grandparents, so we'd usually see it (the box) coming! You see, some of the employees who worked for the Heide Co. would get this big box around the holidays and it was loaded with all sorts of Heide candy products; Mexican Hats, Red Hot Dollars, Jujubes and my favorite; Jujyfruits! The extra neat thing was that the candy was packaged in the giant-sized boxes that you can get these days, but you couldn't back then. The only time I ever saw a giant box of these candies as a kid, was when they showed up in the special carton that was delivered to my grandfather.

When people find out that I have a Maltese heritage, they always think that Malta is somehow a part of Italy, but it's not. It is its own country, most recently gaining independence from England back in the 1970s. Its location in the middle of the Mediterranean has always made its possession a strategic holding in wars dating back before the Crusades and it is probably one of the most "conquered" pieces of real estate in world history. The language is very guttural sounding, much closer to Arabic than Italian.

Sundays were always a big deal. It was often a day to "have company." You don't hear that expression much anymore, but this was the common phrase back then. This basically meant that someone or many some ones (usually family) were coming to visit, to eat with us and usually they would bring some cake or pastries. We'd all go to church in the morning, but my grandmother would go to the earliest mass at IHM, ahead of the rest of us because she wanted to get back in her kitchen to start some monster cooking marathon for "the company" due to arrive later on.

Sometimes those family visits were just for fun and other times they were for some kind of project. If there was some big thing that needed doing, the Gili's didn't often, if ever, hire a contractor. Roof needed repairing, new sidewalk needed pouring, brick face needed rehabbing, no problem. Call out the family and they'd come with tools and material. Once the work was done, it was time to eat!

After dinner, Maltese men into one room to scream and yell in Maltese about the politics of the day, usually about independence from the English. Grandma and the women would be cleaning up and starting to reheat and push the leftovers at you or make coffee, so we could eat the company's cakes or pastries. (By the way, they called the coffee pot the percolator.)
Italian grandmothers are about as famous as Jewish grandmothers for making you eat until you're almost ill. After that they toss more plates of food at you and look at you like your crazy when you say you're full. I have a feeling that's true of all grandmothers regardless of their heritage!

Grandpa Carmelo loved America. He became a maniac NY Mets fan and the sight of a drooping chest pocket during baseball season was common on game days. That pocket held a small transistor radio and a single wire ear plug ran up to his ear.
You'd always know if the Mets were doing poorly. If you saw my grandfather rip that wire from his ear, take the radio out of his pocket and spin that little on-off dial to the off position, mumbling something under his breath that we weren't supposed to hear, you knew the Mets were not having a good day.

If I "caught" him doing that, I'd be ready to rib him about his Mets, since I was a Yankee fan. He'd cut me off and say, "The Yankees, they stink!" He'd wave his hand at the air and go back to griping about his team. Baseball got in his blood pretty good. Looking back, I think that baseball was one of the things that helped him assimilate in America.

Grandpa Carmelo lived in Kensington for about 40 years. He never left. The 13-year-old little boy from Malta did what he set out to do. To simply live a good life. Family was always the most important thing. He never owned a car and never made tons of money, but he had his home and his family. He never wanted anything for nothing and never expected anything for nothing. After all, HE was an American.

As my grandfather got into his later years, I would always expect to see him sitting in his chair at the window at the front of his house. When I left for school he'd wave goodbye and when I came home he'd wave to welcome me back.

I was a senior at FDR high school in 1974 and coming back home on a cold, wintery day. There was a few inches of snow on the ground. As I neared my grandfather's house at 208, I noticed his snow shovel inexplicably lying on the ground near his front stoop. This struck me as odd, since he was a stickler with taking care of his tools. I glanced up to check his usual window perch, but he wasn't there.

I picked up his shovel to let him know it was left out front and made my way around to the alleyway entrance that we used each day. I walked in to find out that grandpa Charlie was gone. His 80 year journey had ended with a heart attack earlier that afternoon. The shovel I picked up was the one he was using when he died. The shovel he was using in front of his own piece of the American Dream he found in Kensington.

The family used to scold grandpa about doing heavy work at his age, but another trait of the Maltese is that they "have heads like rocks" as my family would say. At 80, with a shovel in his hands, I don't think my grandpa would have wanted to leave this world any other way.

I still have one of his shovels in my garage that my dad had in his. Some people might find it an odd keepsake, but whenever I pick it up it reminds me of where I come from and of two of the wonderful men who taught me what it means to be an American in Kensington.

Charlie Gili

(Thanks again Charlie for another wonderful story)
Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

Catskill WebCam Today @ 12 noon

Last night it was in the upper 40's on the mountain.
Not long before the snow starts falling again!

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

News from the Block

• On a sad note…

Bob Brennan, the mayor of East Fourth Street, informed me that Andrew Eagan’s sister Teresa died last week. According to Bob it was the result of complications she had after knee surgery. Teresa Eagan was only 42 years old and leaves behind a husband and a young daughter. Our condolences to Andrew and his family.


• The Rev turned 80 years old last month and he’s still out there every day polishing his Caddie until the sun goes down.

“I don’t smoke, I don’t drink, and I don’t
eat any kind of animals or fish”

Yes, I give the “Rev” credit, he’s still out there every day and hasn’t seen a doctor since the day he was discharged from the service back in the 50’s.

All I can say is “Hallelujah”


• We had our East Fourth Street block party on Saturday July 25th. The street was closed and everyone had a blast. I was wondering about the possibility of having our next reunion on the same day as the block party. This way we can play hockey without stopping for cars every five seconds.


• Glenn Gruder will be happy to know that after 90 years I finally had my garage door fixed. Not replaced, no, just fixed. I also found the hatchet that I tried to hit him with too. It was sticking out a bag of Matzo meal I have been storing in the garage since 1980.


• The other day I was skating around in front of my house and shooting pucks into our old net. You know those plastic pucks really suck on the street; they bounce around and turn sideways all the time. So I took out a Scotch 88 and the thing slid like it was on ice.
I guess a simple roll of black tape still works after all these years, even on East Fourth Street.


• Judy Spinner's house is almost all fixed up after that terrible fire back in April. Another reason why it's important to have homeowner's insurance.


• I hope everyone is getting into shape because October 3rd will be here before you know it. And that’s the first date of many “Reunion” games down at Avenue F. I myself have been practicing by having the monkeys at Prospect Park zoo throw their feces at me. And although my goalie pads and gloves smell like hell, it’s really helped me improve my reflexes.

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

Comment Moderation (Turned Off)

Ok, so I finally turned off (Comment Moderation) on my blog.
So now you guys can communicate with each other without
me opening up every email and clicking the "OK" button.
Just like a telephone or yelling at each other from across
the street like when we sat on our stoops.

So have fun and watch the cursing, ok?
Wow, have we entered 2009 or what!

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

The Play Date from Hell

The "Play Date from Hell" started like any other “play date” usually does. You’re in a park or playground with you son or daughter just pushing them on that black-seated swing. They’re laughing away with their little legs kicking back in forth having another wonderful day. And there’s that woman next to you again with that big straw hat. You have seen her about three times so far and yet have never spoke. You have your “nanny” radar on and so far so good.
Time to move on this, looks like the mom.

“Oh, so how old is your daughter?”

“Well, she just turned three on August 14.”

So far, so good, no corrections yet
about her not being the mother.

“Are you from New York?”

“Oh, me too”
“What’s her name?”

“Oh, she has such beautiful blonde hair”.

Now, for the big one as your leaving.

“Here, let me give you my number,
maybe the kids can get together one day.”

She smiles and gives you her number too.

"Mission accomplished" is all you say to yourself as
you push open the heavy metal gate of the playground.

And just like any other date, you still wonder if they’re
going to call. Everyone is just so polite nowadays, and you
wouldn’t expect them to crumple up your phone number
right in front of your face now would you?

And then one day the phone finally rings.

“Hi, this is “………” from the playground,
we met the other day.”

“Sure that sounds great”
“I’ll see you then.”

Oh, coffee or tea, what should I make?
Now, which toys have that lead based paint?
Better hide the “Little Princess” stuff.
I know he’s only “experimenting” but she doesn’t.

Ok, good, NPR as back-round noise.

The doorbell rings, and there she is.

“Hi, so nice to see you”
“Oh, she’s so beautiful.”

Now my wife is a stay at home mom and has always been a pretty good disciplinarian with our son. No beatings or anything like that, just right from wrong, stand in the corner, 1, 2, 3, so on and so on. And let me tell you, it all works. He’s eight years old now and hasn’t spit at his teacher since pre-school.

And then it started, just like that.

The big wooden spoon just struck the back of my sons little
three-year-old head. The blonde girl just laughed after she did it.

My wife just sat there thinking the lady in the big straw hat would
say something. Hoping in some way she would tell her daughter
not to do it again.

“Oh, is he having a bad day?”
said the lady in the straw hat.

Is this woman totally insane?

Your little blonde haired daughter just whacked my kid on the head
with a wooden spoon, he’s crying and you’re asking my wife if
“he’s having a bad day?”

My wife gently confiscated the wooden spoon from
the little blonde girl. She then started crying.

“Oh, Virginia, I think she wants the spoon back”
said the lady with the straw hat.

My wife gave the spoon back to the little blonde girl.

“Now no hitting,” said my wife.

“Oh, you don’t have to tell her that,
she knows not to hit.”

And it just continued…………..

My son spent most of the “play date” trying to protect himself from the little blonde girl. The mother was just totally oblivious to anything her daughter did, yet totally tuned in to my sons crying after he would get whacked by the spoon.

“Oh, Andres, I’m sorry, are you having a bad day?”
said the lady with the big straw hat.

Now, my son was pretty verbal as a three year old,
you know the third adult syndrome, blah, blah, blah.

And here it comes, those moments in life that you never forget.
The ones you tell your kids about when they’re older.

The lady with the big straw hat stood by the front doorway with
her blonde demonic child in the stroller.

She just looked at my son and said,

“I hope the next time we visit
you won't have such a “bad day”

With that my three-year-old son
just looked at her and said,

“YOU ARE A VERY STUPID WOMAN”.

The gasp could be heard around the world.

The woman with the big straw
hat just looked at my son frozen.

My wife started sweating while I was
laughing inside as hard as I could.

Let me tell you when you grow up in Brooklyn
you just love moments like this, you just do.

My wife and I did our best to make Andres
apologize for his remark, although we knew he
just said what we were thinking all throughout
the entire play date.

My wife did her best to avoid the woman with the big straw hat form that day on. Carefully surveying the playground before she opened the heavy black gate day after day. It was just that bad.

We don’t know what happened to the lady with the big straw hat and her daughter, she never called us and we never called her. It was Brooklyn justice, plain and simple. But like all good "Kensington Stories", they all start somewhere.

And we’ll never forget the “Play Date from Hell”

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com


Free Counter

Pete, Charlie, Josh, time to donate your quads!

Ok, so I thought my cousin Pete's skates were old?
Inline skates in 1910?
National Museum of Roller Skating?

Did someone lace my coffee this morning?
because this can't be real.

I mean I know Pete and I were ready for the
Pan American Games back in 1979. In fact we
were ready to skate there from Kensington, but
using a rubber ball rather than a "Scotch 88"
may have turned us off to the whole thing.

And besides, with no Bill Webster or Fred Allen
there, it just wouldn't be the same.

Hey, do you guys still have those quads?
Because I think mine became part of a
dolly I built to roll my transmission on back
in 1990.

National Museum of Roller Skating:
http://www.rollerskatingmuseum.com/hockey.htm

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

NYC Roller Hockey 1951

This shot looks like it was taken by Columbus Circle.
Check out the skates! Hey, is that Bill Webster?

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

Kensington London vs. Kensington Brooklyn

Hey wait a second, it looks like someone over the "pond"
is stealing our building plans. And aren't those "Comfort Inn"
flags the ones me and the boys stole back in the 70's near
Kennedy Airport after a long night at of too many
Rolling Rocks and Poker over at Glenn Gruder's house?

Something about "Kensington London" just doesn't
seem right you know, especially the blue sky.

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

My Daughter Loves the Cars

Ok, so one of my favorite bands from the late 70's and 80's was the Cars. And I am proud to say that my five year old daughter loves to listen to Ric and the Cars on iTunes with my Mac blasting the walls apart. Yes, me and the boys saw them at the "Doctor Pepper" concerts in Central Park and then later at Madison Square Garden back in the old days. And to my amazement I met Ric at the Home Depot on 23rd street in NYC last year. He was standing right in front of me buying light bulbs and hardware.

You gotta love the Cars and good old Ric.

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

Catskill Webcam tonight @ 7:33 pm

Nice shot of the mountains 150 miles from Brooklyn

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com