Ron Lopez: Fugitive

Not all Kensington Stories really take place in Kensington you know, especially this one.
I mean it did start in Kensington that evening, but ended in a very strange place that warm spring night back in 1996. And it certainly was a night I will never forget, and it truly became a story for the ages in my Brooklyn life.

I don’t know why I made such a fast left turn that night off 40th onto Eight Avenue in Manhattan. I remember hearing the real wheels of my 84 Monte Carlo squeal a little. Maybe she even fish-tailed too. But whatever it was or wasn’t, it was sure enough to get the attention of a patrol car waiting for a red light on Eighth Avenue.

But being cautiously optimistic, I gently pressed on the gas pedal, and kept driving anyway. Hoping a Brooklyn snail cruise would maybe somehow make up for the dangerous show she just put on.

And like a Bay Ridge cruiser on the boulevard, she slowly moved along, the sound of her 350 V8 softly rumbled in the warm
Manhattan night.

Buy the time I passed the Port Authority and approached 43rd street the police car was directly behind me with lights flashing. The Monte’s slow speed probably caught their attention even more.
I could see the cop in the drivers seat motioning me to pull over to the left by one of the blinking peep shows that made Eighth Avenue it's home.

So I pulled over to the left, put the Monte in park and waited for the cops to walk over to my window. They both opened the doors of their squad car in perfect harmony and slowly walked over to my car.
One stood by my driver’s window, the other in the street by the passenger side. The cop by my driver’s window slowly leaned down and looked at me.

“Do you know why we pulled you over?”

Now, if there’s one thing I have learned in all my life here in New York City, It’s always a good idea to be polite to a cop. And never really “bullshit” them either, because they do this stuff for a living and can smell a bullshit artist a mile away. And besides I was on the way to my friend Justin’s apartment up by Central Park West,
and I was late already.

“Yes officer, I made that left a little too fast”

“Could I see your driver’s license and vehicle registration please”?

“Yes officer”

So I gave him my license and registration and he walked back to the patrol car with his partner. They sat in the car for a while and seemed to be looking at something inside their car. Maybe a computer screen or something.

They then both got out of the car and approached my window again.

“Mr. Lopez, can we ask you to step out of the car please”.
“And keep your hands where we can see them”.

“Sure, no problem”.

So I un-folded myself out of the Monte and stood against the drivers door of my ride. For whatever reason I was wearing my favorite long black leather coat that night. I was also trying to grow a beard that week. So I had to look just a little too cool for my own good.

“Is there some kind of problem officer?”

Suddenly there was a lot of chatter on his police radio, my location was mentioned over and over, “43rd and Eighth Avenue, 43 and Eighth Avenue”.

And that’s when they came, about four other police cars. They surrounded my Monte Carlo, and the police surrounded me.

They just all stood milling around, and then it was time for
Mister “Tough Guy Cop”.

This little guy who probably stood up to my chest starts getting in my face, well actually my chest but who’s counting.

“Mr. Lopez, I have a few questions to ask you”

“Ok, sure”.

“Have you ever been to the state of Texas?’

“Maybe once on a business trip I stopped over in Dallas,
but that’s it”.

“Well mister Lopez we have a big problem here, a real big problem.”

“What kind of problem?”

“Well that’s what you have to tell me mister Lopez”.

So there I stood against the door of my car on 8th Avenue, the bright lights of Show World just flickering away and reflecting off the windows of my car. People started to gather around and watch the side show being played out on the hot asphalt on a
warm spring night.

There were more cops and more cars parked around mine.

And then I just started to laugh; I just couldn’t take it anymore.

“I don’t know why you’re laughing, this is a very serious mater”
said “Tough Guy Cop”.

And then it hit me, it was all a set-up. My good friend Bobby Brennan worked for the mayor and must have set-up the whole thing. Oh, that Bobby Brennan! Or maybe one of my old girlfriends, yeah, the one I never called back; maybe she knew some cops and wanted to get “even” with me because I was a jerk to her.

And then it was “Tough Guy Cop” Part II.

“Now mister Lopez, I’m going to ask you once again. And look straight into my eyes when you answer me. Do you know why we are holding you here?”

“No, I do not”.

“YOU ARE WANTED FOR A MURDER COMMITTED IN THE STATE OF TEXAS MISTER LOPEZ” said the “Tough Guy Cop”.

“What?” What?” Murder?

“We just ran your name and date of birth, and a Ronald Lopez born December 30th 1957 is a wanted fugitive for murder in Texas”.

And once again I thought of my friend Bobby Brennan playing a prank on me for forgetting his Birthday or something.

“Now, we are going to ask you to get into the patrol car and come down to Midtown South. We are going to have the Houston Police department fax over a picture for confirmation”.

“Ok, sure, all I was doing tonight was catching the Ranger game anyway”

“We’ll have someone drive your car down to the station house too”

So I gave one of the cops my car keys and walked over to the patrol car, I was praying that no one from my job saw this “freak show” right in front of all the porno places on Eighth Avenue.

I remember talking some small talk with the guys in the patrol car, and of course dropping names of all my hockey buddies who were “on the job” themselves working for the NYC police Department. Hoping one of them may recognize a name.

There were no handcuffs and the guys were actually very polite to me as we walked into the station house somewhere in the 30’s off Ninth Avenue. They had me sit down on a metal chair by a cop in front of a desk.

“You know mister Lopez this is probably a big mix-up, but we have to wait for Houston to send us a picture of this guy” If we just let you go, then we wouldn’t be doing what we have to do” said the cop by the desk.

“Hey, you do what you got to do, I got all night, and besides
I was just going to a friends house uptown to catch the Ranger game anyway.”

For the first time in about a couple of hours I was starting to feel like this nightmare was going to be over.

So I waited and waited and waited. Cops in and out of the stationhouse, strange stares from anyone who walked by.

And then I heard it, and I started to get really nervous.

The sound of the fax machine.

What if the picture that comes out of that thing is me?

What if someone really did set me up?

What if that girl I never got back to really
does want to get back at me?

And then came the moment I was waiting for. After about three hours waiting in the precinct the fax was finally out. The two cops just looked at it and started laughing.

Now it was my turn to break their humps.

“Hey guys, what’s so funny? Is it really me?”

The two cops walked over to me and showed me the fax. It was indeed a “Ronald Lopez” and his d.o.b. on the wanted poster was indeed 12/30/1957. Except he looked more like George Lopez with a full black beard rather than me.

And out came “Tough Guy Cop”.

“Mister Lopez we just wanted to apologize to you for any inconvenience you may have suffered” “Its just that the odds of having the same name and date of birth with another person is very rare”. “And of course it is our job to check all the facts to make sure we are not letting someone go who may have been wanted in another state. “I hope you didn’t miss the whole Ranger game, I hear their winning in the third period”.

“Tough Guy Cop” shook my hand and smiled.
“You seem pretty calm for someone who just wasted three hours in a station house”

“Hey, you got to do your job right? and besides I have a lot of friends "on the job" anyway".

He handed me my car keys and I walked out of the
precinct, my Monte Carlo was parked in front.

I took a deep breath and was a free man once again. And the lights of the City never looked sweeter that warm spring night in 96.

Yes, I was a free man.

So there you go, a story to remember, yes one for the ages.
Murderer one minute, good son the next.

Yeah, another night on the town for a kid from Kensington,
just growing up in the only town I have ever known.
The big town we simply call New York.

Ron Lopez
P.S. Yes, that story was true, I kid you not!



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Feeling real good about being wrong

So what happens after I write my story about the “Skuut” wooden bike
you ask?
Well, my wife promptly orders one on Amazon, and that goes against every ounce of Brooklyn logic in my over-sized head. “What did you do that for?” “It’s like a thug walking a Poodle after he brags about his Pit Bull”. “What if the one or two people who still read my blog see me with Hennessey riding that thing?”
“As “Mr. T” used to say on the “A-Team”, “I pity the fool”.

And guess who was the one to open the box and put it together?, yes, you got it right. Just muttering under my breath about Park Slope and the lack of steel bikes the kids ride over there during the entire five minute assembly process.

“Are you almost finished? Hennessey is really getting excited about riding her new bike” said my wife.

“Almost done, just one more allen nut to tighten” As I torqued down the last gold nut, my daughter was already standing my my side, anxiously waiting for me to finish the “assembled in Brooklyn” part of this whole “egg on my face” day I was having.

“Now Hennessey, this bike has no petals, Daddy says “no petals”. Without paying attention to anything I had to say, she grabbed the bike from me and sat on the wooden seat which was covered with a bright red seat cover they threw in the box.

And to my amazement my daughter just started riding it around the apartment. She would gently push herself around while trying to lift both of her feet at the same time. Within a few minutes she was already trying to balance herself on the thing. “You see Ronnie, I told you it actually helps children learn how to balance themselves at an early age” said my wife. “It’s probably going to be very easy for her to ride a two wheeler after she’s outgrown this”. “Want to go outside, want to go outside” said my little curly haired daughter.

So there we were on the sidewalks of East 4th in Kensington, Brooklyn. My daughter just gliding up and down the block having the time of her life on her wooden “Skuut”, and me feeling as proud as ever watching her, and knowing that once again I was very wrong about what I actually didn’t really know.

But, hey that’s OK, I can take it. Have been wrong thousands of times in my sweet Brooklyn life. And I’m sure this isn’t the last time either. And you know what, this one is really special. Just a little story about a "Skuut" on another Spring day in Kensington Brooklyn, and actually feeling real good about being "wrong" once again.

Ron Lopez


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Saturday Night "Dead" in Kensington, Brooklyn

Well folks here's another photo to prove to you that we were still years away from catching any sexually transmitted diseases in Kensington, Brooklyn. Another lonely Birthday or New Years Eve for the boys of East 4th street. How the hell did we all manage to get married or even find a date, I’ll never know. And me with that horrible pen line moustache, what’s that all about? From the left: Bobby Brennan, Me, Glen Gruder and my Cousin Pete. Both Glenn and Pete are now successful attorneys and have since gotten rid of the Afro and beard. Glenn escaped to Kings Park, Long Island and Pete to Florida, New York. Bobby Brennan is head of public relations at the Long Island Railroad and I'm still a Graphic Artist after 100 years. I sure loved my light tan “Frye” boots, I used to buy them at a place called “Tee-Pee” town on 42nd street between 6th and 5th avenue in Manhattan. A big twenty five bucks bought me a brand new pair back in 1974. Too bad they didn't sell shavers.

Ron Lopez


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A Kensington Birthday (1962)

It has almost been 46 years since this picture was taken in my Grandmother's apartment upstairs from us.
I'm not sure who's Birthday it was, but I do remember it well.
Our friends from Downsville, New York drove to Brooklyn that day and were scared to death of all the "city" traffic. They are shown seated in the backround, Harold Conklin and Frank Shaver. My Aunt Dolores Liria holding my cousin Denise, cousin Pete is next to her, and me in the high chair in front. My Mom with my brother Joseph to my right.
399 East 4th used to be the center of the universe for the entire family, maybe someday it will happen again.

Ron Lopez


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Kensington (Sunday Morning and Saturday Night)

No, we did not take drugs, we just looked that stupid all the time back in 1975. Pete Liria, Bobby Brennan, and me with more hair than I knew how to comb!




Yes, I was a "Boy Scout" Thats me on the left, Paul McNally (center) and my cousin Pete Liria (right) This picture was taken on the morning I was being shipped to summer camp back in about 71.

Ron Lopez

A Second Child in Kensington Brooklyn

I think it all hit me when I was about 16 years old.

“Hey Mom, why aren’t there more baby pictures of me?”
“All I see in this photo album are pictures of Joey”.
“Oh, there are plenty pictures of you Ronnie”.

Yet, as I flipped through the old photo album on our kitchen table, all I saw were dozens of small black and white pictures of my brother.

“Hey Mom, is this me with you standing on the steps of the house?”
“Oh, oh, I think that’s your brother Joey”.
“Who’s this baby in the carriage outside the Prospect Park Zoo”?
“Let me put my glasses on Ronnie”.
My mom put on her reading glasses that were draped around her neck, with the long silver chain gently rocking back and forth, she slowly came to a well thought conclusion.

“It looks like you, but I think It’s your brother Joey”.
“Mom, you didn’t buy me in Poland did you?”
“No Ronnie, I’m your Mother and I even have your birth certificate in the “hunting closet”.

Now, we had some strange names for the “closets” in our attic apartment at 399. There was the “sliding door closet” the “sewing closet” and the “hunting closet”. The “hunting closet” took its name from the fact that my Dad was a big deer hunter and usually kept all his hunting equipment in there, including his rifles which were long gone anyway.

“No, no, I believe you Mom, you don’t have to show me anything”.

Because the "second child" always understands.
And the second child is me.


And then there were the “hand-me-downs”

They used to call my tricycle the “doodie mobile”. It had no fenders, was all scratched up and had to be the ugliest brown color you have ever laid your eyes on. Yes, a hand me down from my older cousin Frankie, while my older brother Joseph and cousin Pete had these brand new tricycles with “space age” looking fenders and shinny chrome spokes.

I clearly remember rolling down the incline of our driveway at 399 East 4th and slamming into their “new” tricycles broadside.
“Hey, your'e going to scratch my bike” “stop it Ronnie, what are you crazy?” said my cousin Pete.

And there I was, with a little devilish grin on my face trying to ram their brand new tricycles with my horrid “doodie mobile”. Knowing that it could never get any worse for my “ride” and me, I just persisted in making their lives a living hell on the sidewalks of
East 4th street.

Yes, it would be “revenge” of the hand-me-downs today.
Second child “hand-me-downs”.

“You know Ronnie, you learned everything on your own, and we didn’t have to teach you anything”. “You poured your own water, and used a fork way before your brother ever did”. “And forget about potty training, I think you were doing “number 2” in just a day or so”. “If you ever have a second child, you’ll understand".

Because the "second child" always understands.
And the second child is me.

And my Mom was right you know. The second child “always understands”, from shirts to toys, to fishing poles. My older brother and cousin were always there to supply me with a wealth of goods too small or too boring for them to care about anymore. Yes, it was “Christmas” every day for the “second” child.

And as for my “doodie brown” tricycle, well, one day I was given a brand new red “space age” tricycle that matched my brother's blue one and Pete’s green one. Long gone were the days of ramming into them in front of our house on East 4th street. What do you think?
I’d want to scratch on my brand new bike?

And photographs? Yeah, I have plenty of them you know. From sitting on my Mom’s lap in our 63 Rambler to feeding her water with a straw at Beth Israel on Kings Highway the day before she died. Always telling me how much she loved me, even at the threshold of her death. Yes, more photos in my mind than a photo album could
ever hold.

And you know what, we even had a “second child” ourselves. And she already has her three year old eyes on her brother's purple bike, always asking me when she can ride it. Just another found “treasure” for our “second” child.

So you see, my Mom was right.
The second child always understands,
even if one is fifty and the other is three.

Because we are the “second children”.
And the second children are us.

Ron Lopez



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Pictures from Kensington (70's)

Thats me on the left, my cousin Pete and cousin Denise.
When you grow up together for 20 years,
they really become your "brother and sister"
My cousin Pete had a full beard at 16!
The photo was taken in their old apartment
on the first floor of 399 East 4th.
We now live in the same apartment.




Playing goalie against my cousin Pete,
35 years later we still play together.
A little slower, with more muscles aching,
but we still do!




My coisin Pete and Bobby Brennan Jr.
at Avenue F back in about 1974.

Ron Lopez


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A Tragic Morning on Church Avenue

I wish I never had gone to Church Avenue that morning back in 1973. Because what I saw that day never leaves my mind, like an awful photograph it appears out of nowhere. So clear, so vivid,
and so horrible.

The woman stood in the street near the corner of East Second Street. She was screaming so loud, you could hear her all the way from Beverly Road.

Her cries were blood curdling.

They were sounds of anguish, they were sounds of tragedy.

She stood there trembling uncontrollably, her body was in shock.

“Mom, Mom, Mom” “Oh, my God Mom”

In one hand she held a pair of black shoes, in the other she held two pocketbooks. There were people around her trying to console her,
yet she was deaf to their comfort.

“Mom, Mom” “Oh my God Mom”

The young woman was standing right behind a gigantic "Kings" concrete truck. There near the rear wheel closest to the curb, was the crumpled body of her mother. A long trail of fresh blood, and clothing stretched all the way to East Third Street. It was the most awful scene I have ever seen in my life.

The young woman’s mother was certainly dead.

As I stood there frozen near East 3rd, by Korner Pizza, I could hear the sounds of Police cars and ambulances in the far distance. There wouldn't be much need for them, it was too late for the young woman’s mother.

I don’t know why I went to Church Avenue that morning, because I just turned around and went back home. Whatever my Mom asked me to buy was just forgotten that day. Just lost in the tragedy of some young woman who just witnessed her mother die.

I couldn’t help but think about that young woman that evening and about the tragic loss she suffered that day. And I know I must have hugged my mother a little tighter that night, and worried about her more than ever when she crossed the streets of Kensington,
from that day on.

A day that I will always remember,
somewhere along time ago,
in the Kensington of my youth
so many years ago.

Ron Lopez


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A Windsor Terrace walk

This past Sunday the family walked back to Kensington from Park Slope. Instead of taking the train, we decided to walk straight through Windsor Terrace and avoid the usual “Prospect Park South West” route we’ve taken dozens of times in
the past.

For someone who really thinks he knows the area, I was blown away by some of those pretty little blocks up there.
Just so many beautiful wood frame and brick houses, and not to mention those majestic Sand stones. Blocks that I never walked on before, streets that I never heard of, it was all so “new” even to me.

You see, when you grow up here you tend to stick to your own area, and of course Kensington was our “town”. But from time to time we would venture up the hill. So while we were walking, I was trying to remember some past experiences about Windsor Terrace to try to “impress” my wife. She loves to hear my stories about Brooklyn, even when she’s yawning.

I do know the “Pilgrim” laundry used to be up there, they tore it down some time in the early 80’s to build condos. My Polish grandfather Stanley Zardecki used to work there, charging the batteries of the electric delivery trucks they used back in the 40’s. That’s right “electric trucks” back in the 40’s, no kidding.

I also used to buy fireworks from some Irish guy that lived in a basement somewhere on Vanderbilt back in the 70’s. He always made us park at least two blocks away so the cops wouldn’t catch on to him. A real sweetheart of a guy, always gave me a bakers dozen when I bought my M-80’s.

Then there were our roller hockey friends that lived up there too, Al Lopez, Drew Thomas, Jimbo Drudey, Bobby Gelling, and more I just can’t remember. Mostly Irish you know, except for another “Lopez”, what the hell was he doing up there?

Oh, but the big one of course was when we watched them film "Dog Day Afternoon" with Al Pacino back in 71 or so. It was right up by Bishop Ford, they even built a fake bank too. That one really "impressed" my old dates, well not really, but at least it broke the silence while they were yawning.

Yeah, that Windsor Terrace, something about it is just so different from Kensington.

Got to take another walk like that again, because there's always more to learn about Brooklyn, even for me.

Ron Lopez



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Hear us Laugh

The brick steps of my house were always quite cold when you sat on them in March. Like an ice cube under your bottom, they were always splended at reminding you it was still winter in Kensington, Brooklyn.
But we really didn’t care you see, because we had our hockey jerseys and roller skates on, and were
about to get back to the “game”
any second.

Like a bunch of misplaced Canadians, there we were, with long hair and wooden hockey sticks sitting on my front stoop. Northland, Koho, Sherwood, Lopez, Liria, O’Callaghan. The names on our Jerseys and the names of our sticks, Oh, they were all so mismatched, and all so beautiful at the same time.

And we were a big bunch you know, Bobby Brennan stood at six five, Neil O’Callaghan at six two, Jimmy Brier, six two, and me at six three. And we never had to lie about our good looks because you could always find us on the block smashing each other into the sides of parked cars. Just ready to sign an NHL contract and find our faces on a box of “Wheaties” someday.

Except no one ever came. I guess Brooklyn wasn’t exactly Toronto when it came to scouting for a “future prospect”. And the fact that we were on four wheeled roller skates and tar instead of silver blades and white ice didn’t help much either.

No, roller hockey wasn’t exactly being featured on “Hockey Night in Canada” back in 1975. And the closest we ever got to Montreal in the Wintertime, was the Catskills for Easter vacation. So forget about a career in the NHL for these oversized Brooklyn boys.

But still we persisted, with numb fingers and numb toes we would just skate for hours. “We were “Rocket Richard”, we were “Bobby Orr”. We were the New York Rangers, we were the Chicago Black Hawks. We were Glenn Gruder, Ronnie Lopez and Tommy Brennan. We were just stars on our own block and couldn’t care less about the “outside world”.

We were seventeen years old and lived without a care.

And life just couldn’t have been any better.

And if you don't believe me,
just ask anyone that heard us laugh.


The puck made an oh so familiar sound as it hit my goalie pad. I must have heard that sound over a million times in my 50 years. "Thump" "thump", off my pad and right back to the blade of my cousin Pete's hockey stick. He lines up the puck and takes another quick blast. "Ting", that fast the puck is in the net, the sound of the metal pipe behind my legs is also familiar. Yes, the sound of a goal.

It was Easter morning 2008, and there we were, like two overgrown kids with gray hair. Living with more "cares" than you can shake a stick at. College tuition, million dollar mortgages, private school payments, job insecurity, 401k's shrinking faster than my hairline.
Oh yeah, its enough to keep you up at night and make you sick to your stomach. Just worry yourself to death to an early gravesite over in Greenwood why don't you.

And you know what,

life just couldn’t have been any better.

And if you don't believe me,
just ask anyone that heard us laugh.

Ron Lopez

Photo at top, clockwise:
Glenn Gruder, Pete Liria,
and me, Ronnie Lopez.



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Not feeling like I belong

You know its funny,
Sunday I was in Park Slope walking on 7th Avenue with the wife and kids. Trying to feel a little Spring in the cold Brooklyn air.

And it’s all just so perfect isn’t it? You know what I mean, right? The happy faces, the little kids on those wooden bicycles without the pedals. The cool coffee shops with people from other cities sitting outside on benches reading the Sunday Times.
The “oh so feel good” atmosphere around there.

Isn’t it all enough to make you sick?

Are those people just so perfect or what?

Ok, Ok, I know what you’re thinking; Ron’s got a big old chip on his shoulder because he doesn’t live there. He’s just “stuck” in Kensington with the rest of us and will probably see his face taped to the cash register at “Golden Farm” before a Barnes and Nobles ever opens on Church Avenue.

The number “one” location in Brooklyn where people want to live, according to a recent study, Park Slope and all it’s pretty Brownstones. Oh, how precious.

Well, let me tell you, I just don’t get that wooden bike thing. What the hell is that all about? Every time I see a little kid in Park Slope with one of those things it looks like he’s struggling to find the pedals with his feet. Except they don’t have any, so he just keeps pushing with his little shoes hitting the blue stone sidewalks they got over there.

Am I missing something, or is that some kind of child abuse?
How would you like it if I took the steering wheel out of your car one night. Not so "educational" now, huh?

Well my three and a half year old Kensington daughter has a steel bike with pedals, and although she can barely push them with her little legs. She’s never “fooled” by the lack of white plastic she rests her “Mary Jane’s” on. Not to mention she stays in the same spot all day because she keeps pressing backwards on the brakes. So we don't scuff our shoes here in Kensington, and although we hardly move, at least we have pedals.

So I say,
Kensington 1, Park Slope 0.

Oh, those beautiful tree lined streets.
Well, most of the blocks up there are on steep grades. Let’s see someone trying to play a decent game of street hockey over there like we did on East 4th. I don’t think anyone allows their kids to play with anything round between 7th and 8th Avenues either. No wonder those kids on the wooden bikes only travel East to West, and all those balls down on Court Street. Yes, now it all makes sense!

And we only lost our pucks and balls to Mr. Blank and our wives.
So in my best alto, I say,
Kensington 2, Park Slope 0.

Parking, Parking?
Ha, ha, ha.
We have driveways and you don’t.

Kensington 3, Park Slope 0.

Should I go on, this is a slaughter you know.
There’s no comparison.

Schools, Schools?
Well, ahhhh, daaaa, ummm.
I spend almost 900 bucks a month, and you don’t.
At least I’ll be prepared for when it’s 4000 a month for college.
Writing checks every month for private school is a lot of fun and forces me to sell old car parts on EBay.
My kids see me working all the time, even on a Sunday morning.
So living in the wrong district in Kensington forces me to always figure out a new way to make a buck.
And my kids will never think daddy is lazy.

Kensington 3, Park Slope 0.


Ron Lopez was born in Park Slope Brooklyn.

What?

Ron Lopez was born in Park Slope Brooklyn.

You mean the home of real published authors and television comedy writers, Park Slope?

Where they actually try to help other areas of Brooklyn instead of throwing mud in their faces?

Yes,

The place where my Mom grew up before she moved to Kensington?

Yes,

Where my Dad went to school?

Yes,

Where my sister Isabel went to school?

Yes,

Oh well, now you got me feeling really awful.

And my wife wants to buy my daughter one of those
wooden bikes too.
She says there from Norway or something like that.

Aren't all those Norwegians suicidal or something?

And don’t they have that Norwegian Parade in Bay Ridge every year?

Did I mention that it was the number 2 location where people want to move after Park Slope.

Oh, don’t get me started on Bay Ridge.
And let me rest this big chipped shoulder,
Because it's starting to really hurt now.

Ron Lopez



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Falafel Fusion and Lee’s Toy Store

I know you may think it’s silly, but the fact that a “Falafel” place opened on Church Avenue instead of another “Nail Salon” or “Medical Office” is big news in my little world. You see, I’ve been here for a while and have seen Church Avenue in all its “Full Regalia” back in the 70’s. No need to re-hash history again, but it was actually a real nice strip back in the days of “Kojak”
and “Charlie’s Angles”.

Oh right, history, the "Falafel Fusion" place sits right where “Lee’s Toy Store” used to be. You know I bought my first “Match Box” and “Hot Wheels” cars there back in 1968. Lee used to wear a lot of gold chains and tight fitting polyester shirts and pants on his pudgy little body. He also sported a real dark tan and looked like he just came from Brighton Beach everyday. Lee worked side by side with his wife too, Mrs. Lee, at least that’s what we called her. She had bleached blonde hair that was teased quite high, and it always looked kind of sticky and smelled like hairspray.

But nevertheless, they were both very nice people and never treated us like “little criminals” when we walked in.

“Hey kid, did you ever see a car like this?” Lee held a golden Hot Wheels car in his hand; it looked like a Mustang, except the little engine was coming out of the hood. “They call it “The Boss Hoss”, it’s a special edition you know”. I remember looking at the little car and thought it was fascinating. It was a gleaming gold color and was very heavy as I held it in my dirty little hand. “It’s only 99 cents, and I won’t charge you tax”.

Without a moments hesitation I dug into my pocket and pulled out a rumpled old dollar bill, I handed it to Lee. “Here, you get a brand new one”, Lee reached next to the counter and pulled out a new car in an un-opened box. “Now don’t get it all scratched up, it maybe worth a lot of money some day”.

I just said “thank you”, as he put the car in a brown bag and gave me my penny back. “Remember to tell your Mom I didn’t charge you tax”. “Ok I will”, I said, as I walked out the door and made the right on Church heading towards East 4th.

Well, I never listened to Lee and used to play with that car all the time. Even when I was going to College, I still had it on the top of my dresser by my bed. With most of the paint either chipped or rubbed off, the car just sat there in all it’s 60’s glory. Forever enduring the strange looks of my girlfriends who wondered what a nineteen year old was still doing with a “little car” on his dresser.

Yes, the “Boss Hoss” and I just “survived” that’s all.

As for Lee’s Toy store, well, like the rest of “normal” Church Avenue it left sometime in the 80’s. Leaving us with more “fruit stands” and “nail salons” than Sunset Park in the 70’s.

Cheap fruit and nail salons, wow, how magnificent and thrilling to be "Church Avenue" in 2008.

But today there is hope, a tiny glimmer you know.
Just a small little “brick” that was recently laid down on an
old foundation.

The foundation, well, thats Church Avenue, and the hope is “Falafel Fusion”. Because its nice to see a new business thats not hawking cell phones or painting your nails. Checking your blood pressure or selling shrink wrapped 99 cent trash.

Yeah, I could just see Lee now, in a polyester shirt, with gold chains around his tanned neck. Holding a Falafel in one hand and a small gold "Hot Wheels" car in the other, thinking about a Church Avenue he once knew, and wondering if I still had that car.

Ron Lopez



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My own schedule (without the F-train)

Well I got to tell you,
my bike riding days to
Manhattan couldn’t have
come at a better time.
The once very reliable
F-Train has recently become a “moving calamity on 64 wheels”
almost every day.

Did anyone see the MTA workers switching the track by hand at Bergen Street a few months back? A three foot wrench and human muscle made sure the next stop was “Jay street Boro Hall”, but the back-up that day added a wonderful 45 minutes to my regular 45 minute trip to work. Then there was the crazy homeless guy at 34th street last week; he pulled two emergency brake cords on two separate trains that morning. Oh, right, one was my F and the other was the D everyone switched to across the platform. Then to add insult to injury he pulled the cord in the last car of my F on the way home that same day.

But one of my recent days to remember had to be the morning two “loud mouths” started fighting with each other on the train at 42nd street. Some real “in your face” action that only a couple of real Brooklyn guys were capable of. Yeah, some real fun, even the gun that one of the guys dropped on the floor right by my feet. Got to tell you, I've seen alot on the F for the past 37 years, but that was a "first" for me. I hope he bought a "holster", because keeping it in his underwear just didn't work.

Your right, I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore.
I want my "own" schedule back again, and it's NOT going to include the F-train. No “sick passengers”, “switch or signal problems” at Bergen street. Forget fistfights, dropped guns and mental patients pulling the emergency brake.

There are going to be no “delays” on my trip anymore.

And today is the day!

This is my 5th year of riding my bike to work, starting in March and ending in late November. The trip takes my about 55 minutes door to bike rack every day. That’s from East 4th and Beverley to 1251 Avenue of the Americas at 50th street. That’s a 20-mile round trip, and a guaranteed 15-pound weight loss by July.

And let me tell you there’s nothing like riding a bike through the streets of the city. From the beauty of Prospect Park in the mornings, to the view of the City from atop the Brooklyn Bridge. And you know what? It's all FREE. Plus I save four bucks a day! Hey, every dollar counts in a “recession" you know.

So the next time your stuck on the F-Train, think about a bike.
Because there's no better way to get to work and feel good about it each and every day.

And the "calamity on 64 wheels?"
Well, you can just save the "delays" and the "break-downs" for someone else's very sad "Kensington Story". Because I'm going to
spare myself the pleasure of the Subway and the F-train at least
till late November.

Ron Lopez


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Only the Lucky Live on Top

I remember the walls of our apartment always seemed to be on very sharp angles. Like old trees in a forest they sometimes looked as though they were leaning on each other and ready to collapse. Just falling right on top of us and swallowing our little bodies inside their lathe and plaster bellies. Never to be found again, trapped inside the dirty dusty hallows above our ceiling.

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



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An Apartment in Kensington

Long before people bought houses in the suburbs that were much too big for them, people lived in small apartments in the city. And most of those apartments were probably on my block too. They were families with sometimes, two, three, or four children, all squeezed into a thin “slice” of a Kensington house you simply called an ”apartment”.

Now, I know all you folks who already moved away are probably chuckling now at how small an apartment you grew up in as a kid. Yeah, I know it can probably fit into your living room of your new construction “McMansion” out in Jackson, New Jersey, but just hold off on the laughter for now, will you? You see, I grew up in one of those “apartments” and it still sits two floors above my head tonight as I write this story. And there’s no need to feel sorry for me either, because there were other families on East 4th that were just as “happy” as us too. All sharing the same fate of “smallness” that I only knew as being normal.

Let’s see, there were the “Compitello’s our “sister ship” family that lived down the block in a similar house as we did. Joe, Mary, and their three children, Nunzio, Peter, and Louise. Oh, lets not forget their dog Susie. All living in the same “slice” of house as we did.

And when my brother Joseph and Nunzio played together, I don’t think they ever complained about the size of their bedrooms. No, they were having too much fun performing science experiments with nine volt batteries to even care.

Then there were the “Briers”, now they lived on Beverley road between East 4th and East 5th. One of those “super-sized” Victorians that actually makes my house look tiny. And just like us, they lived in an “attic” apartment. Ten children and Mr. and Mrs. Brier, and once again I’m sure they were probably having too much fun to even care. All sharing one bathroom no less, in an apartment only slightly bigger than ours.

But my closest “attic” companions had to be the McNally’s next door to us. Clair, Mac, and their children, Paulie, Stevie and Helen. All squeezed into the same space as us.

“God, how could you live like that?” “And I thought the lower east side was bad”.

Well, I hate to disappoint you, but once again we were just too busy having fun to even care. With a string draped from window to window high above my driveway, my brother and I would pass toys to Stevie and Paul from our kitchen window. Just sweet children’s laughter, echoing throughout the concrete canyon between our houses.

And then there were the stories of my Mom and Clair McNally next door, talking about their pregnancies together. My Mom from her kitchen window, and Clair from her bathroom window. Just two young mothers wondering if their second child’s going to be a boy or a girl. And once again the sweet laughter of hopes and dreams filled the shadows of a Kensington Driveway.

You know I may be wrong, but I really feel that the closer you are to other people, the happier you are. Especially your own family. Oh, sure, there are times that you wish you could just get away and have your own space. And that big house you live in may make you happy now. But didn’t you still have more fun living in a crowded apartment in a crowded house?

You better think about your answer, and try to be truthful,
Because if you say “no” I think you may be lying.

Ron Lopez



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My Kensington Past in Photos

My cousin Denise in middle playing with her friends
on our front porch. Note the milk boxes on the porch
in the lower right, yes in the 60's we had our milk
delivered by the "milk man".
And yes, I look like my parents.


In in backyard of 399 East 4th with my cousin Pete.
Pete on left, me on the right.
Pete barely escaped Tower 2 on September 11.


My Grandmother Isabel Lopez (Late 1950's)
Note that the apartment building on Beverley Road
between East 4th and 5th was not built yet.


East 4th street scene (1968)


Ave F Roller Hockey 1970's. We were playing a challenge game against the 70th pct. Kings. They were older than us and whipped
my team (Ryan's Northstars) 7-1. Ryans Bar is now Shananigins.
Most of the (Kings) were from Windsor Terrace.
I am the goalie looking the wrong way!


A Kensington Christmas (1961) My brother Joseph on left,
me on right. Joseph died in 1969 at the age of 13.


My Mom and I, Jimmy Brier (NYPD ret.) , cousin Pete (Lawyer), and Timmy Slesarchek (MTA), who still lives on East 5th. (1980)



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A Kensington Driveway…. Priceless

I remember driving my next-door neighbor Mrs. Michaels crazy when I put up the basketball hoop. As soon as I’d start to dribble there she was, banging on the window with a quarter, “tap, tap, tap”, “you know you should really go to the playground if you’re going to play basketball”. “The sound of that ball just goes right through my house.”
And of course not being the type to start trouble, I’d just listen and carry the ball out of my driveway and sit on my front stoop. Leaving my plywood backboard and rusted hoop behind, all alone on my garage roof
in the back of my driveway.

And then there was “box ball”; we’d hit a Spaulding against the side of my house trying to get it into someone else’s concrete box. Just a gentle tap with the palm of you hand is all you’d need. The sound of the ball was nothing compare to a basketball, but nevertheless ………“tap, tap, tap”, “you know you should really go to the playground if you’re going to play that game”. “The sound of that ball just goes right through my house.”

And again as my Mom always taught me, respect your elders, even if they’re "crazy".

Then there was ice hockey with a real rubber puck, we’d bank it off the sides of my house, 399 and Mr. Blank’s house 403 East 4th. Pieces of that fake “red brick” stuff would usually flake off with every shot that hit either house. Not to mention the basement windows that we occasionally shattered. “Hey Ronnie, you gotta be careful with my house, that pucks going break one of my windows” said Mr. Blank.

“Oh, I’ll be careful Mr. Blank, don’t worry”. After he went inside I made a snow bank with my foot against the shattered window, hoping he wouldn’t see it till spring.

But then in 1990 I bought my house from my Aunt, and my driveway became more “Me”.

Lets see, auto repair work, dead car storage, a place to safely sleep in my car when I was locked out. A place where my Mom’s Christmas tree landed when she chucked it out the window and hit the hood of my Buick. A place to keep a dumpster without the city being up you ass. Oh, right, and a place where the current tenant next door still screams at me when I start my 70 Cuda and smoke up the driveway. And yes, of course, a place where my daughter learned how to ride her tricycle.

Ok, Ok, I know what you’re going to say, I should be lucky to have a place to park my car at night. A guaranteed spot every day, an added 100,000 to the value of my house. Yes, I know, and It’s the only “bonus” that keeps my wife sane every day when she does her round trips to Bay Ridge to my kid’s schools. The “straw” that broke the camel’s back when we decided to move back here from Fort Greene. Yes, I know, you don't have to tell me, it's hell finding a parking spot on the street sometimes. I lived in Fort Greene for five years you know, and I share your pain. Because most Brownstones don't have driveways, including my wife's.

I have been reading all the RPP stuff too, and to me it’s just another way for the city to squeeze a buck out of us all. Sure it will make some folks happy, but it’s just going to be another “cost” associated with living here in New York. Yeah, 35 bucks today, but how about 10 years from now?

And as for my driveway?
Well, I know the city’s going to catch up to me someday, some tax or fee probably. Just another “cost” on top of every other “cost” we have to pay. Because we all pay for everyone else in some way or another you know. So don’t think I’ll be getting away with my eight-car driveway forever while you folks pay 35 dollars a year for a spot on the street. No, don’t worry I’ll be paying along with everyone else too. And besides, like they say in Brooklyn “what comes around, goes around”. And that includes the broken basement window that I still see every day, and never paid for. Feeling guilty about it 30 years later, because I never told Mr. Blank, that I did it.
And I know I'll have to pay for it someday,
one way or another.

Ron Lopez



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Views for Free (Paco Remembered)

I was reading an article about this new Condo in Brooklyn Heights called “One Brooklyn Bridge Park. About how people from Manhattan are drooling over it, and selling their properties on the Upper East Side for a slice of Brooklyn.

“The views are incredible”,
New York Bay, The Statue of Liberty, Lower Manhattan
And the price tags are only in the “millions” for many of these apartments. But hey, what would you expect to pay for such fabulous views anyway?

Well, back in the 60’s there was a very “lucky” Spaniard. You see he was actually “paid” to look at the same views that people are plunking down millions for. But he couldn’t look for long, because he might get his fingers chopped off by a machine that sliced boxes of “Bayer aspirin”.

You see my grandfather “Paco” worked at 360 Furman Street for the General Carton Company, way before it was anything more than a factory. I remember driving there with my Dad in our 62 Rambler, and picking him up outside the entrance on our way to the Catskills on a Friday night.

“Good riddance you lousy factory” my Grandfather would say
as we drove away up Atlantic Avenue and on to the BQE.
“See you Monday”

Other times we would pick him up at “El Montero” a Spanish Bar not far from the factory. Although my Grandfather Paco never really drank, we met him there because many of his co-workers were from Spain and socialized together frequently. Thank God the Bar is still on Atlantic Avenue. Got to see the inside of that place before they turn it into a “Starbucks”, it’s been almost 45 years you know.

Yeah, Millions for an apartment in my Grandfather’s old factory.
But let's not tell them the story my Grandfather told me, about the dead body that floated right through one of the factory's riverside windows during high tide. It might scare their millions away, and give me nightmares again!

I could just imagine what my Grandfather Paco would say today.
“What a bunch of stupid stupids, if they wanted to pay all that money for a view of the city, I would have given them my job. All they’d have to pay me was the hundred dollars a week I made,
nothing more”

Yeah Grandpa, how times have changed.
Millions for someone to look at
what you've seen for over 20 years.

Oh well, that’s Brooklyn.

http://www.onebrooklyn.com/

Tell them “Paco” sent you.

Ron Lopez



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The Melted Pot is Me

Kensington hasn’t always been the
“Melting Pot” of ethnicities that it is today,
"The neighborhood of a thousand languages”,
"The United Nations of Brooklyn",
"The land of a hundred flags".

No, back in the 60’s and 70’s, Kensington was mostly Jewish, Jewish, Jewish, Irish, Italian, and then “Me”.

Yes, your not so typical Spanish/Polish “how did your parents meet again?” “Mutt”. Who knows, maybe I was sent here to send the natives a “message” about what was in store for Kensington. Maybe we where the first “seed” of our own future planted here in 1948. The year my Grandfather Paco bought 399 East 4th.

But Hell, if I knew there were any “seeds” planted on Church Avenue, in the form of "stores" that would have grown to their present day "beauty". I probably would have dug them up and smashed them with a hammer. Especially that dump next to the Deal 99 Cent store, where all the clothes are in cardboard boxes, what’s that all about? That place used to be a wonderful Jewish Deli back in the day.
I bought my first "Kosher egg roll" there. Really.

And the rest of Church Avenue was actually a real nice strip of decent quality stores. No cheap 99 Cent Stores or Nail Salons. Take out Chinese? No, but we had a real “Chinese” Laundry right on the corner of Beverley and East 2nd street. You know, they actually used to wrap your clothes up in brown paper, and then tie them up with white string. Imagine that?

But back to the story,

So now sixty years later my son and daughter fit right in here.
Lets see, Spanish, Mexican, Polish, Irish, German, Scottish,
French and Wasp.

Wasp? Lopez?
Shhh, Don't tell my wife's Dad
"The "Preist" family came here on the "Mayflower" you know".
"Well, my family came here with "sacks" of "flour".

And boy, did my "last name" twist his Texas underwear!

But still, so far, so good, and I thought I had it all down.

And then one day came my friend......“Oy Vey,”

So get this, I find out after 49 years of being raised a “Catholic”, that my Polish Grandmother, my Moms mother, was actually Jewish. “Davidwitz” that’s not exactly O’Malley you know. And she used to speak Yiddish and make homemade “Gefilte Fish”. Why the hell was I kept in the dark about this? No wonder I had no Irish friends and always hung out with all the Jewish kids at 179 and Ditmas.
I used to love Jewish food too, and my Mom made it almost every day. Dam! It was probably "there" in me all the time.

Sure, and now it all makes sense!
The nuns up at IHM must have known something too, because they pulled on my ears and hit me on the head more than the
Irish and Italian kids!

So now I’m really really confused, and mad at those nuns again.
And to top it off my son's first cousins are African American and he insists that he's part African American now too.

Spanish, Polish, Mexican, Irish, Wasp, Catholic,
Jewish, German, Scottish, French, and African American.

And now, why was my Grandfather Paco so dark skinned?

Wait, he was from Southern Spain!
Probably of Moorish decent!
Yes, a Muslim!

Oh No, this is all too much, what the Hell am I?
And what about my son and daughter?

I'm more confused now than before I wrote this stupid story!

But then I realized something,
And I felt better again.

You see, we live in Kensington,
the "Melting Pot of Brooklyn".

And I should have known from the beginning,
that it never really mattered anyway.

Ron Lopez


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Parent-Less Play Dates in Kensington Brooklyn

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
on Avenue C near East 3rd everyday.

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


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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



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