The Playdate 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

The Antenna 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

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

Donald and the F-Train

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

A Fathers Day Story

Growing up without a father for most of my life was a little difficult. And "Fathers Day" was especially hard for me because my dad died when I was only seven years old. But because I had people like my Uncle Pete and my Grandfather Paco in my life, it made it that much better for me because they made up for the loss of my dad. And I will always remember them as well as the other fathers on my block who taught me well. So thank you Uncle Pete, Bob Brennan, Mac, Mister Spinner, Mister O, Bobby Wilson, Uncle Manuel and every other dad who filled in for my dad.

And a Happy Fathers Day to all, living or not, including my own Father who died so many years ago.

Ron Lopez


The memories are faint and hard to recall. When I picture them it’s like watching an old black and white movie. I remember walking next to him and looking at the belt he wore, I remember holding his hand as we would walk up to Church and inside one of the small newsstands that dotted the Avenue.

There was one in particular that I recall, it was where the tiny shoe store is across from Golden Farm. It had a tiny counter and a few chrome plated stools. They were round at the top and you could spin them around. The tops of the stools were padded with either a black or dark red vinyl. When my dad waited for his change I would gently spin the seat tops while peering under the counter for a glimpse of the hundreds of pieces of dried gum people left behind.

“Hey Dad can I see the Camel?”

My father would usually hand me the pack of cigarettes to look at. I remember staring at the Camel with the two columns on each side of it. Back then there was no surgeon generals warning on the pack, so a kid could look at it without a parent fearing a question about why you smoke. My father would gently tug me out the door and we would start our journey back down East 4th to our house.

The trips to the candy stores or newsstands as we call them today were fairly frequent for my Dad. You see my father smoked at least two packs of cigarettes a day,and filter-less of course. The news stand next to the bank and the jewelry store was another destination for my Dad and I. I think it’s the only original news stand that I can still remember from the early 60’s. Sometimes my Dad would buy Chesterfield’s, he would always let me look at the pack which I closely studied of course. And sometimes on the way home we would stop by the Beverly Theater to see what was playing. The marquee always cast a huge shadow with it’s lights blinking like a Coney Island arcade. There was a long wide entrance which lead into the theater. It gently sloped up to old time wooden and glass doors. You could always see the concession stand from the sidewalk too, it was probably where the counter is for the “T-Mobile store”. And no matter what time of day it was or even if the place was closed you could always smell popcorn in the entrance way.

By the time we would reach East 2nd street my Dad would be puffing away. Billowing smoke like an incinerator from the apartment buildings on Ocean Parkway, out of his mouth, out of his nose and sometimes looking like his ears too. My father was always off to work too, and no matter what time of the day it was. And of course, he had to finish his cigarette before he left the house.

“Your father works like a donkey”

That’s all I heard my grandfather Paco say about his son.

“Education is what will make you succeed in life”.
“Your father refused an education and look at him now”

I guess my grandfather was talking about college, because my Dad did go to High School. John Jay in Park Slope. But then again, I never knew if he ever graduated.

My Dad worked two jobs and sometimes three, he worked in a restaurant called McPherson’s down by Trinity Place in Manhattan by day, and by night at the Trinity Place post office as a “part timer”. He also did catering work on weekends and even co-owned a coffee shop at sone time on Vanderbilt right off Atlantic. So I didn’t see my Dad much, and if I did he was usually sleeping between jobs on a Lazy Boy in the living room. For my brother and I there was no catch in front of the house and there was no playing tag at Greenwood Park. And we knew better not to even ask my father.

One day when my brother and I came home from PS 179 we heard my mom on the phone crying to her sister. We looked in their bedroom and my father was lying in the bed, he was crying too. In those days no one told a little kid what was going on and you dare not even ask. All I heard from my mom was; “Daddy's not feeling well and won't be going to work for a while".

You see it all started my father was offered a full time position at the Trinity Place Post Office. There was a routine physical he was ordered to take before he could become a full-time employee. Problems breathing were followed by X-rays. A "spot on his lung" was detected and before you knew it there were tests followed by more tests. Doctors in those days didn't "beat around the bush" like today. Dr. Weisel on Plaza street in Prospect Heights told my Dad straight to his face that he would be "dead in three months".

My Dad refused chemo, but did opt to have one lung removed, and I will always remember that scar. It went from his chest all the way around his back, it just looked like train tracks around a mountain through the eyes of a kid. But hey, at least he was home for my brother and I, and that's all that really mattered to us.

Eventually though death did arrive, and on August 24th 1965 at the age of thirty-nine, my Father died. Just about three months after he was told he would, leaving a seven, nine and two year old
without a father.

Oh sure, I know there are old photos of my brother and I together with my Dad building a snowman in our back yard at 399. There are also ones taken upstate at our country house with me on his shoulders. But the truth is nothing sticks in my mind more than those simple walks to Church Avenue holding my Dads hand, and smelling stale popcorn by the Beverly.

For there are no photos of those times,
but just the memories of a seven year old boy
who barely knew his father.

Ron Lopez

Catskill Webcam today @ 12:30 pm

Pretty day in the Catskills while I bang out InDesign files here at work. And I wish I could be there right now, 150 miles away from Kensington, Brooklyn.

Ron

Our own half built/half baked building

It's called 23 Caton Place, and for all you natives it's right around where Park Circle Lanes used to be. It's some developers "bankrupt" project just lost in time here in Kensington. Gee, I'm glad when they built my house in 1910 people built houses for people, and not for money. Boy, how times have changed.

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

A Comment from Peter...

The other day I had a craving for something sweet. What I wanted wasn’t quite ice cream, not quite ices… but something in between. The something I was thinking of was from my childhood. I think it was called a “Wonder Bar”. A cylindrical frozen mix on a stick, of strawberry and banana flavored deliciousness that was somewhere between the consistency of ice cream and ices, encrusted in a thick hard shell of chocolate. You could only get one from Morris, The Ice Cream Man. I thought I would Google “Wonder Bar” and see what I got. Instead, I decided to Google “Morris, The Ice Cream Man”. I didn’t find a Wonder Bar, but I did find your blog, a big smile and great memories.

From Morris’ size and elegance, to the whiteness of his uniform, to the sound of the truck’s bells, and of course, his never ending kindness… Your description was perfect! It’s a beautifully written tribute to someone that truly deserved it.
Thanks so much for posting it.

I look forward to going through the entire site and reading all the stories and details. I did a quick scan of some posts from the past year and found several gems, including:

Your kindergarten photo in Mrs. Steinig’s class. I was in her class two years before you. I was glad to see that you carried on the tradition of the clip-on bow tie. I wore them too. Few understood the integrity and fashion sense one needed to carry those off well!

In that same post, there was a reply comment, mentioning “Hippo Hauptman”. It made me laugh out loud. To understand that name, is to understand true childhood terror. On the last day of school we’d hang around to see who had her as a teacher the following year. That information killed the summer for so many.

…and the aroma of horseradish in the park next to the old “Golds” factory” on Avenue F and McDonald Avenue.

PS- I grew up on East 3rd, between Avenue F and Ditmas Avenue.

Again… Many thanks.
I’m sure I’ll have comments to add in the future.

Be well.
Peter

Mike the Greaser

Another re-run...


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 he was only known to us as “Mike the Greaser”.

Now Mike was about 40 years old at the time and stood about 5 foot 9. 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

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

Second Annual East Fourth Reunion

On July 31st 2010 we will be holding our second
annual East Fourth Reunion. My block will also be
holding it's block party as well, so a fun time is
in store for everyone.

Details to come about "The Greatest Show on Earth".

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

Some comments from Eileen Wilson

Eileen, great to hear from you!
You do not know how important your Dad was to me and the rest of the guys that used to hang out on your front stoop. It was like our world came to an end when he died. We were also heart broken when your little brother passed away as well, and I know that was what maybe hurt your Dad the most as well.

Thank you,
Ronnie Lopez

"I was sitting in my yard about 9:00 Sunday morning, with my husband, and we started talking about KISS. I started telling him a story,from my childhood about a town called MountainDale, somewhere upstate, that we used to go with my "Uncle Freddie" and his buddies. Someone knew someone in KISS and they came to Mountaindale, hung out and performed for everyone. So, of course, I said "I wonder if I could find him" My husband, being the "seize the moment" type of guy grabs my new incredible ipad and starts searching......and comes across your blog. His eyes light up and he says "O my God muffin (yes,he calls me muffin) you are not going to believe what I just found". He had to read me all your blog posts because I was crying and all chocked up. Talking about my father, Bobby Wilson, like you did was a beautiful reminder of some of the happy moments of my childhood as well as the sad. I am amazed at your ability to pull these memories from your head with such accuracy and amazing detail. You have reminded me of things My "burnt and overloaded" mind have forgotten. Thank you so much for these moments you have given me today...I will be looking for more.
Eileen Wilson

Wow! Stella! My mom always took me to the attic apartment with a bag of clothes in hand for your mom to fix. She would sit and talk to her while she worked on the sewing machine and I would play with Isabel...who had quite the crush on my dad .....she would ride her 3 wheel bike down the block and from across the street she would yell "BOBBY" as she passed our house! What great memories I have! Eileen Wilson

I'm laughing my ass off!! I'm crying! You and Ron Lopez have made my day! Maybe my year! I was the little girl staring out my window..watching all this go on...in love with all the boys....the "older boys". Rose was my babysitter. Such great memories! Thank you. Keep em' coming! Eileen Wilson

Thanks Eileen,

Ronnie Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

A comment about "The Candy Store"

Elliot James has left a new comment on your post "The Candy Store by Charlie Gili": Do you remember a candy/newspaper store on Macdonald off Ditmas run by a middle-aged guy named Smitty and his mother? Used to go there to buy Marvel comics 1964-68.

Catskill Webcam today @ 2:30 pm

That big hole in the ground is a brand new pond that's starting to fill up with water.

Ron

DJ 360 says...

I remember this place..Boy do I remember
In the late 70's to Mid 80's

Park Circle Rink WAS the place to be! Forget about Empire or United Skates over on 60st. This place oh man , I remember a lot of dancing took place here. I remember the B-boy and Uprock Battles in this place. Dudes would be waiting outside decked out in Lee jeans , Puma or Adidas Shell toe with fat laces, and the legendary Kangol. I can still hear "Planet Rock" or "Its Just Begun" thumping from those walls! The infamous bridge which led to the rink's Ocean Pkwy entrance, was a notorious stick-up spot. I know a couple of people who got robbed trying to get to the rink. Never mind the bad stuff..... Kensington had soooooo much going on in those days. Park Circle Lanes was also a great spot. Back when the stables occupied two buildings and also carried insurance. I remember they also gave kiddie pony rides in a little field next to the Bowling Alley. The old burger spot on the corner across from The Jeffers Funeral home, which is now a church. Caton Place was a hidden gem !!! I know someone must have pics of this place and the Bowling Alley. I was kinda young and Dad wasn't going to let me borrow the Insta-matic Camera. It sucked when they closed this place down and turned it into a warehouse. I can still see the old ramp. The remodeled the building in the Mid 90's. It also hurt to see the old Bowling Alley tore down. Remember the big bowling pin outside that read "Park Circle Lanes" ?!! It was something about the air over there, and not the air coming from the horses. Those buildings all complimented each other. Far more than any cheesy condo could ever accomplish. I recently tried to gain access into the old rink via requesting to use their bathroom. Came close but no cigar. I know someone has pics of this place! Till then I can reminisce of the Breakers breaking and the Fly Girls looking cute doing the Patty Duke. Does anyone remember the building around the corner from the Bowling Alley which was the site of many failed businesses, from sports clubs to food joints. Its no longer there.
Bring back the carnival at IHM !!!

P.S. Does anyone know of a sports team or gang called the Assassins. There used to be big blocks letters and a skull sign in the baseball/football space in Greenwood park. It survived till 1992 when the park was remodeled. Any info?????

DJ 360

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 for construction, 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 Candy Store by Charlie Gili

I guess was about twelve or thirteen years old when I landed my first job in the late sixties. My pal “Pudgy”, aka Brian Jacobowitz was working at Louie’s Candy Store at the corner of McDonald Avenue and Albemarle Road, just across the street from PS 230, and right next to the subway stairs at the north end of the Church Avenue F-Train Station. (It was just about 1967-68 when the F Train replaced the D on those tracks)

Pudgy had been working at Louie's for a while and had become expert at making egg-creams, chocolate sodas and all the important customer favorites.

Now I was hoping to get my foot in the door, and with Pudgy’s help I eventually did. The store needed someone to help put together all the various sections of the Sunday NY Daily News on Saturday nights and early Sunday mornings, to have them ready to be sold to the Sunday customers.

I'd go over at night or really early in the morning and Pudgy and I would grab the bundled papers off the delivery truck. We'd haul 'em over from the curb to the store and open up the padlocks and steel, accordion style gates, on one side and pile the wire bound stacks of papers just behind the gates. We’d lock 'em up for the night, to be worked on once the store opened up in the morning. This was my niche for a while and eventually (within a month or so) I was hired to work some regular hours after school and on weekends.

Louie’s Candy Store was literally a “Mom & Pop” operation. Louie usually wore an apron and a cabbie -style, herringbone, snap cap, also known as a hooligan cap, when he was working in the store. His wife also worked there on a regular basis. The place was a classic Brooklyn Candy Store. It had those tannish, maybe 1-inch octagonal tiles that made up the flooring, the classic soda-fountain amenities behind the counter, about a dozen swiveling, padded stools and newspaper and magazine racks like you’d see in a 1940’s James Cagney gangster flick. Pretzel sticks in a see-through, plastic canister and chocolate covered jelly-rings in a flip-top box with a cellophane "window" in the top of the box...all out on the serving counter.

Being located right above the F-train meant that there was a regular flow of customers. You could “feel” the trains coming in and leaving Church Avenue Station right through the floor of the store. After the rumble, a few minutes would go by and in would come customers fresh off the train.

If it was morning, you’d say, “Have a great day at work or don’t work too hard or see ‘ya later…” and if it was late afternoon or early evening, you’d say, “How was work today or have a nice evening or see you in the morning.” It was like clockwork. You’d get to know who was coming in and when, and you’d even figure out after a while what each customer was going to buy. “Pack of Camels, Pall Malls and a News or a Post.” “Cherry Coke or Egg Cream or Lime Ricky…” “Bialy or Bagel or Buttered Roll…”

Sometimes folks on the way to the station in the morning would glance south up McDonald Avenue, toward Ditmas Avenue, where the Manhattan bound F-Train left the elevated tracks and burrowed down under Avenue C, heading for the Church Avenue Station. If that happened, the alarm would go out, "The trains coming! " someone would scream. Louie's would empty out in a flash and some folks who were headed in for a paper or a roll would do an about face and run for the steps leading down to the platform.
Pretty funny when that happened!

Picture all those people running down the steps, like some sort of football team at training camp; quick, little short steps, newspapers folded under one arm like footballs being carried by some pro-bowl half back for the NY Football Giants.

Yeah, Ron Johnson, number 30 could have handled those steps just fine! (With a little practice of course) You see, the guys and gals on the "F-train team" practiced all year long, day in and day out and just like football practice; they did it in all kinds of weather too.

My dad Anthony was one of those quick footed too, a subway-step running back. He was an All- Pro. Pop could not only do the quick step down the stairs with a newspaper under one arm, but he could even reach in his pocket for a token at the same time with his other hand! That meant there was no holding onto the handrails! That's a double move and All-star material any day of the week!

Louie’s was a regular stop for dad and dad would always kid with me when he came in after work, home from a day working the printing presses at Van Reese Press on West 26th Street in Manhattan and a 20 cents ride on the F train.

My dad would almost always ask Louie if I was doing a good job. Louie and his wife spoke with thick, middle-European accents and sometimes I found it hard to understand them. Sometimes they even spoke this unfamiliar language to each other or even to the odd customer on occasion. I noted that the only time they didn't speak English was when they were pissed about something. I guess they didn't want us to know what they were upset about.

I found out later that they were speaking Yiddish. I had no clue! Louie would answer my dad and say something like, “He’s a good boy, your son and he works very hard…” Sometimes Louie would even refuse to take my dad’s money. When dad left the store, Louie would say something nice about him, about how hard he worked and reminded me to be a good son and respectful of my parents.

Ok, confession time. Before I started working at Louie's, every once in a while after an Albemarle Road stickball game, I'd go in there and lift (yeah, steal) an ice pop out of the freezer. I only did it a few times and I don't know why I did it, but I did. Maybe it was the rush or maybe I just really wanted an ice pop and I didn't have enough money to pay for it. I always felt bad about doing it those few times I did. Anyway, that's what Confession was for and in those days, being a good Catholic School boy, I went regularly.

Once I started working there, I never took anything again. I never had to since Louie would always say,

"Charlie, why don't you make yourself a nice sandwich or something? Go ahead, take...have something to eat! A nice cream soda, maybe?"

It was always a nice something or other. I figured it was just a language thing. Of course, I would only consider a nice sandwich as opposed to a crappy sandwich. I always felt the use of "nice" was a bit redundant.

One afternoon, Louie rolled up his sleeves to wash some plates. I noticed that he had some sort of a tattoo on his arm, down near his wrist. I wasn't sure what it was so I waited a couple of days to ask him, the next time it was exposed.

"Louie, what happened to your arm?"
I asked timidly.

Louie looked up at me and kept working. He never answered me. A couple of days later, when the store was quiet and we were alone, he rolled up his sleeve again and called me over. He explained to me that it was some kind of a serial number and that he had survived a Nazi concentration camp. I knew about World War II and about Jews being killed, but to me it was just like the War of 1812 or something else I had read in a history book or had heard on TV in passing. I didn't really have any insight about that kind of thing at that point in my life.

I will never forget that little man and the education I got that day and during the time I worked there. From what I learned about the Holocaust over the years and the nearly unbelievable inhumanity of it all, Louie's explanation of his very personal, family ordeal was kind for my sake. I distinctly recall the quietness in his voice and the tears in his eyes.

He explained to me how coming to America was so important to him. How we lived in the greatest country in the world and that no person should ever take freedom for granted. That it is one of the few things worth dying for and that many, many people had done just that.

I've never forgotten Louie's face, the sound of his accented voice and most of all; I have always remembered his words, his work ethic and his kindness.

Charlie Gili

PS: Before I left working at the store, I "found" about $2.50 on the floor when I was cleaning up. It's about what the stolen ice-pops were worth in those days. I put the cash in the register and thought many years later, that working at Louie's was probably one of the most inexpensive and thorough educations I ever got.

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

Bobby Wilson

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

A Local Hero

Joseph McQuade: Local Hero by Charlie Gili
It must have been about 1965-67. I wish I could remember exactly when it was, but it had to be around those years. I was still going to school at I.H.M. and probably in the 4th or 5th grade at best. Only about half way through my 8 years at that place.
Still in the "old" IHM.

The kids at IHM had to go to PS 10 for a couple of years, while the new school was being built. Those of us that got bused "up the hill" to PS 10 and that had attended the old IHM, PS 10 and then the new IHM, referred to Immaculate Heart that way more than others, since we experienced all three situations during our 8-year, Catholic Grammar School education.

Our family lived on East 2nd Street, between Albermarle Road and Caton Avenue. We were just a half block away (south) from IHM. Other kids who walked to school, from points further south, had to pass right in front of our house to get to school, so we saw a lot of IHM'ers on school mornings.

One of the kids who passed our house regularly came from East 2nd Street too, but he lived a block further up, between Albermarle and Church Avenue and on the same side of the street as us. His name was Kevin McQuade and he was a year or two older than me. I remember that the Boyles, Chris Abuso and Mikey Pierce lived on that block too and Mike Scotto lived across the street from those guys. There were a couple of other IHM families on that block as well, but I can't recall their names.

Kevin was one of those guys who had a reputation in the neighborhood. He was good looking, with blonde hair and a respected guy with his fists and a real street jock. Great stickball player. I recall sitting on the curb on Albermarle Road, between East 2nd and East 3rd Street watching Kevin and the guys a few years older than me play stickball, just before I was old enough to play out in the street on my own. Kevin had a reputation as being a tough guy who stuck up for the little guy and who would face down the bullies that came along every now and then. I think he was an Altar Boy as well.

I remember seeing Kevin pass our house in the mornings heading to school. He was one of those guys who you would wave to and say good morning to and if he acknowledged me with a wave or a nod, well, that sort of made me feel pretty cool. I really looked up to Kevin and wanted that reassurance from him somehow, that I was at least a worthy enough kid to get recognized by him.  Kevin had an older brother Joseph who was in the Marines and so together they were a couple of local tough, good guys.

We were awakened one summer (I think) night to that awful sound of fire truck and police car sirens. Sometimes those sounds were distant ones and you'd wake up in the morning with only a vague recollection of having heard anything at all. Other times, and this was one of them, you'd be awakened and scared to death. When our family all woke up and smelled smoke coming from someplace, we went outside to the front of our house on East 2nd Street.

Many of our neighbors had done the same. My grandfather and grandmother came out from the house they lived in at 208, next to ours. You could see heads out of windows and people out on the street in all directions, but everyone, including the folks in 199, the apartment buildings across the street, had one thing in common.

Everyone was looking up towards Church Avenue, across Albermarle Road from our block. There was a mass of flashing lights and uniformed personnel running around in the distance, just a block away from where we stood. Worse than that, you could see large orange-yellow and red flames, lapping out of a building on the same side of the block as us and clouds of smoke billowing up through the beams of street lights. I could hear people crying and praying aloud and saying, "Oh my God, Oh my God." I can recall my Italian grandmother making the sign of the cross and my mom and dad putting their arms around my brothers and me.

I think my dad or my grandfather or both, walked up to see what had happened, but I didn't learn the details until the next day.

A few people had been killed by that fire on East 2nd Street in those early morning hours. I don't remember how many. Two, maybe three I think. The one thing I do remember is that Joseph McQuade was one of them.

There were several buildings about mid-block that were all the same. Three or four family homes and there were fire escapes on the front of those buildings, with small lawns surrounded by bushes out in front.

Apparently, Kevin and Joseph had gotten out ok, but Joseph went back in to try and help the others that were trapped. He came back out with a little kid named Bruce. Bruce had been badly burned, but Joseph had saved his life. I believe that after the Bruce rescue, Joseph went back in to that raging inferno again, to try and save others in trouble, but this time he didn't come back out and he and a couple of other souls were lost forever from this world.
From Joseph’s cousin: “I was a little kid then, but I remember my Uncle Joseph standing on the fire escape yelling "Where the Fk is the fire department??!  And the window of the apartment underneath him exploded with flames.”

I've wanted to tell this story for years and I hope there are a few folks out there who remember some more of the details about Joseph’s short life and his tragic, heroic death.

The building sat there, boarded up and smelling like fire and ash and death, for days or weeks or even months maybe. I don't remember. I do remember that whenever I walked up that block, I crossed the street for years, so I'd be as far away from that building as possible. It gave me the creeps and at the same time, I always felt like I was gonna cry, not from fear, but from the downright sadness of knowing what happened there and the mental picture I'd conjured up of a young, smoke-blackened, courageous Joseph McQuade stepping back through the smoke and into eternity.

Joseph was just a kid, but he was a real hero. In a matter of a few tragic moments this young kid from East 2nd Street became a hero and then an angel.

I’m glad that I've been able to tell his story someplace, as best as I can. It's a sad thing somehow, when our heroes fade into history and their lives and valor slip through the cracks of time. Joseph McQuade deserves better. God bless you Joseph.
Charlie Gili & nbsp;

Our 55 MPG Prius

You know I would have never thought I would have liked this car.
But after my wife convinced me that we should downsize from the Nissan Quest and it's 12.5 mpg in Brooklyn and 93,000 miles, I gave in. Yes, it is smaller than our van, and you have to think twice about what your taking upstate. But on the other side it really does get well over 50 miles per gallon, no kidding. So far this weekend we saved over 40 bucks on gas that we would have spent with the Quest driving around in the Catskills.

430 miles and 23 dollars on gas @ 3 dollars a gallon.

Sometimes you have to listen, and yes I did.

Ron Lopez

Driveway to Hell

With a bright flash of sunlight the huge Cadillac Coupe Deville slowly crossed Beverley Road. It’s enormous chrome bumper just reflecting off the Kensington midday Sun. As it slowly lumbered up East 4th street we could hear the sound of its big block V8, just a low pitched “purr” as it rumbled closer towards the open mouth of my driveway.

“Ok, when I say three, just roll it down, and push it as hard as you can”. With my dirty little hand on the top of the worn out tire,
I could feel the dryness of the treads. I stared at the yellowed
white wall and wondered why it was never white. Awaiting my “orders” I stood there frozen holding on to the smelly old tire.

“Ok, Ronnie, One, Two, Three...NOW!

I pushed the tire as hard as I could; it started to wobble but then
straightened out as it picked up speed. It made a strange
“crackling” sound as it rolled, picking up little pebbles inside
the dry rotted treads.

“Run, run, run”. My brother Joseph yelled frantically.

I quickly turned around and ran as fast as I could up my driveway towards the back of my house. A quick left and into my back yard and to our ultimate hiding place, the one-foot gap between the two garages in my back yard.

“ARRRRRHHHHHH………BAM!

The loud skidding sound of the car sounded like some animal being slaughtered, its vibration could be felt in my teeth. It was quickly followed by the “thump” of the car hitting the tire.

With our little bodies squeezed hard between the rough cinderblock walls of the garages, my brother and I just looked at each other and started to giggle.

But then there was trouble, and we knew it might happen, the sound of a car door opening, followed by footsteps running up my driveway.
We just held our breath, and froze between the damp
walls of the garages.

“Come out you little bastards, I know your there”.

The footsteps were very close now, he was in our backyard.

“I’ll be looking for you kids, don’t think I wont get you”.

The footsteps started to disappear as he walked down my driveway and to his car. We heard the “chunk” sound of his door closing, followed by the sound of his car driving off.

“Good job Ronnie, good job” my brother Joseph whispered in my ear.

Now, we never ever saw one of our tires actually hitting a car, and could only envision what it must have looked like from the hollows between the garage walls. Because if we just stood there at the top of my driveway at 399 East 4th, and waited to see the “show”, well, that’s just “childhood” suicide. And we were too smart for that.

I still can’t understand how no one in my house ever noticed what we were doing. I knew my Mom was home along with other adults throughout the day. And my Grandfather Paco would have sent us back to Spain to have “Franco” do a number on us if he had seen what we were doing.

And yes, it got worse as we got older.
We became more creative, and I picked up some cool sewing tips from my Mom when I assembled our six-foot “dummies”. Pushing them off the fender of a parked car and into the path of a speeding taxi or truck.
Gee, no wonder why the girls on the block never looked at us.

And still no screams from the windows of my house.

But then there was the highlight of my career.

One time we were at a Halloween party at my friend Timmy’s apartment building on the corner of Albemare Road and East 5th street. It may have been about 1977. Once again another masterpiece of sewing and paper stuffing I dragged through the streets of Kensington under the cover of darkness. Some time during the party we decided to open the fifth floor window and place the dummy on the windowsill. Loud screams of “don’t jump Ronnie” were used to prompt about a hundred windows to open up from all the surrounding apartment buildings. With our audience in place and the theater fully seated, I heard the voice of my deceased brother in my ear.
One, Two, Three…NOW.

The screams of all the people watching could probably be heard as far as the Wonder Wheel in Coney Island that night.
The dummy just fell from the window like a lead balloon and snapped in two as it hit a tree below on the sidewalk.
Again more screams form our apartment house audience as its head, body and torso all separated from each other.

“Good job Ronnie” is all I heard.

I remember trying to pick up a girl at the party that night, and guess what? She didn’t want to have anything to do with me.
Oh gee, I wonder why?

So what do you say? "Boys will be Boys?” "Children must Play".
I have to tell you no matter what your thinking the "Drug Dealers" never made a penny of the East 4th street boys.
No, we had other things to do in Kensington, like roll tires, or sew a pair of Levis to a shirt.

And as far as dating or getting a girl in "trouble" over at Plum Beach at twelve midnight? no, I was painting a face on an old volley ball and getting ready to "duct tape" it to my new twin brother stuffed with yesterdays Daily News.

But God forbid I ever see my son out there at the top of my driveway with an old tire from our Nissan Quest. You know what I'll do. I'll just run out there as fast as I could and grab that tire, look at him square in the eyes and say...

One, Two, Three.........NOW

Ron Lopez

One More Time

It will always be the "GG" to me

Yes, I'm that old!

Ron

Hey, When are you Coming Back?

Come on, come on, you can still come back.
We don't hold grudges you know.

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

Kensington WebCam 2:47 pm today

Cold and Wet, and it's May!

Ron

Our Brooklyn Lives...

You know last night I looked at Anthony Catalano's slide show on his site. His photo's are totally amazing and he really captured what is what like growing up in Brooklyn in the 70's. His photographs are the best I have ever seen I have to tell you.
Once again: http://www.flickr.com/photos/badwsky/

Ron

Nice Shots from Anthony Catalano

This is a photo from "Whiskeygonebad's photostream".
A real Brooklyn guy with tons of beautiful photographs.
Check out his link below.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/badwsky/

Hey any relation to Mike Catalano?

Thanks,
Ron