Izzy and Benny's

The candy store was no larger than your cubicle at work, or at least it seemed that small. It was right next to Dennys on the McDonald Avenue side off Church Avenue, just a few feet from the subway entrance. It may be a Bangladeshi hairdresser place now.

The two guys that ran it were simply known to us as “Izzy and Benny”. They may have even been brothers, but we never really asked them. Izzy was the older of the two; he was rather skinny with salt and pepper hair. He usually wore a baseball cap, no matter what the season. Benny was shorter and a little heavy; he had red hair and green eyes and always wore a “cab drivers” cap.

The inside of the store had a black and white linoleum tiled floor. The magazines and comics were directly to the left as you walked in. A small counter was to the right. It had chrome edges with a red Formica top. There were also about four stools by the counter where one could sit to get a quick bite to eat.

Izzy was usually there during the day, while Benny did the night shift. It was one of the few places where you could still buy a “Vanilla Egg Cream” all the way into the 1980’s. It was also one of the few candy stores where you were timed on how long you could read a magazine. And I’m sure being 16 years old didn’t help with the clock either.

“Hey Boys, come on, this isn’t a library, if you want to read go to the library, I heard they just built a new one on East 5th and Fort Hamilton". We usually heard this verse from either Izzy or Benny, and it really didn’t matter if you finished you egg cream or not. No, it was strictly business at Izzy and Benny's.

Izzy and Benny also had more than one thing in common. Besides running the store together, they must have shared a tragic past.
Both men had numbers tattooed on their forearms and were
Holocaust survivors.

Just sitting by that little glass window, sliding it open to collect your change for the morning paper. The numbers usually appeared from under their shirt sleeves when either one reached for your quarter. A quick smile and “thank you” and the numbers once again hid out of sight. It just seemed like they wanted to keep them hidden anyway.

I guess in some ways they both watched me grow up too. From the days I held my Moms hand as she walked me down the subway entrance by their store, to a six foot three longhaired teenager being told to find that new library up on East 5th.

“Why you all dressed up, a date?” “No Izzy I’m working in Manhattan now”. “Well, save your first dollar, and tape it to the wall like this”. Izzy pointed up to an old dollar bill above the grill. It was yellowed from cooking grease. “Why, a hair cut too?” “Yeah, sometimes things change you know” I said.

This morning, almost 35 years later I stopped by the store that was once known as Izzy and Benny's. I looked at the former site of the simple little newsstand. There inside the store were two or three barber chairs where the counter used to be, and a long wooden bench where the magazines racks were. Through the glass I could see the owner cleaning up and getting ready for the new day.

And you know what, I’m sure his simple barbershop will be the memory of some grown man someday. Thinking about someone he once knew when he was a kid. There will be a dollar taped on the wall, and talk of someone’s first day at work.

“Yeah Izzy, sometimes things change you know”
I smiled and said goodbye and headed for the train.

“Hey, mister, can I help you?”
There standing by the barbershop was the owner.
“Can I help you with something?”
I just looked at him and said, “you already have, you already have”.

Ron Lopez


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Sibling Harmony, we warned you

“Now Virginia, I’m telling you it’s going to be terrible, just make sure you don’t leave them in the same room together”. You have to watch him all the time and make sure he doesn’t push her or hit her. “One time Henry got so mad at her he knocked her over and she cut her head”.
“Are you going to talk to him about it before “she comes?”

Now the “She” in this story is my son Andres’s little sister Hennessey. At the time my wife was about 7 months pregnant and many of her “boy/girl mother friends were offering her a lot of advice about the subject. Well, let’s not say “advice”, how about a “warning” instead. How there’s going to be jealously, envy, hate, resentment, etc. etc., once his little sister arrived. He was going to hit her, kick her, and knock her over just because she was “there” in “his world now”.
So strap on the “goalie mask” and put on the padding and “let’s get ready to rumble”.

My aunt and uncle even offered advice, except their’s seemed to at least be a solution to a problem that hasn’t yet arrived. “Ronnie, make sure to tell Andres that his sister will bring him presents the day she is born. This way from the beginning he knows that she will only bring “good things” to his life. Now, we’re talking about my cousin Pete and his sister Denise here. Both grew up here at 399 East 4th with me, and I have to tell you, I never remember seeing them really fight. And Pete who was three years older than his sister was always a sweet older brother to her. Good advice, I’ll stick that one in my head before putting my goalie mask on Hennessey.

We also felt we were in a pretty good position because Andres actually “wished” for a little sister. So maybe all those tales
of gloom and doom were just a lot of nonsense.

“Andres, today Mommy is going to the hospital to have your little sister Hennessey. “Oh, I can’t wait, I can’t wait” is all he said as he kissed us both goodbye.

Well, it all went perfect. Hennessey brought a bunch of “presents” the day she was born for Andres. He still asks me to this day how they “fit” inside Mommy’s tummy. All the photos show are a flash of “bright light” during the delivery and nothing else. I have to tell you I really don’t know either, maybe the “miracle of birth"

And all the horror tales that we heard from most other parents turned out to be un-true for us. He is eight and a half and she is now three and a half. We could have never imagined him being more kind and gentle to her. Holding her hand when they walk together, reading to her, drawing Pokemon characters for her and never complaining when she runs up to him and jumps on him. All I ever get from my son is an occasional mouthing of the word “HELP” while she’s doing an “octopus” on him while he’s trying to read.
He even talks about “beating up” her boyfriends if they are mean to her when she’s older.
So all is well as far as I’m concerned.

In fact this past year in school his class was asked to write an essay about something they really remember that made them happy.

Here is my son’s:
“The Miracle of Henny"

I could see dried blood on my sister’s stomach. My mom was in pain. My Dad was about to cry. I heard my sister crying her guts out. My Mom was also crying. I could smell pretzels, blood, and fresh air. I could feel my baby sister in my arms as I sat next to my Mom. I could taste the pretzel I just had eaten. I couldn’t believe that I had a baby sister. I wished on a star and it came true. I wished for a baby sister. I wished for her because it was lonely being an only child. I was jealous of everyone else having a younger sibling. So two weeks later my Mom called my Dad and said she was pregnant! I basically lived with my babysitter. Her name was Silvia. She was very funny and pretty. But it was lonely without my parents. I made a picture of my future family and my baby sitter put up sheets with baby ducks coming out of their eggs, My Dad would go and visit my Mom from work and then come home and make me dinner and then we would camp out in the living room and watch TV. Then I would go to sleep. That went on for five weeks then the doctors called us at home and told us that the baby came out. My Dad came to me with tears in his eyes. He told me that the baby came out. I said “oh my God!” I told my Dad to get in the car. We went to Manhattan as fast as we could. When we finally got there I met my Mom in station 999. She was on the bed in a polka-dot nightgown, she said to give her a minute to get dressed and show us the baby. She was in the nursery asleep. I started to cry with happiness. I went back to the station and my Mom came in with her camera and gave me the baby and started to take pictures. The baby woke up and began to cry. We went home after that. I fell asleep in the car. I woke up the next day and thought it was all a dream, but then right next to me was my baby
newborn sister.

Andres Priest-Lopez


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A School for our Son (Kensington Present)

Note: The following account is about our private struggle to get my son into a decent school. We started “public” and then looked “private”.
We lived in Fort Greene Brooklyn at the time, so our options were not as varied as here.
Please just try to laugh and not get depressed. Because like my Mom used to say; “at the end it will all work out”.


“You live where? and your kids going to PS 321?” I said. “Well, we used to live in Park Slope when he was in kindergarten and then we moved here”. “But you know the story about the schools here” she said. “Well, when I was a kid all you did was walk around the corner.” Just feeling as confident as ever about what I “didn’t” know what I was talking about. And let me tell you there’s nothing more powerful and strong than “Blind Brooklyn Confidence”.
“You know, it’s not like before, and if I was you, I’d get the ball rolling soon,” she said.

And my wife got the “ball rolling” long before I ever knew it was even round. “I’m going to sign up Andres at the Dillon school on Washington Avenue tomorrow morning, I’m leaving at 6 am". “Why? do you really think there’s going to be a line?" “You know Ronnie, this isn’t 1962 with “little Ronnie” wearing his red bowtie and white shirt to PS 179. “Things are really different and you’ll find out.”

And there she was a Texan from San Antonio, telling me “Mr. Brooklyn” how things are. My City, My Brooklyn and a “newbie” telling me, “you’ll see”. How dare she! I bet you can’t even spell Korvettes or even tell me what block Lou Ferrigno’s gym was on.
My wife left our apartment on Adelphi Street at 5:45 am to register our son at the “Dillon School”. I just laughed as she shut the front door, because they didn’t open until 8.

The phone rang at 6 am. “Hello Ronnie, this is Gina, I just wanted to let you know that there are about twenty-five people on line already.” The good ship “Blind Brooklyn Confidence" took a hard hit, with flames on the starboard bow, I could see a slight hole in its metal skin. “What”, why? I said. “You got to be serious about this Ronnie” is all she said.
My son was registered by 10:30 am.

You know I’m serious about it and always have been. I really never planned on my son NOT going to school or growing up wild in Prospect Park, with that nature guy showing him which leaves and berries he should eat. But the whole “clock is ticking” thing just wasn’t me, and as my Mom always said, "it will all work out".

And then came the PS 8 story, and even Moms can be wrong.

“Your doing what?" I said. “I’m volunteering in the library at PS 8," said my wife. I’m going to try to see about getting a variance. And of course “Brooklyn” knows what the deal is on this. “Does that mean he’s in?” I said. “It’s not a guarantee, but Seth will do what he can," said my wife. Now Seth was the principal of this school, and whenever it came to any direct questions he was rather evasive. But my wife was going to do the best to “keep the ball rolling” while I was still looking at a square cube. and wondering how it could roll.

Rock Star Principal.
The fundraiser at this school was a must do also. “Why do we have to go? Is all I asked my wife. “You know Ronnie, it’s important for Seth to know that we’re there to support the school. “Well, if it’s money they want why don’t we just give them a check? “are you crazy!” “that’s illegal!” said my wife. Oh right, now let me tell you something folks, I’ve been giving my garbage men a tip for years now. And they never question anything in the black bag unless there’s a foot sticking out of it. Don’t tell me about the power of the “Brooklyn handshake” with a 20 dollar bill cupped in your palm.
I wasn’t born yesterday you know.

And there we were, The auditorium was packed to the gills. “you don’t know “Dan Zane” a woman asked me. “No, I don’t” I
said. “Well, he’s playing here today for our fundraiser and I hope you enjoy the show. The noise, the screaming kids and my son crying all at once. Wow, I’m so excited because this is a total disaster.

And then he walked into the auditorium, like a rock star. People ran up to him to get his attention. Women had pens in their hands looking for an autograph. Grown men were in awe as he walked by. A small group of parents just hovered around him, slowly moving like the ring around Saturn. He was a “ROCK STAR”.

“Why does Dan Zane look so dorky? and where’s his guitar?” I asked my wife. “That’s not Dan Zane, that’s Seth the principal” said my wife. “Brooklyn rage" just consumed me, I couldn’t believe my eyes, it was all so sickening. And he was no Ric Ocasek anyway. We left the concert before the show even started and my wife quit the library committee a few weeks later.
We were once again at square one, and I was in deep shit.
The good ship “Blind Brooklyn Confidence” just hit an iceberg,
and we talked about leaving Brooklyn.

Now my wife’s sister Mariadele had a lot to do with this. Her kids were anywhere from 5 to 10 years older than my son, and she has “been there” and “done that” with the whole school thing. And in Fort Greene no less, way before it was anywhere near being ‘gentrified”. So when it came to the subject of “school” my wife had a head start because of her sister’s experiences.

“So we’ll just send him to private school” I said. “I’m sure there are tons of open spots, because who wants to spend a thousand a month?” They both looked at me at the dinner table and started laughing. “When did you wake up?” Oh, don’t tell me, your name is
Austin Powers and you’ve been in a time capsule frozen for the
last 40 years”.

I really didn’t get that mad when they said that, because I thought Austin Powers was really cool.

But never the less, I still didn’t get it.

So my wife called “Packer” in downtown Brooklyn and they granted an “observation”, “test”, or “interview”.
Just choose your poison kid.

My son Andres was not in a good mood the day he went to Packer for his “interview”. I wasn’t there, but when my wife came home she said it “didn’t go that well”. “You can bring him back again,” said the woman at the school, but my wife didn’t ever bother. So there we were, two down and only one to go. And again we thought about leaving Brooklyn.

One day I saw them when I got home from work, the books on “home schooling”. “Home schooling? Weren’t the kids from the show the “Walton’s” home schooled? Or was it Donnie and Marie Osmond? That whole idea just freaked me out. My wife all day at home in the house teaching? No other kids in the class to talk to?, no lunch box?, no notes being passed around? Having the same teacher year after year? How can a boy have a crush on his teacher if it’s his own Mom?

“Well whats your idea then?” asked my wife. “All you tell me is not to worry and everything’s going to be Ok. But you really haven’t brought any ideas to the table”. No, I really didn’t have any ideas, she was right, I sucked.

“Tim from Dillon gave me the number of this school in Bay Ridge, It’s called Bay Ridge Prep. I’m going to see if they have any spots open. So more calls were made, and another observation was granted.

“Say hello to Kate George Andres” said my wife. My son wasn’t in such a happy mood that day. Who knows maybe that freakin “Topham Hat” from Thomas the Train pissed him off today. Or maybe that goofy Dad from Rollie Pollie Ollie, God I hope he doesn’t think I’m like that. Oh, that God Dam TV!

The precious observation.
Someone deciding if your kid can go to their school or not, all wrapped up in a fifteen-minute package. “Oh, that’s Ok, I know its all awkward” said Kate George. She must have noticed the anxiety in our faces; just hoping my son didn’t have a meltdown or anything, at least for now. Andres just walked around the classroom of kids he never met. Some small talk with a little girl, some looking at the art work on the walls. But still not as much interaction with the other kids as we hoped to as to impress the “observers”. We left the school feeling depressed, it just seemed like another failure.

My ship was taking on water fast, it was time to man the lifeboats. Once again we thought about leaving Brooklyn.
This all just sucked so much. The shit you have to put your own kid through to get them into a decent school. I think he knew what we were doing and deep down I was hoping he would just call some “observer” an "asshole" one day. Just so we can finally put this all to rest and leave this “Rat hole” of a city. For the first time in my life I was starting to hate my homeland, “Brooklyn”.
It was even getting to me.

The “Miricle ".
I remember that day; I was off from work doing some home improvement stuff in the house. The phone rang. “Hello, yes this is she, oh really, oh that’s great, and when do you need a deposit?” “Ok thank you, bye”. My wife hung up the phone; she had tears in her eyes. “Ronnie, Andres was accepted at “Bay Ridge Prep”.

The game was over, no time on the clock, the ball finally
stopped rolling. My son will be going to school in September.
Praise the Lord, there is a God after all. and most important,
we don’t have to leave Brooklyn.

I know what your thinking, and I feel the same way. It’s all kind of ridiculous and just should be easier. A subject that probably caused my Mom about as much stress as deciding what color “bow tie” I should wear to “Auditorium” when I was going to PS 179, now stresses the living hell out of parents to no end. It’s just so different than when I grew up here, but I hear you, I’ll shut up.

And yes, I learned to listen and take in every word my sister in law and wife utter about education in New York, even if they are from Texas. I just sit there with my ears and eyes wide open , and a big cork in my mouth.


And “Blind Brooklyn Confidence”, well I take it out once and a while, it’s great for ping pong or a game of roller hockey. But when it comes to the subject of "school" in the boro of my birth, its somewhere at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean off the coast of Coney Island. Just rusting away deep in the sea, with the words,
“I told you so” scratched on the hull.

Ron Lopez



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The Break Up (Kensington Present Parenting)

Note: My better half did this some time back. She's the real "sharper knife" in the drawer.
Ron

Since becoming a mother, I’ve had a number of break ups with other mothers. Not my fault, though, and I’m not the only one. Mothers are breaking up with each other all the time and it’s always over the same thing – Parenting.

We are constantly assessing each other; weighing-in on who’s right, who’s wrong and who’s insane. It sounds gutless and mean-spirited, but it’s really not. It’s just fear and confusion on all our parts.

We’re all terrified of failing as parents. Terrified of failing our kids and having to live with the consequences. Pick your nightmare: AIDS, Crystal Meth., Columbine, “Girls Gone Wild”, uselessness, hopelessness. . . It’s all grim.

If we’re right, our children will grow-up into happy, useful adults and, hopefully, move out of the house. If we’re wrong, we’re visiting them in rehab or jail trying to ignore the words MOM SUCKS tattooed down their knuckles.

And what compounds it all is the total confusion and uncertainty surrounding good parenting. There is no consensus anymore on how we should parent our children, (if there ever was). None. There are plenty of theories, oh yes, but no certainty that any of it is works.

So we cling to those mothers who agree with our parenting choices and who can reassure us that we’re doing the right thing. And we jettison those moms who parent their children differently and who, through no real fault of their own, challenge us and force us to question our own parenting. And who wants that?

So we break up.

My first break-up was pretty painless. It was with a mother who took parenting her three-year-old son very, very seriously. She had to. He was “gifted.”

Now. I’m not saying he wasn’t gifted. Maybe he was. It’s true, he could say blue in Spanish. But, he wasn’t exactly composing sonatas. I never saw him do long division. Still, I was happy for her to think her son was a genius. I secretly thought my three-year old son was a genius too.

The thing is, it was really stressful being around her. Every moment had to be a teachable moment; talk centered endlessly around her son and about the challenges of raising such an intelligent child; but worse, every now and then, she would inexplicably try to reassure me that I didn’t need to worry about my son. He would be fine, she would say. Every child is different and develops at his own pace. Not to worry.

Um. I’m not worried. And you, my friend, are a total loon.

Ok. I never actually said that to her, because I’m a big coward and other moms scare me, but I did break-up with her. And, as I said, it was painless. So painless, I’m pretty sure she doesn’t even remember my name.

The one break-up that did hurt was with my normal friend - my super cool, beautiful, funny friend. The one who was just like me - clueless and overwhelmed and scared of all the other moms because they clearly knew what they were doing and we clearly did not.

I loved her! She was a total joy to be around. Everything about her life seemed to mesh perfectly with mine. We both had boys the same age. I was renovating my house. She was renovating her house. I was thinking about getting highlights. She was thinking about getting pregnant again. Perfect.

It was our parenting, though, that truly cemented our friendship. We agreed that we weren’t going to be angry, punitive parents – like our parents. We were going to raise our sons using positive reinforcement.

We were going to “catch” them doing something good and praise them with a love and an enthusiasm so warm, so nourishing, so heavenly that our boys would be inspired to do good all the time just so they could be rewarded again and again by our remarkable love.

That was the plan.

The trouble is, in between those moments of doing good, our boys were complete terrors - each in his own astonishing and delightful way.

My son was verbal and had no problem insulting anyone who crossed him – especially teachers or, sadly, me. By the time he was four-years-old, he had a whole arsenal of distressing insults at his command. My personal favorite -“hysterical hens from hell”- shocked his teachers and got him into a lot of trouble at school, but secretly impressed me. I mean that’s not a bad alliteration for a four-year old. But wrong! Very wrong.

My friend’s son was different. He was extremely sweet and never had a bad word for anyone. But when he was crossed, he would get physical - hitting, biting and breaking things in anger.

Needless to say, we were the two moms who were asked to stay after school and conference with the teachers. We nodded politely and earnestly as they suggested “strategies” and “coping skills” and possible “consequences” for our boys, but we always left unconverted.

Positive reinforcement might take longer to get results, we told each other, but in the end our boys would be less angry and happier men. Reason, love and praise were all that was needed to deal with this completely normal behavior.

But one afternoon, after a particularly bad outing with my son, I abandoned the faith completely and crossed over to the other side – the punitive, angry parent side.

I was in the drugstore, standing in a long line of people, and had just explained to my still four-year-old son that, no, I wasn’t going to buy him yet another packet of Pokemon cards, when he lost it. “You are such a loser freak, Mom! I hate you!”

An audible gasp rose from the line, and my scalp broke-out in a sweat. But, I didn’t cave. With all the love I could muster, I knelt down next to my son, looked him square in the eyes and told him he was being rude and hurting my feelings. He really needed to think about that and . . . But before I could finish, he shouted, “Shut-up, woman!”

More gasps from the crowd. More scalp sweat.

As I reached the counter to pay, the cashier – a middle-aged Bangladeshi woman who has since become my friend - said to me, “Don’t let him talk to you like that or he will grow up to be a very unhappy man.” Right.

As I think I’ve made pretty clear, I’m generally too fragile and insecure to accept unsolicited parenting advice from anyone. But for once, I wasn’t offended. I was actually relieved. It was as if for a brief moment I was in tune with the universe long enough to hear it say very clearly and lovingly, “Get a grip.”

And I did.

I took my screaming son home, sat him on a stool in the bathroom, went to his bedroom and proceeded to strip it, putting all his toys, videos, Pokemon cards, hot-wheel cars – everything! – away into the closet.

When I was done, his room was empty - except for his bed and dresser. Then I led my son to his room and sat him down on the bed. I told him he wasn’t ever going to talk to me like that again and he wasn’t going to see any of his toys until his behavior started to improve. Seriously. Then, I left him alone in his room, stunned.

And it worked. He was angry with me, oh yes, but he actually started to control himself and his language. Things at school improved.

Now. I’m not giving advice. I’m not. I’m still an insecure and clueless mom and I’m sure I’m going to have to deal with some kind of ugly backlash when my son is a teenager. So, wish me luck. I only mention it because, once I changed my parenting style, play dates with my friend and her son became impossible.

Inevitably, my son would end up punished, alone in his room, muttering something about me being the meanest mom in the world. Meanwhile, my friend’s son would still be bouncing a ball against my newly painted wall, completely ignoring his mother’s suggestions to “listen” and to “make the right choice.” It was miserable.

So were the silences between us. I just couldn’t engage anymore in our regular conversations, and I was too much of a coward (and I am a big, fat coward) to tell her the truth - how wrong I thought she was; how misguided her parenting now seemed to me.

So, I attempted a break-up, using the coward’s stand-by - the ol’ fade-away. I didn’t return phone calls. I made excuses to avoid play dates. Canceled others at the last minute. I did everything I could to avoid seeing or talking to her, hoping she would just get impatient and stop calling me.

What she did was confront me. What was going on? Was I avoiding her? Was I angry with her? What happened?

Help.

Normally, in these types of situations, I lie. Oh, yes. I do. If I think I‘m going to make someone angry with me or hurt their feelings I will lie – shamelessly - big, glorious lies. But this one time, I told the truth. And it was awful.

It wasn’t working! I blurted out. This whole positive reinforcement stuff was a load. Her son was out of control. She needed to stop talking so much to him and punish him. Give him consequences. Consequences, consequences, consequences!

In the middle my rant, I remembered why I don’t tell the truth – I’m no good at it.

After a long pause, my friend finally spoke. “I see,” she said. “Well. Good-bye, then,” and she hung-up the phone.

It was just a whisper, but that good-bye concussed me. Not only had I ended our friendship, I had hurt her feelings. I had insulted her son. And I had accused her of the one thing she feared most - failing as a mother.

I haven’t heard from her since.

Of all the break-ups in my life, of all the partings, hers is the one I regret most. The one I am most ashamed. There was no real reason why we couldn’t have been friends. If I had been a stronger person, a better friend, and a less insecure mom, I would have found a way to keep our friendship alive, despite our parenting differences. I acted like a coward, but this time it wasn’t cute or funny.
It was gutless and, even, a little mean.

V.P.







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The Play Date from Hell (Kensington Present)

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 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’re not having such a
“bad day”

With that my three-year-old son just looked at her and said,
“YOU ARE A 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 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 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



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When Giants Lived (a Church Avenue Story)

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh yes, how sweet it was”.

Ron Lopez



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Building Warriors in Kensington Brooklyn

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ron Lopez



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Bob Brennan, a Brooklyn Original

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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



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The Sun Sets Over Brooklyn

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ron Lopez



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Jerry "Fish" and the Strawberry Shortcake

Jerry “Fish” was your basic “rink rat” down at the Avenue F hockey court in the 1970’s. I'm not really sure how he got the name “fish”, and I never really asked him about it. At 14 years old Jerry stood about 5 foot 5 and was kind of skinny. He had straight dirty blonde shoulder length hair and blue eyes. He usually wore a orange and white “Flyers” jersey that always looked quite dirty when he skated with us. Now we were all at least 18 or 19 years old and much bigger than Jerry. But because this kid was so good, we would always let him join in our choose-up games during the week after school. He was just a real sweet kid that looked up to us older guys, and we in turn always made sure to keep an eye out for him on and off the court.

One day Jerry was real excited because he just got paid from his part time job at a supermarket on 18th avenue. He said he had about 20 bucks in his hockey pants and was looking forward to spending it on something he always wanted. “Hey Ronnie, would you mind giving me a ride over to “Scotto’s” on 13th Avenue after the game?” asked Jerry. “Sure kid, what are you going to buy?” I said. “You know, I always had this dream about what I was going to do with my first paycheck and today it’s coming true” said Jerry. I had no idea what Jerry was going to do, but gladly told him I’d give him a lift to Scotto’s on 13th Avenue. I took off all my goalie equipment and threw it in the trunk of my 73 Buick.” Fish” just kept his equipment on, including his skates and sat in the front seat of my car.

When we got to Scotto’s I was able to get a spot right in front. “Hey Ronnie, can I get you something?” “No thanks Jerry, I’ll just wait here”. Jerry just opened the passenger’s side door and glided on his skates to the entrance of the bakery and opened up the door. About five minutes later Jerry appeared with a big white cake box tied with that red and white string. I guess he bought it for his mom. But then, without warning Jerry sat on the sidewalk in front of the bakery window. He put the box to his mouth and started breaking the string with his teeth. He then opened it up and stuck his hand inside. Before you knew it he had whipped cream and strawberries all over his face and hands. Yeah, that was Jerry’s dream, to buy a strawberry shortcake and just eat it all by himself, even if he didn’t have a fork and knife.

After the league shut down in the mid 80's, I kind of lost track of “Jerry Fish”. From what I heard he wasn’t keeping the best of company down on Ditmas Avenue. And I guess the off-duty cop that shot Jerry to death never saw the same kid I did eating that cake with his hands in front of Scotto’s bakery. No, he just saw some teenage trouble maker trying to steal his car early one Saturday morning in the late 80’s. No one ever really knew if Jerry had a gun that day, although that was the cop’s version. And from what I heard he died right in the car.

An innocence lost is such a terrible waste, I sometimes look at my own son and worry about how fast his path could change. As a parent you just try to do your best and hope they keep with a good crowd. You try to give them their freedom and let them dream for themselves. Even if that dream is simply about eating a strawberry shortcake in front of Scotto’s with their first paycheck.

Ron Lopez



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Thanks for reading

To all the folks who have taken out that few minutes of their time to read these stories, I just wanted to say thank you.
These stories are just a collection of my Kensington experiences that I am trying to tie together somehow. I am flattered to see so many people have visited this site, because I really don't consider myself a writer of any sort . My wife thinks I am very brave for doing this, but what the hell, at least you guys get to hear about the neighborhood that I grew up in, with no editing.
So a very "Happy and Healthy New Year" to everyone. Thank you again for your time, and more stories to come in 2008!

Ron Lopez

New Years Eve and Pitta's Funeral Home

The New Years Eve parties that my Grandparents had at 399 East 4th were something else. For what seemed like days they would both prepare the food for the party. Turkey, ham, roast beef, cole slow, potato salad, black beans and white rice, fried bananas, along with many traditional dishes from Spain too complicated to mention. My Grandfather Paco was a true gentleman also. There he was alongside my Grandmother as usual in the kitchen helping prepare all the dishes that would be spread out on the dining room table by six o’clock on December 31st., including desserts all made by hand. You could usually expect upwards to fifty people at the house on New Years Eve. Cousins from as close as East 2nd street to as far as Patterson, New Jersey made the trek to Kensington for the “Big Bash”. Just packing the house like sardines in a tin can and usually spilling out onto the front porch too. But one problem that always faced the family was the lack of chairs. Sure there was the couch and Paco’s lazy boy along with the eight or so dining room chairs. But still they were all just a very small dent on the side of the big ship called 399, and simply not enough to support all the guests. So one year after Christmas my Uncle Manuel who lived on East 2nd street told my Grandfather Paco about the idea of renting chairs from Pitta’s on McDonald Avenue. “Pitta’s” was and still is a funeral home off Fort Hamilton Parkway, and according to my uncle Manuel, "never does New Years Eve funerals". So why not drive over there and ask about renting some chairs for a “good price” was his suggestion to my Grandfather. Now you have to understand that my Uncle Manual was always looking for a “good price”. He was tall and thin and had to be at least 6 feet 5. He had the most booming “Brooklyn” voice you could ever imagine, which was unusual for a Spaniard born in Cuba. He was a truck driver and sometimes brought boxes of things that “fell off the truck” to our house. So when it came to finding a “good price” or "no price" at all, you could always depend on my Uncle Manuel to find it. My grandfather Paco on the other hand was alot more reserved than my Uncle Manual and never really asked where the boxes "fell" from, but glady took anything my Uncle offered him. I guess they were just the "SAP" versions of "Oscar and Felix", but still, they both somehow managed to get along quite well as brother-in-laws. “Hey, you kids ready to help get the chairs?” said my Uncle Manuel. “Sure!” said my brother Joseph, Pete, and I in unison. “Now you know this place we’re going to is a funeral home, so I don’t want to hear any screaming when you see a stiff, ok?” said my Uncle Manuel. All of us shook our heads together, including me, too embarrassed to ask my older brother what a “stiff” was. So we walked down the stairs and piled into our 62 Rambler wagon and drove to Pittas on McDonald Avenue. We parked the Rambler in the back of the Funeral Parlor by the loading dock, where they bring in the new customers. My Uncle Manuel made the sign of the cross when he got out of the car, although I never remember seeing him in Church. “Now you children must not go into any of the other rooms, we must respect the property and only go where the man tells us to. We are here to pick up chairs and not to play,” said my Grandfather Paco. My uncle Manuel on the other hand just started laughing and told us not to look at the “stiffs” because we might have nightmares. We walked up the back steps into the funeral parlor, I immediately started smelling something sweet, and thought it must have been flowers. The carpet was a dark red and the place was really cold. As we walked up the hallway there were doors to the left and right of us, all closed. “Here are the chairs, how many do you need?’ said the owner. As my Grandfather Paco and Uncle Manuel worked out a deal on the chairs we started walking back down the hallway we just walked up from. All the doors had nameplates on them and all but one was closed shut. It was open about a half an inch and was completely dark inside. “You want to look?” said my brother Joseph to Pete and I. We just said nothing as he started to open the door; the smell of the flowers became stronger as the door opened more. We noticed a light coming from the front of the room but still couldn’t see anything. “Come on, just open it,” said my cousin Pete. We all slowly pushed the wooden door open with our eyes closed. Once it was fully open we all opened our eyes. Our screams could probably be heard in the subway tunnel deep below McDonald Avenue that day. There in the dark room below the glow of a single white lamp was an elderly bald man lying in a wooden casket. He had white hair on the sides of his head and wore glasses. Not knowing what do or where to run we just stood there screaming at the top of our little lungs. Before we could move the heavy hands of my Uncle Manuel and Grandfather Paco were on our shoulders pulling us backwards. As I looked at my Grandfather his face was red and he looked quite angry. My Uncle Manuel on the other hand was laughing at the top of his 6 foot 5 lungs. The man at the funeral parlor just smiled at my Grandfather and said “that’s OK it happens all the time. My Grandfather didn’t say much during the ride back to East 4th, but seemed to forget about it by the time we parked in the driveway. We all helped carry up the chairs and another New Years Eve Party at 399 East 4th was well underway. Just waiting for the "ball to drop" and scream "Happy New Year" at the top of our lungs in the Brooklyn of my youth, a long time ago.

Ron Lopez



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The Beverly

The next time you’re walking from the subway on Church Avenue, make sure to make a left into the "Deal 99 Cent Store". Take out that two dollars you have in your pocket, and hand it to the lady in the ticket booth on the side where that guy sells all the hats and gloves.

She will probably not smile and give you a small "Admit One" ticket. You will then walk up the long entranceway that leads inside the Beverly and immediately start to smell stale popcorn. But not to worry because you see them popping it in the machine on the other side of the heavy wooden doors.

As you open the door to the go inside, a young man will be standing there to take your ticket. You hand it to him and he rips it in two, one half goes into a wooden box, the other you put in your pocket. Hey, how about some fresh popcorn and a Coke? You walk up to the concession stand and immediately notice a roach under the glass, walking upside down. You pass on the popcorn and opt for "Snow Caps" instead. You hand the woman a dollar and wait for your change, you think for a second about telling her you saw a roach.

But hey, this is the Beverly and Church Avenue isn't exactly Madison. So you just walk away and up the ramp that leads to the main theater. And there it is again, no matter how many times you've been to the Beverly the chandelier that’s bigger than a house is just beautiful as ever, hanging from the ceiling. It must have over a thousand lights, and hundreds and hundreds of crystals. It simply gleams like a star in the darkness, even though it's covered with dust.

The 70's have not been good to the Beverly and you wonder what that place was like when your Mom was young. Did the screen still have that giant stain on it? Was the floor always sticky? were the seats always torn?. Suddenly the lights dim to black, the screen awakens and the movie starts.

You just sit there staring at that big magnificent chandelier, its crystals still sparkling in the darkness, and you can't help but imagine a Beverly that you never knew, a long, long time ago.

Ron Lopez



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A Christmas Tree at 399

Oh, the smell of a new Christmas tree at 399 East 4th. The fragrant pine just filled the living room with the "aroma of the wild". And with pine needles falling in my hair, along with an ornament or two shattering on my Lionel tracks. There I was, all 7 years of "little man Brooklyn" at the controls of my own little railroad running under the tree.

Oh, the smell of a new Christmas tree at 399 East 4th. The plastic pine tree just filled the living room with it's wonderful "freshly factory made smell". And there I was all 13 years of "little puberty man Brooklyn" trying to figure out how the heavy wire branches fit into the "broom-stick like" shaft of the "E.J. Korvettes" tree of the future.

Oh, the smell of a new Christmas tree at 399 East 4th. The chrome-like branches just filled the air with no smell at all. I only wonder what an electrical short would have looked like on my cousin Pete's silver chrome Christmas tree. From the sidewalk in front of the house it must have looked so beautiful and silver. The tree of the "space age", and 399 was it's "mission control center". And there I was all 18 years of "teenage Brooklyn", just happy my cousins still lived in my house.

Oh, the smell of a new Christmas tree at 399 East 4th. Actually after about 10 years of use, the plastic "E.J. Korvettes" tree didn't smell any more. And with my Mom's eyesight going she actually used one of the branches to clean the toilet with one day. Because I was 23 years old and out most of the time, I never realized until New Years Day that she and my sister Isabel assembled it upside down. Using short branches at the bottom and the long at the top.

Oh, the smell of a new Christmas tree at 399 East 4th. The fragrant pine just filling the living room with the "aroma of the wild". With pine needles falling in my graying hair along with a "shatterproof" ornament bouncing off my Lionel train tracks. There I am, all 49 years of "middle age man Brooklyn" at the controls of my own little railroad under the tree. Just making sure my kids don't cause a derailment!

Ron Lopez



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P.S. 179

Back when I was a kid growing up in Kensington you rarely saw a parent taking a kid on the subway at 8:AM. And if you did, is was probably for a doctor’s visit down on Clinton Street, or a day off to see the Christmas Tree at Rockefeller Center. No, no trains here, we just walked up our block and made the right on Avenue C. Our loyal institution of learning was just that close, and that was “too close”. Oh, public school 179, how I hated seeing you from my front window each and every day. With your two gigantic smoke stacks rising high in the sky there was no way I could miss you, even on the weekends.
And on those dark winter mornings you were there too, the classroom lights just turning on before my little blue eyes. Flick, flick, flick, “yes we’re open for business”, “see you soon!”. Oh, and lets not forget to say the “Pledge of Allegiance” an hour and a half before we said it again in class. There was that little tiny figure again standing on the roof of the school, raising the “Stars and Stripes” on that tall white flag pole. Sometimes I even used my binoculars to see if it was one of my teachers trying to send me a message. But my best instincts told me it was just the maintenance man. Forget Pre-school, Pre-K, or Special-K, it was kindergarten when you were five years old and nothing else.
“Pete let go of the pole”. My cousin Pete and brother Joseph were the first to fall victim to the giant “Monster of Grout” on Avenue C. But Pete’s first day had to be the most memorable. There he was just holding on to the dark green enamel pole in the gym for dear life. My Aunt Dolores and Uncle Pete trying to un-lock his tiny arms that were wrapped tightly around it. “No, no, no, I’m not going, noooooooo!” At some point according to history my Uncle lifted my cousin up by his "Buster Browns" and held him horizontally trying to pull him off the pole. My cousin did loose a valiant battle that day, his little hands succumbing to the strength of two massive adults. But not before he scratched off some lead based paint from the green pole.
And me? well I had a whole year to absorb all the horror stories about your “first day”, and the nightmare called “kindergarten”. The strange kids, the white paste, ice cream sticks, and the dreaded colored construction paper. Yes, my “Castle of my discontentment” was right there before me, and I saw it every day.
And forget any “gifted programs” at 179 back in 1963; no, you were just ranked by your class number. The low digits meant you were smart, i.e.; 4-1, 4-2. While the high numbers meant you better start learning how to mix concrete, because you weren’t going to law school any time soon. But kindergarten was still a mixed bag, where they proudly paired the lawyers and the plumbers of tomorrow all in the same room. “Hey kid, do you have any “Pez Candy?” “What do you mean?” I said. “Lopezzzzz, Pez Candy, Lopezzzzz!”. And that’s when I started to cry. My first day of kindergarten and I was already being mocked. I tried to stay calm but then suddenly I felt rage building inside of me, just wanting to glue that kids face with some construction paper and white paste. “Ronnie, just remember the first day is always the hardest”, said my Mom's voice from deep inside my head. So I put down the glue and just walked away. Well, the days turned to weeks, the weeks to months, the months to years. Junior High, High School, College. And the days at P.S. 179 just became a distant memory of my childhood.
It’s strange but I still see the giant smoke stacks of P.S. 179 from my front window, and my son passes it almost every day on his way to school in Bay Ridge. I wish going to school for him was as easy as it was when I was a kid. Just a walk up the block and then a right on Avenue C. But that’s just another story for another day. But maybe some things really don’t change; every September when school starts my son Andres gets very nervous about the new school year. I just try to remind him that “the first day is always the hardest” and if he ever gets mad, just “put down the glue and walk away”.

The truth is my "Castle of Discontentment" actually became my "Castle of Enchantment". And I still smile like I did in my kindergarten class photo each and every day when I pass P.S. 179, never forgetting my first day.
(I am second row, second from left)

Ron Lopez



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The Days of Our Youth

Back in 2005 we had a 30 year reunion down at the Avenue F hockey court. This was a little something I gave out to the guys. The man who was in charge of the league back in the 70's and 80's was a fellow named Fred Allen. The get together was in his honor because he passed away earlier that year. Fred gave up so much of his time for us, making sure we always had a place to play hockey. I remember sometimes it was so cold ice cycles grew from the bottom of my goalie mask during a game. And there was Fred with his "Long Shoreman's" wool cap trying to blow the whistle for an off side pass. Except the ball inside the whistle was frozen to the metal so it made no sound. Oh, the little things in life that make me laugh after all these years.

(You can click on the photo to enlarge the type)

Ron Lopez


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Horseradish, Roller Hockey, and the Wolfman

Writers note: This was an e-mail I sent to the guys, my cousin Pete thought it was "Blog worthy". So you can blame him.

As I was skating through Central Park today a very strange but familiar smell entered my nose on the West Drive around 105th street. It was Horseradish!. Now for a second and just a very brief second the thought of a terrorist smog attack in the form of horseradish entered my mind. But it left soon enough, leaving me to think of no other place than my goalie crease at Avenue F. I closed my eyes for a second as I skated up the hill at around 95th street. And could only smile as the smell of Horseradish and a beautiful Mid-December day reminded my of the 70's and 80's at our old rink. There was Robert Brennan way across the court making some great stand-up kick saves, there was Pete Liria with his "Wolfman" beard yelling at Bill Webster (the referee) after I pulled his "goal" out of the net. You know Pete, that really was a goal, I'm sorry. But that full beard at 16 was really impressive never the less! And little Tommy Brennan with his head barely reaching the crossbar. Oh, and I know you guys were all there too, all smelling the same thing. Come on, you have to remember that Gold's Horseradish used to be behind the South end of the Avenue F Roller Hockey rink, don't you? They abandoned Brooklyn along with Glen Gruder to move to Long Island some years back. Even making a bogus attempt to name the street where the factory is on Long Island, "Brooklyn Avenue". But the truth is they left. And to dig even further into this fragrant odor, I believe it was strongest during the week vs. the weekend. They may have been closed on Saturdays and Sundays, but you still got a whiff of it anyway. Oh yes, slapshots from the point, glove saves, cheap goals and the smell of Gold's Horseradish.
Life could never be better.

Ron Lopez


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The Blue Flame Below

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

Ron Lopez



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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



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Silk Dreams at 90 Church

You know those subjects you can’t bring up at the dinner table, the ones that get some people mad. No, were not talking about politics or religion here, it’s something worse.

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

The name of my Grandmothers store was “Isabel’s”; it was located at 90 Church Avenue. Basically the cash cows “tail”, which rarely moved to swat a fly no less. My Grandmother Isabel was always a working woman you see. And she usually held positions such as supervisor or “floor lady” wherever she worked. One of her specialties was hand-made lampshades, and she was proud of her position at Krasnours Lamp Shade Factory on Prince street in Manhattan. She was the floor lady there; basically supervising the workers to make sure the quality of the shades were up to standard. A job she held for many years until she decided to give her own business a shot one day. So with the knowledge of Kensington and a “store for rent” sign at 90 Church, my Grandparents took a plunge into owning their own business. The Grand Opening was sometime in the summer of 1956. They sold custom-made silk lampshades, imported plates, crystal, porcelain figurines and various other “high end “ knick-knacks. The entire family worked there and helped to keep it a float. My Mom, Dad, Aunt Dolores, and Uncle Pete helping out my Grandmother and Grandfather any way they could. Making deliveries, working the register or taking the F-Train to Canal street to buy the lamp shade skeletons that gave them their shapes.

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

“There they go, never walking this way” said my Grandfather Paco standing in front of the store at 90 Church Avenue. “This side of Church Avenue is invisible, this store may as well be in the middle of the woods up in the country”. “With all their money in their pockets, they just walk to their castles in the sky on Ocean Parkway”. “The people that walk past this store are the working class poor, who only look and never buy”. My Grandmother just looked at my Grandfather and said; “You mean just like us?” My Grandfather just shook his head and my Grandmother just kept working away, cutting patterns and sewing the beautiful silk shades and hoping for a miracle. Because she always believed that those who worked hard survived, and they both survived the Great Depression right here in New York City. My Grandfather Paco selling Good Humor ice cream off his back in Central Park and my Grandmother making hand made silk flowers from their apartment on Pearl street in downtown Brooklyn. Now the site of Metrotech. So there was going to be no giving up here, at least not without a fight.

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

With rent being paid on time and little business coming in, the store closed about two years after it opened. There was no meat on this “cows tail”, and my grandfather Paco always had his reservations about that side of Church Avenue. And unfortunately he was right. My Dads 1957 Plymouth station wagon pulled up in front of 90 Church Avenue that day. All the contents of the store were hauled to our house at 399. The inventory was split between my aunt’s old room, the basement and the garage. A month later the store was for rent again.

The lamp shades made great props for parties when we wore them on our heads as teenagers. And not to mention there was always an endless supply of porcelain doll eyes for us to look into as kids, constantly worried that they would move, or blink.
I spoke to my aunt Dolores the other day, and she said the basic story about her mothers store could be summed up as “wrong place in the wrong time”. I laughed and told her that Grandma would have made a killing in today’s Park Slope with a store like that. She said that Grandma would have loved to open the store in Manhattan, but just couldn’t afford the rent.

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

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

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


Ron Lopez


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