A Tragic Morning on Church Avenue

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

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

Her cries were blood curdling.

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

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

“Mom, Mom, Mom” “Oh, my God Mom”

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

“Mom, Mom” “Oh my God Mom”

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

The young woman’s mother was certainly dead.

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

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

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

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

Ron Lopez


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A Windsor Terrace walk

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ron Lopez



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Hear us Laugh

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

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

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

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

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

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

We were seventeen years old and lived without a care.

And life just couldn’t have been any better.

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


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

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

And you know what,

life just couldn’t have been any better.

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

Ron Lopez

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



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Not feeling like I belong

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

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

Isn’t it all enough to make you sick?

Are those people just so perfect or what?

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

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

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

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

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

So I say,
Kensington 1, Park Slope 0.

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

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

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

Kensington 3, Park Slope 0.

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

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

Kensington 3, Park Slope 0.


Ron Lopez was born in Park Slope Brooklyn.

What?

Ron Lopez was born in Park Slope Brooklyn.

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

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

Yes,

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

Yes,

Where my Dad went to school?

Yes,

Where my sister Isabel went to school?

Yes,

Oh well, now you got me feeling really awful.

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

Aren't all those Norwegians suicidal or something?

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

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

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

Ron Lopez



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Falafel Fusion and Lee’s Toy Store

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ron Lopez



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My own schedule (without the F-train)

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

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

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

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

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

And today is the day!

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

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

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

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

Ron Lopez


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Only the Lucky Live on Top

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ron Lopez



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An Apartment in Kensington

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ron Lopez



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My Kensington Past in Photos

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


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


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


East 4th street scene (1968)


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


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


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



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A Kensington Driveway…. Priceless

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ron Lopez



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Views for Free (Paco Remembered)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh well, that’s Brooklyn.

http://www.onebrooklyn.com/

Tell them “Paco” sent you.

Ron Lopez



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The Melted Pot is Me

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

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

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

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

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

But back to the story,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ron Lopez


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Parent-Less Play Dates in Kensington Brooklyn

David and Russell Siegel had to be the two smartest and coolest kids at PS 179 back in the late 1960’s. While the rest of us were walking around with button down shirts, red bow ties and our hair short and slicked. The Siegel brothers wore tie die t-shirts, "earth shoes", and had long blonde wavy hair way past their shoulders. They were just a couple of “Park Slope” PS 321’ers way before their time. And their parents looked like real hippies too; with sandals and matching tie die t-shirts. They probably dragged the kids up to Woodstock back in 1969 in their Volkswagen bus they parked
on Avenue C near East 3rd everyday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ron Lopez


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The Postcard from Havana

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ron Lopez



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Rolling Goodyears on East 4th Street

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



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Red Hand, White Man

Not too long ago my daughter started stringing her words together. And yes we’re guilty, no videotaping or calls to close friends and relatives. No, Hennessey is the “second child”, and I’m sure we’ll get an earfull about it when she’s older.

So there we were driving down Church Avenue one day and she starts to utter a “chilling” warning to the family. “Red hand, White man”.

My wife and I just exchange looks of confusion sprinkled with a little horror.

“What did she say?” “It sounded like “Red hand, White man” said my wife. “Oh, Red Can, White Van, she’s just babbling that’s all” I said. Then it came from the back of the mini van again, “Rrred hand, Whhhite man”. This time more pronounced, it was almost like my daughter heard what I said, and was trying to correct me.

“What, what, you think she can see the future or something?, Why does she keep repeating that?” I said. I turned around to look at my daughter and she had the palm of her hand up so I could see it.
"Red hand Daddy" is all she said.

Now, I love Steven King you know, and I couldn’t care less that his writing is never really recognized by “the literary critics”. And the “Shining”, well, it sure scared the living hell out of me back in the day, both the book and the movie. And the whole “Redrum” thing in the mirror that little kid kept repeating over and over. Hell, don’t tell me that didn’t scare you too. So when it comes to little kids talking about shit like this, it sure gives me the “willies”.

“What is she telling us, we’re going to be stabbed tonight by “Bill Gates” (your stereotypical looking white man in my opinion) and then he’s going to wipe the blood from his hands on the walls”,
“we just painted too” I said.

“You know Ronnie, they say little children can also see ghosts” said my wife. Oh shit, that’s all I need, I’m sure my whole family still hangs out in my house too, I thought to myself. And no “Santeria” is going to get them out either.

We stopped for a light, “Gee, I was hoping the tornado we had in June would have ripped down that “Deal 99 cent store sign” instead of destroying about a hundred tress and cars. It’s amazing what….”RED HAND, WHITE MAN, RED HAND, WHITE MAN”, my daughter was now screaming the warning at the top of her little lungs and jumping up and down in her car seat at the same time.
This time the “warning” was frantic!

“Should we stay at the Brooklyn Marriot tonight or what”? I said to my wife. This was even getting to me, “Mr. Non-Believer Brooklyn.”

“Hennessey, what do you see?” I said.

“Tell Daddy what you see?”

With that my daughter pointed her little finger at the electronic “Walk, Don’t Walk” sign by the side of the lamppost on McDonald Avenue. The little “White man” just lit up fully ablaze in its LCD light bulbs.

My wife and I just stared at it and started laughing together.
We then drove off before the “Red hand” even appeared.

It’s amazing what little kids notice is all I thought.

And as for “Bill Gates”, well, he’ll just have to
wait to kill us some other day.

Ron Lopez



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ELO, Queen and the F-Express

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

Now I was a pretty lucky kid you know. Back when all my friends were either getting mugged or beat up at Erasmus on Flatbush Avenue, I was going to the “High School of Art and Design” on Second Avenue and Fifty Seventh Street in Manhattan.

Talk about culture shock for a boy from Brooklyn. A school where kids of all races just got along with each other and never had a fight. A school where some of my best friends turned out to be “gay” without me ever even knowing or even caring. A school that had to have the best-looking girls in NYC hands down. It was such a wonderful place that was so different from anything you could have ever imagined, including Ditmas JHS, where I had just graduated from earlier that year.

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

But back to the F-Express, the train I took every day to High School.

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

Next Stop Seventh Avenue, Methodist Hospital

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

Next Stop Bergen Street.

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

Forget Carroll, next stop Bergen Street.

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

Next Stop Jay Street Boro Hall.

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

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

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

Ron Lopez



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The Murder of Fred Cooper

Fred Cooper could never stand still when he spoke to you. With short black hair parted to the side, a polo shirt and gray polyester pants, Freddie had a voice that was oddly high pitched for a six foot sixteen year old. With his two pudgy hands tucked in his pants pockets, he would gently rock from side to side as he discussed last night’s Ranger game. Freddie always smiled when he spoke too.

Freddie also carried a black briefcase when he went to school, just swinging it by his side as he walked down our block. Freddie had a walk similar to a duck too; his two gigantic brown shoes practically took up the entire sidewalk as he strolled by. Yes, Freddie was sure a “fish out of water” when he walked down East 4th. But then again Freddie was a “Techie” or Brooklyn Tech Student, so that alone may have explained a lot back in 1975.

And we were the East 4th street boys, long hair, engineer boots and bell-bottoms. Just thinking we were “oh so cool”, and then there was Fred Cooper, a kid who looked more like our Grandfathers than us.

But Freddie was a good friend of Robert Brennan our “go to guy”. So no matter what Freddie looked like or sounded like, he was “in” when it came to our block. And besides, Freddie was a real nice kid who wouldn’t hurt a fly, and probably helped hundreds of Kensington Grandmothers cross the street on Church Avenue. A real sweet kid that Freddie Cooper.

Now, back in 1975 Bartell Pritchard Square was simply known to us as the “Circle” up by the Sanders Movie Theater. Forget Connecticut Muffin, The Pavilion, or any of the other Park Slope places up there now. No, the “Circle” was not a place where you would want to be walking around at nighttime, especially alone.

But knowing Freddie Cooper, I don’t think he thought about it twice, because the “Kind” rarely recognize the “Evil” that the city of Brooklyn breeds.

Freddie would have given his money to any one too. He was probably one of those people you see on the train that always sticks their hands in their pockets as soon as the panhandler walks on. So I know there was no reason why they should have hurt Freddie that night, no, none at all.

And I’m sure the “wolf pack” of kids that attacked Freddie never knew that he may have helped one of their Grandmothers cross Prospect Park West at one time. No, they just saw an innocent victim, a “Gentle Lamb” grazing in their “Lions Den” that night back
in 1975.

The knife that stuck out of Freddie’s back just glistened in the Windsor Terrace moonlight. The lights of Bartell Prichard Square reflecting off the long silver blade that was buried deep inside his still warm body. The back of Freddie Cooper’s Blue Brooklyn
Tech jacket turned to a horrible dark red. The blood of his body just dripped onto the dirty sidewalk by his side. Fred Cooper breathed his last breath as a sixteen year old that night, and died right there on the dirty sidewalk of Bartell Prichard Square.

A sad and lonely death for a son of Kensington, Brooklyn, A senseless killing of one of the sweetest kids you ever met. I guess Freddie was just in the “wrong place at the wrong time” that’s all. Yeah, how many times have you heard that?

So the next time your up by the Pavilion or having a “Latte” at Connecticut Muffin, say a prayer for Fred Cooper. Because he died on the cold concrete sidewalk of Bartell Pritchard Square so many years ago, in a time before Windsor Terrace was cute and Park Slope was pretty. Somewhere in the Brooklyn of my youth, so many years ago.

Ron Lopez


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Church Avenue Dreamin'

Now, close your eyes and imagine a Brooklyn from about 30 years ago. No, lets try that again, close your eyes and imagine a Church Avenue from about 30 years ago.
You will be climbing the subway steps next to the Astoria Bank on McDonald Avenue. The darkness of the stairs will still bring you into the same sunlight that you know today.
So far, so good.

Ok, you look at the bank and notice the name “The Greater New York Savings Bank”. Directly across the street form the bank on McDonald Avenue is a “Manufacturers Hanover Trust Bank”. Wow, you say, two banks right across from eachother. What a great neighborhood!

You make the left by the Greater and immediately notice the gigantic marquee from the Beverly Movie Theater. A “Planet of the Apes Marathon” Wow, I can’t wait! What a great place to spend nine to ten hours on a Saturday! But what do I see? right next to the candy store where Ebbingers Bakery used to be, a brand new Citibank! Wow, maybe I can get one of those New ATM cards they talk about all the time and take out ten bucks late at night!
What a great neighborhood! Three banks all within “A day laborer's vomiting distance”. Wow, is this place great or what?

You continue walking on Church Avenue past the Beverly, Dutch Dairies, Saul’s Appetizing, Scarollas Italian Restaurant and then Edna’s Restaurant. Jewish and Italian side by side, no wonder they always marry each other. The “Hallmark” store sits right on the corner of East 2nd and Church Avenue. Don’t forget to get that “Valentines” day card for that special someone besides your wife. Directly across the street from the Hallmark store is a new Carvel, wow, I’m sure glad we now have “Cookie Puss and “Fuggy the Whale” right here on Church Avenue! The M&S butcher shop, Lees Toy Store, Kenny’s Toy Store, Keyfood, and Fairmart. How about a chocolate cake form NE Tells Bakery. Who needs drugs when you’re on a sugar high?

And on the corner of East 4th and Church is a new Record store run by a real “Hippie” too. I wonder what “else” he sells besides those “Tony Orlando and Dawn” 45’s.

Hey, someone give me a Tylenol, I think my head is going to explode!
This is all too much, it must be a dream! Pinch me or kick me in
the shins!

But the real treasure of Church Avenue sits on the corner of East 5th and Church Avenue.

As you walk closer the “Golden Crown” gets bigger and bigger. Welcome to “Royale Sporting Goods” folks. The “Crown Jewel” of Church Avenue! A “Mecca” of Hockey equipment, roller skates, wiffle ball bats and baseball gloves, right here on Church Avenue no less. You open the door and go inside. Man, “Paragon” in Manhattan is a “Rat hole” compare to this place! And actually back in the 70’s Paragon was a “Rat hole”.

As you stand there in Royale’s holding a brand new hockey stick you just can’t help but notice the chips on your red fingernails. A quick look in the mirror also shows the return of the dreaded “Brooklyn Uni-Brow”. My God, what are the guys going to think if I show up like this for the big game? Where do I get my nails done? And what about my eyebrows? I am a man dammit, and I have pride!

Ohhhhhh, right, 7th Avenue in Park Slope, where else, I hear that place is just full of “nail salons” and “cheap 99 cent stores”!

And then I woke up.

P.S. We actually did go to the “Planet of the Apes Marathon” at the Beverly. What a great place to spend ten hours on a Saturday!

Ron Lopez

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A Parents Greatest Fear (can also bring Joy)

Back in 1962 I don’t think there were many tests to determine if your baby was going to be “Downs Syndrome” or not. And if there were, I don’t think my mom would have taken one anyway.
No, at 45 years old I think the doctors may told her she was taking a chance, but knowing my mom I don’t think she thought about it twice.

You see, I was the “second” boy, and it’s ok, I was already told years ago that I was supposed to be the “girl”. Yes, my arrival caused a little disappointment, and from what my mom told me they were going to name the girl ”Ronny” anyway. So there you go. Buy hey, all six foot three, 210 pounds of “Ronnie” can take it, and let me tell you, I’d make one hideous looking woman anyway.

So while I was sitting in my playpen, and staring through the bars at my parent’s bedroom door, they probably had other things on their minds. And I’m sure it was something “pink” after two “blues”.

So one day my mom told me she was going to have a baby. I was about five years old at the time and really excited. I remember drawing pictures in school of my new little brother or sister in my classroom at PS 179. I just couldn’t wait while my brother Joseph just couldn’t care less.

Then one day my Grandmother Isabel picked me up form school and told me that “mommy” had to go to the hospital to have the baby. Once again I drew more pictures while my brother Joseph started building a “cage”.

So the day finally came when my mom had the “new” baby, that was February 10, 1962. But something seemed to be wrong. I remember being downstairs in my grandparent’s apartment a lot while the baby was upstairs. Even a five year old noticed something was not right. A lot of grown-ups crying, a lot of closed doors. All I wanted was to see my little sister, that’s all. And I just couldn’t understand what
was wrong.

I couldn’t imagine what went through my mom and dads minds when the doctors told them that their daughter was retarded or “Downs Syndrome” that February 10th back in 1962. What started as a day of excitement and happiness over at Methodist hospital in Park Slope ended up one of the biggest nightmares any new mother can have. Learning at delivery that there was something “wrong” with their child. Learning that the “odds” that were in your favor, had somehow turned against you. What have I done to deserve this?, is all you ask.

“You know these children don’t live very long either” one doctor told my mom. Maybe 12, 13, but not much longer. “A lifetime of commitment” was another line spoken many times that day on
7th Avenue in Park Slope. My moms world was turned upside down
in an instant, and all she kept asking God was “what have I done to
deserve this?”.

I was told years later that the reason why they didn’t bring her down to me sooner was that there was a great divide in the family about putting her up for adoption or not. I know that was never what my mom wanted, nor my grandmother Isabel Lopez. No one born into their family would ever be forsaken. And especially no one named after my grandmother either.

Then the day finally came. “Ronnie, I want you to meet your new little sister “Isabel”. To this day I still remember how tiny and beautiful she was, and her eyes. I just loved my sister’s eyes. They were the most wonderful big eyes I had ever seen.

I don’t think I ever really knew there was anything “special” or as you folks may say “wrong” with my sister. You see she was always quite “normal” to me. Well, she may have learned to walk at five and drank her bottle until she was seven, but other than that how was I supposed to know? No one ever really told me anyway.

Oh, right, the hugs. My little sister just loved to hug us all the time. And when it came to pure love and innocence, I don’t think you could have found anyone more innocent than my sister Isabel.

The laughter, oh right, the laughter. My little sister Isabel had the most wicked sense of humor and just made the family laugh all the time. So besides that, how was I supposed to know she was different?

And somehow she was just always the center of attention too. Even in her class at PS179, PS 230, PS130, PS10, PS so on and so on. You see back in the late 60’s through the 70’s there were really no schools dedicated to these children. Most of the time they just bounced around from public school to public school. But whatever class my sister was in the other kids would always kind of “gather around” her to hear what she had to say. So besides that, how was I supposed to know she was different?

I guess it was the looks from other people when my sister walked by that opened up my eyes to her being different. Plus the fact that she was extremely overweight as a teenager and young adult. Sometimes when we took the F-train from Church Avenue together I would notice people staring and laughing at my sister. Many times they never knew I was with them. One time on the F-train I whispered into a mans ear that I would “break his neck and kill him” if he laughed at my sister again. He got scared and walked into the next car. Gee, its amazing what an effect a 6’ 3” person could have on someone, especially with a long black leather coat, a beard and dark glasses. Boy, I miss those days.

And then there was the music, Isabel loved to stay up late and rock the house with her boom box on a Friday night. Just the thumping sound of the “beat” from the top floor of 399 East 4th till the wee hours of the morning. “Hey brother this is my apartment, go to your girlfriends house, sucker”. I could only laugh, as she’d scream these words in my ear after a late night out in the city with the guys. Too drunk or tired to answer her, I’d just go back to sleep. Only to be awoken by a glass of water being poured on my head by Isabel a few minutes later. You want to know why I can sleep through anything? I had a lot of training sleeping through “Michael Jackson, Air Supply, Kiss, and more, all cranked up to the highest level on her boom box. So besides that, how was I supposed to know she was different?

My sister was always sick a lot too. She used to sleep sitting up. “These kids have a lot of respitory issues,” Doctor Gilner once told my mom from his office at 303 Beverley. Plus the days missed from school, one year Isabel missed something like 225 days of school. I just couldn’t stop laughing when I read her report card.

And my mom?. Well, my mom was the luckiest mom on earth. She had a child that loved her to no end. A child whose mind and soul were as pure as a new fallen snow. A child who was her greatest companion for 32 years. Without my sister my mom would have most likely jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge after her husband and son died four years apart.

Now my sister was always getting sick, and that morning on June 17, 1994 seemed like no different from the rest. But what made me think was the words she said after she vomited for about the millionth time in her life. Instead of telling me to “leave her apartment” Isabel said; “Ronnie please don’t leave me”. So I stayed there next to her that night to make sure she was OK.

When my mom woke up that morning a quick call was made to my sister’s school “ACRMD” up by Bishop Ford in Windsor Terrace. Just another sick day for my sister is all we thought. So I helped my mom for a while and then went off to work. But the rest of the day went tragically wrong. Isabel couldn’t breathe, calls were made to 911, firemen, emts, and a hospital bed at Lutheran. When I got a call at work that afternoon it all sounded pretty grim.

I remember the looks on the doctor’s faces when they approached us in the waiting room. You could always tell when someone has “bad news”. The nurse just said she would light a candle for my sister that night. It all just started to unravel. And all along my friend Tommy Brennan was there with me while my mom just sat there in shock. I remember watching the “OJ Simpson low speed chase that night on the TV in the waiting room. It was the night of June 17th 1994. It’s funny the things in life that make you remember certain events.

It was just getting so late for my 77 year old mom, so we decided to take her home. We kissed Isabel on the forehead and told her we would be back in the morning. She gave us the “thumbs up” and said she loved us. That would be the last time I would see her alive.

Oh, those 2:00 AM phone calls, there never any good. My mom’s world ended on June 18th 1994, Isabel died at 1:44 AM.

He companion, her child, the love of her life was no longer with her. Another child was buried for my mom.

So the “beat” was silent and there were no dance parties coming from the top floor of 399 East 4th. The house lost its soul, my little sister was dead. My mom's daughter was gone, and she would grieve for what seemed an eternity. Things just weren't the same anymore at 399 without Isabel, and also at her school where her classmates cried every day.

I think my mom didn’t smile or laugh for about a year. I remember being home when I heard her laugh for the first time in almost twelve months; it was during the “Prairie Home Companion” show on NPR. I gave my mom a big hug and told her Isabel would want to her her laugh again too. My mom just smiled and told me she knew she would see her again when she died. “Of course you will” is all I said. I knew my mom had finally made it.

Whenever I see the parents of a “Downs Syndrome” child, I never feel bad for them. Because I know that child will show them more love than anyone “normal” ever could. The little things in life that most take for granted would all seem so glorious and wonderful with their child. My sister taught the entire family to appreciate the advances in life that we would have never even thought about without her. And boy, did she teach us how to hug.

Her “garbled” speech also gave me a gift. Isabel never really spoke that clearly and when my kids were learning to speak it helped me pick-up on words they were saying that most couldn’t understand. My wife called me the “baby whisperer” and also thought I was full of shit. But I’ll translate any “baby talk” to the finest English any day of the week, I kid you not.

So there you go, the story of something tragic that actually ended up being magical for everyone who knew my sister Isabel. Our greatest fear ended up becoming our most cherished joy. Why is it that what most think of as a “burden” to them, can actually be the greatest gift to someone else. I guess you can call it a big “misunderstanding”, nothing more.

And if you never met a person that couldn’t care less about his wife’s amniocentesis result you may actually know him after all. Because he had a "Downs Syndrome" sister, and he knew the truth about what most parents fear the most. A fear that can certainly be your greatest gift. Because we had ours you know, and her name was Isabel Lopez.

Ron Lopez



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