Living in our skates

You know I really do my best when it comes to remembering all this stuff.
But thanks to a lot of you natives out there "the truth can be told" as they say. In my story about Shawn Gorman climbing the chimney of PS 130, which I must have spelled the word "chimney" twelve different ways. James mentioned that Shawn was actually wearing his skates when he climbed the dam thing. And you know what, I think James is right. Because if Shawn did it in his sneakers that would have been too easy. And besides, the Gormans would have skated there from Church Avenue without any shoes.

So James, I tip my hat to you.
Here is James’s comment:

My name is James,
and I was there that Sunday morning when Shawn climbed the side of P.S. 130. What you failed to mention, or notice, was that Shawn actually had his roller skates on at the time. I remember seeing him use the rubber toe stoppers (remember them?), fitting them inside the groove of each step. To prove that I was there, and knew this kid, I can share this one important piece of information:
He's always fancied himself a monkey.
He even used to claim that he owned a monkey.

Thank you James
(But I still can’t remember anything about the monkey)

And as for “Living in our skates”, I was as guilty as the next guy.

• I always used to climb down the three flights of stairs in
my house with skates and full goalie equipment on.
Oh, and then up them too. It used to drive my Grandfather crazy.

• I used to drive with my roller skates on and later roller blades,
(please don’t tell GEICO).

• I used to wear my roller blades after work in the elevator of
9 West 57 before I would skate home to Brooklyn on a Friday
night with Tommy Brennan.

• I used to wear them in the bank, post office, Foodtown, etc, etc.

• Sometimes I still put them on in the F-Train, walk up the
subway steps and skate home from the station.

So you see, the image of Shawn Gorman climbing a chimney with skates on now makes perfect sense.

And as far as driving with my skates on?
Well, I quit that bad habit years ago, so please don’t worry.

Ron Lopez


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Climbing to the top at PS 130

This morning I had to laugh when I read the story about these two guys that climbed the new Times building across form the Port Authority. They basically climbed a metal ladder that wraps around that building, because that’s how it was designed. They say it’s to save on air conditioning, but let me tell you I’d rather pay Con Ed a few more bucks a month. Because the whole design is quite hiddious, and looks like someone got the blueprints backwards.
But that’s just my opinion you know.

Yeah, two guys scaling the outside of a building that basically has a permanent ladder attached to it. No big deal is all I say.

Because you see, back in about 1975 there was little Shawn Gorman and the PS 130 chimney. And the story about what Shawn did that morning never made the headlines, because no one really saw what he did except us. And we knew better than to call the police.

The PS 130 school yard used to be a heck of a lot bigger than it is now. Before the board of education decided to ruin our roller hockey court with more classrooms. Oh, did I say board of education, pardon me, it must be my age. Because "DOE" just sounds like something my grandfather used to hunt for in the Catskills during November.
But then again that’s just my opinion you know.

It was just another Sunday morning in Windsor Terrace and there we were as usual using the PS 130 schoolyard as our practice court for roller hockey. I know we used to annoy the poor people that owned the house right behind the schoolyard too. Many a hockey puck deflected off my goalie stick and hit the side of their house, including their windows. I guess the couple that lived there weren’t big hockey fans, they always kept our pucks and cursed at us too. And on a Sunday morning no less, what nerve!

The Gorman’s were a big bunch and usually joined in on our Sunday morning games at the school yard on East 5th and Fort Hamilton. I think they lived somewhere off Church Avenue on the other side of Coney Island Avenue going towards Flatbush. They may have lived above a store too, but I really can’t recall.

Now with all due respect, the Gorman boys were great hockey players. But I think things may have not been perfect once they got home, if you know what I'm saying.

And Shawn, one of the youngest Gorman boys, was a sweet looking kid with red hair and freckles who looked like he just walked right out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Except he cursed like a sailor and was always doing these crazy dangerous things to impress his older brothers, and today would be no different.

So there I am in all my goalie equipment waiting for the next puck to be shot. Out of the corner of my eye I see Shawn climbing the side of the school, with his skates on no less. I think it may have been where the auditorium was, it was only one story high and used to stick out from the back of the school facing East 5th.

He somehow climbs up to the top of that structure and then makes a beeline straight to the brick chimney on the side of the school. Now if you ever noticed the chimney of PS 130 it has these insets that almost look like steps. They are about one or two feet away from each other and go all the way up to the top. So Shawn gently places the toe stop of his skates on each step, and wraps his arms around the side of the bricks and starts to slowly scale his way up.

We all start screaming for him to get down including his older brothers who were skating with us.

Well, before you know it Shawn is almost to the top of the brick chimney, with nothing holding him except his nerve. He finally makes it to the summit and then just sits on the top. Like a red headed bird on a flagpole, there was little Shawn Gorman way up in the sky, just giving his brothers the finger, and still wearing his roller skates.

After about fifteen minutes Shawn decided to come down, scaling the side of the chimney in the same manor that he scaled it up in. One skate after the other with both arms wrapped around the bricks until he got to the ground.

Once he was on the pavement his older brothers gave him hell.
And Shawn being Shawn just laughed as they were punching him.
Just another day in the life of little Shawn Gorman trying to impress the world.

The other day we were walking home from Prospect Park and passed by PS 130. I told my wife and son about how little Shawn Gorman scaled up the side of the school with roller skates and nothing holding him except his nerve. I think they may have chalked it up to another “tall tale” of my childhood in Brooklyn.

But let me tell you, somewhere there’s a forty five year old man named Shawn Gorman. And I’m sure he remembers what the view looked like from the sky, high above Windsor Terrace on a warm Sunday morning back in 1975, while still wearing his roller skates.

Ron Lopez


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The Ice Cream Man of Kensington

His fingers, yes there was something so beautiful about his fingers.
They were the longest and most gentle fingers you have ever seen.

And he stood like a giant too.
He had legs that just seemed to go on forever, and arms that could reach as far as the Brooklyn Bridge.

Oh, his uniform, let me tell you about his uniform. It was always the brightest of white you know, and clean as a whistle. He also wore a little white hat too, it looked something like a ship captains hat.

And with long nicotine stained fingers as cold as ice and as yellow as corn, Morris would gently pick the change out of the palm of your hand and then lean down and give you your ice cream bar.

Yeah, just like the giant in “Gulliver’s Travels”, that was Morris.

I think he also wore one of those change machines on his belt too, it was silver and had these different cylinders for pennies, nickels, quarters and dimes.

You see,
Morris was our ice cream man.
Not anyone else’s ice cream man.
No, just ours alone.

The bells on his truck had a very distinctive ring too. They jingled like those on Santa’s sleigh. Full of music, full of life. Nothing at all like the cheap sound of the Good Humor man. No, Morris’s bells were probably made of sterling silver instead of tin.

And what made Morris special to us was his kindness. Pure gentle kindness from a man who probably would have scared the living daylights out of anyone if he wasn’t dressed in an ice cream
man’s uniform.

You see Morris had to stand about six feet five, was as skinny as a flagpole and chain-smoked to no end. From what I remember too, he smoked the same brand as my dad. That distinctive “Camel” could always be seen sticking out of his shirt pocket.

And Morris also died young, just like my dad. Too many “Camels” bought him a headstone way before his time, and only left us with a nasty Good Humor man who never liked us.

Yeah, I could just see him like it was yesterday, his truck parked on Avenue C between East 3rd and East 4th, long tall and lean standing there like a gentle giant. Waiting for us hand him our dimes and quarters after another day at PS 179.

And if you didn’t have enough money, Morris would let you slide and pay him another day. Or he would even break an ice pop in two pieces, if you only had a nickel. Just the gentle kindness of a man who drove an ice cream truck and knew all our names.

Yes, The ice cream man of Kensington.
Not anyone else’s ice cream man.
No, just ours alone.

Ron Lopez


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Kensington returns in 2008

You know sometimes I get real tired of writing about the way it used to be here in Kensington. Unsupervised five year olds running up and down my block, teenagers playing stickball in the street, Morris our chain-smoking ice cream man lighting a “Camel” as he hands you your “Bullet Bar”. Oh, and lets not forget rolling down my driveway with our tricycles and making a sharp turn before almost getting squashed by an oil truck. That ones bound to give any parent a heart attack no matter what the year.

Yeah, sometimes this whole reminiscing thing is just too much even for me. How much of this crap can a person remember or even write about. Just save it for your “I recall Kensington in the 70’s monologue” in some smelly Catskills resort before you go senile why don’t you. And besides big guy, if you were really paying attention, you would start to notice that Kensington is actually changing before your eyes. So stop writing about the 60’s and 70’s, open your front door, and see what’s really going on today in 2008.

Well, my son hasn’t rolled that empty baby carriage down my driveway into the path of a speeding car with the watermelon inside yet. And he hasn’t shot a “Zebra” gun filled with hard green peas into the face of a Sears’s delivery van driver like I did back in 1968. Wow, that wasn’t exactly noteworthy on my College resume. Oh, but that’s right everyone went to city college back in 1975, including me. Could you imagine, six years of a “Free” college education at Baruch and all I do is write a blog about Kensington? What a waste of 70’s taxpayer money!

But there is a change in the air my friends, and you can just feel it. The kids from up the block stand in front of our house and yell for my son to come outside. They play with ants on our stoop, well, actually squash them. They ride up and down the block with their bikes and even roll down the sharp incline of our driveway and make those same turns that we did as kids. Wow, they even blow bubbles on my stoop and have water balloon fights. And get this, parents with other kids stop by and talk while their kids play on our front lawn.

Kids having fun on the sidewalks of East 4th again, someone please wake me up, I must be dreaming. Because it’s not supposed to be this wonderful you know. What the hell am I going to write about if the past is starting to become the present? No more “we moved from Fort Greene to Kensington?” from my wife. No more “you should have seen the block when I was a kid from me. No more “you know we used to hang out on my stoop all the time” because we’re doing it now again in 2008.

Can Kensington be turning into a mini Park Slope?

Can my block be returning to a 60’s kind of place minus Morris our chain smoking ice-cream man?

Can “Kensington Stories” be a thing of the past?
(Please pardon the pun.)

I really don’t know, but I got to tell you that I have never seen so many young couples with children walking down my block. Not to mention the twenty-something kids who are also moving here, probably priced out of Williamsburg or GreenPoint.

Just a big wave of new folks keeping us natives curious.

So what’s really going on in Kensington you ask?

Well, this is the Ronnie Lopez study,
from my front stoop no less.

It seems many of the older parents who still lived here after their kids grew up, are finally selling their houses. You know, just too much house, and too much hassle for some older folks who are ready to pack it in and move South. Not to mention some grown up kids that could use the money from their parents after they sell their Kensington wood-frames.

Just a win-win situation for the whole family, including the IRS.

And guess who’s buying these houses or renting apartments inside them? All of you guys! A whole new generation of “Kensington Stories” starting to grow right before my own blue eyes. You are from Park Slope, Carroll Gardens, and Windsor Terrace.

You may even be from other states and foreign countries,
including Manhattan.

But please don’t be sad about Church Avenue, because it WILL change, just give it some time folks. Besides, have you seen how cheap those bananas are at Golden Farms?

Yes, East 4th is changing along with the rest of Kensington. A once quiet street is starting to awaken again with the sounds of children’s laughter and parents voices. The Kensington that I once knew as a kid is starting to come alive as I grow older. And it’s truly fascinating for me to see it all once again, truly fascinating indeed.

And if you don’t believe me, just catch the next water balloon fight the kids have on my front lawn, or the children telling stories on the stoop as the sun goes down.

Oh, but just one last thing. I promise I’ll keep that empty baby carriage in the garage away from the kids. Because you never know what they’ll want to roll down my driveway and into the street
when your not looking.

So you see, sometimes dreams do come true,
even in Kensington Brooklyn.

Ron Lopez


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A Child Dies in Kensington

The young boys smile looked frozen and awkward as he slept. In-between his folded hands was a dark red rosary. His face was white as milk, and his hair jet black, combed backwards. Under the powdered make-up on his face you could still see freckles, they were dark brown and looked as though they were gently sprinkled on his cheeks.
He wore a white shirt and white jacket. I think it may have been the one he wore for his Confirmation at IHM on Fort Hamilton Parkway.

Above him were two freestanding lamps, with bright yellow lights shinning on his face, his eyes stayed closed. As an eleven year old I still clung to some miracle that Joseph would open them, just a crack is all I wished for. But my mother’s tears told me something else.
I got up from the folding metal chair and walked to the back of the room and sat next to my cousin Pete and Denise. With tears streaming down both of their faces, I knew this wasn’t a dream
or nightmare.

It was a warm June night at Pitta’s on McDonald Avenue in Kensington, Brooklyn. My brother Joseph was laying in a dark brown casket and was never ever going to wake up from his eternal sleep.

No, my bother was dead.


“Hey Ronnie just stop for a minute, my knees really hurt”.

I remember looking at my brother that day and seeing the pain in his face. We were fishing with my grandfather Paco down by the stream alongside the Hollow that lead to our house in the Catskills.

My brother Joseph stopped behind me, in his left hand he held a fishing pole, in his right hand a white plastic bucket with two small brook trout swimming inside. The water was brown because we just scooped it up from the brook minutes before. I remember it just finished raining that day and the grass was quite wet too.

I took my brothers fishing pole and bucket and helped him walk to our Rambler station wagon parked alongside the road. He just cried all the way to the house while rubbing his knees with his hands.

My mother’s solution for many of life’s woes was a warm compress with Bengay. As my brother lyed in bed that night the relief of a warm washcloth on his knees would only be temporary. Because when we got back to Kensington there would be doctor visits, new shoes, knee braces, questions about tendons and then finally blood tests.

Apparently the knees are where a lot of bone marrow is produced, and when you have “acute childhood leukemia” at 13, they are bound to hurt.

“Who are you here to see young man?” “You know its way past visiting hours and you don’t belong on the floor”

The doctor spoke to me with authority while I was washing my hands in the men’s room at Mamodonies Hospital that night.

“Oh, I’m here visiting my brother Joseph Lopez in room 523”

The doctor’s face just melted before my eyes and he looked almost apologetic now. He rubbed the top of my head and just said; “Oh that’s ok, you just spend some time with your brother young man.”

You have to remember that although I knew my brother was sick, no one really told me how serious it was. But that few moments with the doctor in the men’s room told me something very different. I knew my brother was going to die, no matter what my mom said.

My brother just lyed in that bed at Maimonides Hospital. It was the wing that looked like a gigantic coffee can. We called it the “round building”. From his window you could see Kensington, 310 Beverley and PS 179. On the wall of his room was a card from his seventh grade class at Ditmas JHS.

Joey also had a collection of hospital toys, toys that my mom and my family brought for him to play with while he was sick. There were little cars, trucks, comic books, and a model of the Mayflower. But there was one toy in particular that I will never forget. It was a small plastic white Jeep with a silver chain underneath that powered the four wheels. I would sit next to him and with his hospital bed on an incline we would just run the Jeep up and down the linen hill. My brother never really smiled in Maimonides you know, but that Jeep was the only toy that brought a little glimmer in his eyes.

The nights at 399 East 4th were really awful too. When you always have an older brother either sleeping above you in a bunk bed or next to you in a twin bed, the thought of going to sleep without anyone there with you really hurt. And all you wished for every night was to wake up in the morning and see your brother beside you.

Sometimes late at night I would hear my mother talking to her sister Beatrice who lived in Queens Village. My mom actually spoke fluent Polish, and most of the time that’s how the conversations started. But somewhere along the line they both broke down and it turned to English. When my mother described the bone marrow tests my brother had to take, and his screams that even made the nurses cry, that’s when I shut the door and tried not to think about it anymore.

I was in the 6th grade class at PS 179 on June 11th 1969. Mister Bernstein was my teacher and everyone was just so kind to me that day. From the sixth floor window you could see all of South Brooklyn, including Coney Island. I couldn’t concentrate on my work that day, and I kept repeating “Hail Mary” and “Our Father” over and over in my head as I looked at the Parachute Jump in the distance.

Some of the kids walked over to me and just said “I hope your brother gets better”, even Michael Mc Call who used to break my pencils all the time. I never told anyone in class that my brother was even sick, so I was somewhat surprised that everyone knew about it, especially today.

As the bell rang at three and I left school, I was surprised to see Clair Mc Nally, my friend Paul’s mom waiting for me outside of the school on East third street.

“Hi Ronnie. I just wanted to make sure you got home ok”

I was kind of surprised because I was eleven and have been walking home alone for a while now. But Clair was very kind, so I don’t question her. As we walked up Avenue C towards East 4th, I started to feel a little sick, something just wasn’t right and Clair really didn’t talk to me either.

As we made the left on East 4th and started getting closer to our house I started to feel real anxious and my heart beat faster. There were strange cars in my driveway and the whole thing didn’t feel right. Clair held my hand and walked me up the red brick stairs. Instead of opening up the left hand side door that lead up the stairway to our apartment, she opened up the heavy wooden door to the right that was my cousin Pete’s apartment.

Clair made me sit down on the couch by the front window.
As I looked up I saw my entire family sitting at the dinner table in the next room. They all just sat there quietly with looks of loss and sadness in their faces.

My mom was there too.

Why wasn’t anyone with my brother at the hospital?
Why is everyone here?
Why? Why? Why?

As my mother got up from the table and started walking towards me, she started crying. She sat on the couch next to me and wrapped her arms around me. She just hugged me as hard as she could and then softly whispered in my ear; “Joey died”

Suddenly it felt as though the floor fell through. Like I was floating through the air. Falling, falling, falling. I was hoping to hit the ground and just die so I could be with my brother Joseph.

Then all of a sudden I heard the front door open. It was my cousin Pete coming home from Ditmas. My uncle Pete pulled him aside and also whispered in his ear. Pete just ran into his room in the back of the apartment. He was crying as he closed his door.

Then a few minutes later my little cousin Denise walked in, and it was the same whispering and the same crying.

And before you knew it the door just kept opening, more of our family had arrived. More crying, more whispers, more sad faces.

No it wasn’t a dream, my brother really died that day.

June 11th 1969 was a bright sunny day. A day I will always remember. A day that I can play over and over in my mind, from
start to finish as though it was yesterday.

June 11th 1969 remains forever etched in my soul.

My mother passed away in October 2001, some 32 years after my brother Joseph died. The thought of cleaning my mom’s apartment was daunting. She saved everything. From my kindergarten drawings to my hockey trophies. Yes, the closets were just full of 50 years worth of memories.

All compressed into a small two by six foot space.

As I was digging through a closet in the back of the apartment, I came apon a small green suitcase. It was tucked way in the corner and looked as though it was buried on purpose.

I pulled it out and laid it on the bed. I then un-snapped the straps and slowly opened it. There inside the suitcase were all of my brother’s hospital toys, including the white jeep.

I sat there in shock. It was June 11th 1969 all over again.

For years I was convinced that my mom threw away all of my brother’s toys that he played with at Maimonides.
Thinking that it was just her way of dealing with another tragedy after my dad’s death four years earlier.
And finding them after all those years just buried in darkness was certainly a shock to me.

I sat there in the bedroom and looked through everything in that suitcase. A horrible memory of my past was now in front of me again some 32 years later. I gently closed the suitcase and took it with me that evening.

Time has finally healed this wound, the death of my brother Joseph.

And its very important for things to "heal" you know,
its just a part of life.

Because I now live in my aunt’s apartment on the first floor of 399 East 4th. The same apartment that Clair walked me into the day my brother died. We have dinner in the same room that my family sat in with looks of loss on their faces. The couch sits against the same wall where my mother whispered in my ear that my brother died, along with the same door that my cousin Pete closed behind him to cry in his bedroom.

So you see, I never really moved far from the fire that once hurt so much. You just move along with your life, and hope it never comes back to burn you again.

And the white Jeep that my brother used to play with at Maimonides? Well, I now keep it on a shelf in the living room,
to remind me that one time long ago I had an older brother.

A brother I used to go fishing with.
A brother that protected me when I needed help.
A brother that used to boss me around.
A brother that slept above me in our bunkbed.

A brother that died in Brooklyn on a warm sunny day in June of 1969.

A brother that I still miss after almost 40 years.
And his name was Joseph Lopez.

Ron Lopez


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Five dollar gas in Kensington Brooklyn

Well folks, it won’t be long now.
With gas well over four dollars a gallon here in Kensington,
we should be paying over
five bucks by July. And I really wouldn’t mind paying that much
if the government threw in free healthcare like in Canada.
But I don’t think I’ll ever see that day while I’m alive. No, five bucks a gallon and all we get is the free use of the slimy squeegee at the “On the Run” on Fort Hamilton Parkway.

Did you ever see how disgusting that water looks?
And it really smells too.

And me, well I’m stuck with a 2005 Nissan Quest that gets a wonderful 15.5 miles a gallon here in Brooklyn. I think that for every five cents a gallon gas goes up, the Quest is worth another five hundred dollars less. Just a constant reminder of the mistake I made when gas was about 1.69 a gallon back in March of 2005 when we bought the stupid thing. Oh, and don’t ever believe the MPG on the dealer sticker, it WILL get 5 miles per gallon less. I promise you that.

So what do we do you ask?

Well, we can throw all caution to the wind and just buy a Prius. Except when you figure it all out on paper we’d only be saving about 1100 dollars a year on gas. And that’s with driving 20,000 miles a year no less. So it might be a wonderful way to save the planet, but with another new car payment that I don’t have right now, it just doesn’t make smart financial sense.

But don’t tell my wife, she just thinks we should buy one anyway.

So right now we are stuck in neutral, and the fill-ups will be up to eighty bucks very soon.

Can you imagine that? Eighty bucks? Wow.


Oh yes, but then there was a hot summer night back in 1979, and a wonderful evening on Coney Island Avenue that I will never forget.

“Did you see what they’re charging for gas Ronnie?”
“The sign said almost a dollar a gallon”

The gas line was so long that it stretched all the way to “Rockys Pizza” on Church Avenue from the gas station down at Avenue C.

The Brooklyn sun had just finished setting over Boro Park in the West. There were hundreds of cars on the line, tempers were “long”, and we were just having the time of our young lives.

“You're gonna kill the battery stupid, lower the volume”

We were all inside my 1973 Buick Century listening to a bunch of 8-tracks that I kept in the car. My friend Neil was standing on the roof of the Buick looking down towards the gas station. Just some Boston, Meatloaf and the Cars blaring through the rear window speakers.

I think we got on the line at about seven at night, it moved for a while and then stopped dead. We were told that they ran out of gas and had to wait for the truck to come. With nothing to do on a Friday night as usual, we just waited, waited and waited. Just talking about life and dreams on a Kensington night, and blaming Jimmy Carter and the oil companies for the whole thing before it was over.

“Hey Ronnie, I think I see a tanker truck down there, it looks like the gas finally came”

It was probably about 2AM before the line started moving again. And no one was mad, no one was angry. Because misery loves company you know, except no one was really miserable. In fact the whole experience was actually rather exciting. Just one big “Samba” line of cars, music and people on a Friday night in Brooklyn.

For all it was worth, that was the only “gas line” I was ever on back in the 70’s. I only used the Buick on weekends because I took the train to work everyday. So the whole nightmare was just one Friday night for me, well, it really wasn’t a nightmare actually.

And when we finally pulled up to
the pump, I filled up the Buick.
It must have cost me about sixteen bucks.

Sixteen bucks to fill up my tank,
and all we got for free was the
use of their slimy squeegee.

Wow, can you imagine that?

Ron Lopez


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The Circle of Death

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

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

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

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

BAAAAM! BAAAAM!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just another insurance payout in the Boro of my birth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ron Lopez


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The Concrete of Kensington

The other day I dug up some old pictures of my block. The black and white photo’s had to be from about 1968, they were pictures I took with a camera I was given on my eleventh birthday.

As I closely examined the photographs, there was just something so different about my block, and I couldn’t put my finger on exactly what it was.


So I decided to walk outside onto my front porch and look at my street and sidewalk some forty years later.

Lets see, there were more trees on the block back then, and the cars were bigger. Hell, a Cadillac in the 60's had fins so big and sharp you could easily get impaled while running the wrong way playing Frisbee football. The back of our 2005 Nissan Quest is kids stuff compare to a pointy Caddy fin you know. And there were a hell of a lot more kids on the block too, and most of the garbage cans were made of metal instead of plastic.

Hmm, but there had to be something else…
Maybe the people?

Well, the Kochets who lived two doors down were no longer alive. They both actually moved away from Park Slope in the 1960’s because their block was getting pretty terrible. In fact if my memory serves me right they lived on Third street between Prospect Park West and Eighth Avenue. But don’t worry, they always believed the area would change and never sold their big apartment building somewhere near the corner. And they were able to bask in the glory of a gentrified Park Slope at least until they died, by collecting a nice rent while they were both retired in Kensington that is.

Hmm, but there had to be something else…
Maybe the Blanks?

Oh right, Mr. and Mrs. Blank, my next-door neighbors.

They could be seen sitting on the porch of their house at 403 East 4th at almost any time of the day. Just like two NYPD security cameras of the new millennium, the Blank’s were the eyes and ears of the block. In fact I’m sure Mrs. Blank, a very good friend of my Mom’s, kept my Mother updated on anything that I may have done wrong while playing on the block. Yes the Blanks, just perched on their porch like two birds on a branch, watching the world go by on a sunny Kensington day.

But still, there had to be something else….
Maybe our ice-cream man?

Oh right, Morris the chain-smoking ice cream man, Now we had the greatest ice cream man in the world, and his name was Morris. He was tall and skinny, wore a pure white ice cream mans uniform and chain-smoked to no end. As he handed you your ice cream bar it was hard not to notice that his hands were a yellowish green color, and let me tell you it wasn’t from the lemon ices either. But nevertheless he was the nicest man you would ever meet and always let us slide if we didn’t have enough money. And if you believe in Cryonics like we did, then there still may come a day when he comes back to life. Because I was told they kept him frozen in the ice cream truck after he died of lung cancer back in 1974.

Could you imagine a chain-smoking ice cream in the “politically correct” Park Slope of 2008? The thought of it just cracks me up.

But still, there had to be something else different about my block, something very different. And maybe it just wasn’t the people
after all.

So I went back inside and picked up the old collection of black and white photos. After about a minute of staring into 1968, there they were! right before my very eyes! How could I have missed them, they were there all the time!

The long patches of green grass that ran parallel to the sidewalks along my street are now practically all gone. Beautiful glimpses of Mother Nature just buried under a few bags of Home Depot Portland Cement. How awful and disgusting is it that that the grass is gone. Yes, these pleasant little fields of dreams that made our block resemble Ditmas Park rather than Sunset Park, are now just a faded memory in an old photograph.

And if you ever walked up my block, you can get an idea of how pretty it used to be too. The elderly woman that owns the corner house on Beverley Road and East 4th, has a long beautiful patch of grass that extends the entire length of her house up East 4th street towards Avenue C. I am still amazed that this wonderful long green strip of beauty has lasted as long as me, because it certainly takes a lot more effort to maintain than concrete. And you better believe that I always thank her for having that grass, because it makes the gateway to our street more than just wonderful.

Oh, and by the way, she knew my Mom too and remembers me when I was a little kid. Except she was too far down the block to report back to my mom on anything I may have been doing wrong. And probably didn't see me roll that empty baby carraige in the street anyway.

But back to the grass, the grass, where is all the grass and how can we get it back?

Ok, so let me tell you how I made a difference to get back some of the grass we lost.

My concrete driveway had to be the ugliest thing you have ever seen. It was totally cracked and oil stained beyond belief. I had a dream of making it a “country road”; all grass with just gravel for the car tires to ride on. Something straight out of the Catskills you know. But my fear of rainwater getting into my basement along with my neighbor’s house forced me to be more realistic and just cement it over. But the front of the driveway just had to be different, something friendly and a little country looking. And it had to have to grass, at least a little.

So I Goggled “country driveway” on the internet and searched and searched for ideas. And after days of never really finding anything that looked like what I wanted, I just decided to take the matter into my own hands and draw it out myself.

It would be two thin strips of red brick for the car tires to ride on and a long wide patch of grass in the center. Yes, I wanted my driveway to have some real green grass dammit! Just like the kind my block had when I was a kid.

And I had to be asked dozens of times by my neighbors why I just didn’t make it all concrete. They just couldn’t understand when I told them that I hate concrete and would rather have some grass down
the middle.

Was there really something wrong with me? They looked at me like I was totally crazy, like I was from Mars or even Park Slope.
Yes, I was out of my mind.

But I forged ahead with my little project and “dammed the torpedoes”. And after about three days of work we had some grass, well actually I put down sod, but it’s still grass you know.

Yes, I added some grass to my block, and I am very proud of myself.
I guess I really do have some Park Slope in my blood, you know I was born there, right?

So the battle rages, and I'm actually thinking about breaking up the concrete between the two trees in front of my house and planting grass. My wife thinks I'm insane, and Frank from across the street will certainly be insulted if I break the still perfect “concrete” job he did about twenty years ago.

Because I will always believe that there has to be something else. And I just hate concrete you know, and wish it could just all
turn to grass.

Ron Lopez


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You Huddled Masses You

“Give me your poor, your tired, your huddled masses”, or basically all the folks priced out of Park Slope and Brooklyn Heights.

It’s nice to see all you newcomers in Kensington.
Heck, I see you all almost every day walking down my block. You have springs in your steps and a twinkle in your eyes.
Just fresh out of the shower and ready to make a difference
in my old stomping grounds.

And all new ideas and new minds are welcome, because there are only so many “Kensington Stories” I can remember you know.

So welcome, and I hope you enjoy your stay here.

But let’s keep any conversations about school under the rug; because I hear my old Alma matta PS 179 is not exactly the learning institution that I knew some 45 years ago. Oh, and I just found out that district 15 ends on Beverley Road, so although I “walk the line” every morning on the way to the subway, my kids are still in the “wrong” zone. But what the hell do I know from school zones, they go to private school anyway. And yes I’m paying dearly for the sins of
Public School 179.

Ok, I’ll stop talking about school, I’m sorry.

But in the meantime, keep giving us those “huddled masses”,
because you guys all have such wonderful twinkles in your eyes.

And besides, it’s time for a change.

Ron Lopez


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Just Keep Moving

You know May is bike month here in New York City. It’s mayor Bloomberg’s polite way of telling us all that we better get off the couch and get a little exercise.

So far I’ve been riding my bike to 50th and Avenue of the Americas from Kensington at least three times a week. That’s a good sixty miles plus on this old fifty-year-old body.

And you know what, besides being a wonderful way to start the morning, I actually find it quite relaxing. There’s nothing more beautiful than riding through Prospect Park at eight in the morning and seeing the mist rising above some of those beautiful meadows. Just a little country in the city before I have to deal with the traffic on Flatbush Avenue, buy hey, at least most of it’s downhill from
the park.

Oh, don’t you worry you’re pretty head about a little sweat either, just take another shirt and you’ll be just fine before you sit at your desk. And make sure to give yourself a minute or so to change in
the restroom.

I know you Brooklyn bikers may take offense, but funny thing is, I find dealing with Manhattan much better when it comes to riding a bike too. You can cut up the West side bike path or even do a black diamond run right up 6th Avenue. I don’t know what it is, but I feel much safer riding in the city. But hey, maybe that’s just me.

Oh, and the ride home, the coolest trip down Broadway through Times Square. For some reason it takes me five minutes less to get home than to work in the mornings. One hour to work and fifty-five minutes home, yeah, must be those Canadian winds.

Oh, and I forgot to mention that it also helps you drop some pounds too. So far I lost 10 with my little pony.

So get off the couch and dust off that bike. If the commute to the city sounds scary to you then just try the loop in Prospect Park. And if I’m not on my bike, I may just be on my ten year old Roller Blades. Because I just bought me some brand new wheels and just have to keep this old Kensington body moving any way I can.

Ron Lopez


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The Taming of the Mustang

I remember him like it was yesterday. He was tall and thin with a bald head and gray beard. On any given Saturday morning he could be seen in the driveway of 395 East 4th next door to my house with his gold 1965 Mustang convertible. With all the doors open and the mats laid neatly on the concrete, there he was just polishing away. He kept all his wax, rags and compound all neatly organized too; they were all inside an old wooden milk crate in front of his car. I clearly remember that the interior of the car was white with the emblem of a mustang running that could be seen in-between the pillar of the two back seats. The paint job shined like glass, along with the chrome plated hubcaps and bumpers.

We were always in awe when we saw his car; it had to be the cleanest, shiniest car I have ever seen in my seven years of Kensington life. The smell of chrome polish and carnauba wax just filled the air like a fragrant flower on Saturday mornings.

And there we would stand on the other side of the fence just watching him rub the tops of the fenders for what seemed like hours.

“Hey mister, your car is really nice”
He just kept waxing away not looking at us.

“Excuse me mister, your car is really nice”
Still no response from the man with the bald head and gray beard.

“Excuse me mister”…

”And if you ever touch it, I’ll break your little hand”

In shock my brother Joseph, cousin Pete and I just walked away to the front stoop of our house. We just sat there in silence; we could not believe that the man with the bald head and gray beard said that to us. Especially after we told him how nice his car was. It was just so wrong and bad. After a few minutes of being scared and upset waves of anger started to take control of our little minds. And my brother looked at a box of smoked trout that my Mom had thrown out the night before. It was just sticking out from the top of the dull silver garbage can.

He just stared at it and then slowly began to smile.

“Ronnie, I have a great idea”.

The trout must have gotten run over at least fifty times on East 4th before it was ready. I ran into the street with a thin piece of cardboard and gently scooped it up. Making sure not to break it in two, I placed our culinary masterpiece in my front yard and watched it bake in the hot Kensington sun.

And then like he did every Saturday, the man with the bald head and beard backed his shiny Mustang convertible out of the driveway and parked it in front of my house, 399 East 4th. As he walked back to the driveway he gave us a mean look. He then turned around and walked back to his car and raised the white convertible top, got inside and rolled up the windows.

There we sat on our stoop, devastated, looking at our squashed trout sitting in the front yard. Well, we could throw it on his hood or roof, but what kind of lesson is that? Just smear it on his door? no. It had to be better than that.

Then we saw it, and we couldn’t believe our eyes. We started stomping our little feet together on the red brick steps of my house. Just the opening we needed. The man with the bald head and beard forgot to fully close the driver’s side window; it was opened about
an inch.

The glory would be ours today!

Under the direct orders of my older brother Joseph and cousin Pete,
I gingerly picked up the trout in it’s stained cardboard serving tray and walked over to the car. They made sure to keep an eye out or the man with the bald head and beard, and he was nowhere in sight.

I slid the squashed trout through the one-inch crack that he left open. The bloody flat fish landed directly on his clean white driver’s seat.

With that we ran.

We never saw the man with the bald head and beard that day; he must have walked home to one of the apartment buildings on Ocean Parkway. And I couldn’t imagine what that car must have smelled like when he opened it up the next day either, because we were at mass in IHM Church on Ft. Hamilton Parkway when he moved it.
Just the good little Catholic angels we were.

So the next time you’re waxing your car and some little kid says “nice car”. Instead of getting angry and telling him “he better not touch it”. Just look at him and say “thanks”.

Because you never know, he may just be my son.

Ron Lopez



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Ron Lopez: Fugitive

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you know why we pulled you over?”

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

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

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

“Yes officer”

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

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

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

“Sure, no problem”.

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

“Is there some kind of problem officer?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Ok, sure”.

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

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

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

“What kind of problem?”

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

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

There were more cops and more cars parked around mine.

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

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

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

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

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

“No, I do not”.

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

“What?” What?” Murder?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The sound of the fax machine.

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

What if someone really did set me up?

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

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

Now it was my turn to break their humps.

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

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

And out came “Tough Guy Cop”.

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, I was a free man.

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

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

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



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Feeling real good about being wrong

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ron Lopez


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Saturday Night "Dead" in Kensington, Brooklyn

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

Ron Lopez


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A Kensington Birthday (1962)

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

Ron Lopez


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Kensington (Sunday Morning and Saturday Night)

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




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

Ron Lopez

A Second Child in Kensington Brooklyn

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ron Lopez



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Pictures from Kensington (70's)

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




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




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

Ron Lopez


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A Tragic Morning on Church Avenue

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

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

Her cries were blood curdling.

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

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

“Mom, Mom, Mom” “Oh, my God Mom”

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

“Mom, Mom” “Oh my God Mom”

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

The young woman’s mother was certainly dead.

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

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

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

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

Ron Lopez


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A Windsor Terrace walk

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ron Lopez



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Hear us Laugh

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

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

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

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

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

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

We were seventeen years old and lived without a care.

And life just couldn’t have been any better.

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


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

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

And you know what,

life just couldn’t have been any better.

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

Ron Lopez

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



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