Grand Union and the Giraffe

"Hey mom, what year was it again when I lost my rubber giraffe over at Grand Union"?

"You know Ronnie, that must have been about 1960, because you were three years old at the time, and never let go of that thing". “You just carried it everywhere”.

Yes, my little rubber giraffe.
I remember chewing it on a daily basis. I’m sure it was chock full of lead paint, and probably gave me some kind of twitch or “involuntary movement” later in life. Or even worse, was the reason why I never made it to any of the “sp” or “gifted” classes that you call them today.

Yes, my little yellow and brown giraffe would be one of those toys you’d see on the 10 O’clock news at night. Just blame it for everything that goes wrong, even if you did forget to do your homework and study.

Now, this story is a real, real, old one. In fact it's so old,
I can hardly even remember it at all.
Hey, give me a break, I was only three when it happened!

For those of us who lived in Kensington for a while, the new “Foodtown” on McDonald and Albemarle Road was once the “Grand Union”. The Grand Union was the biggest Supermarket in Kensington and certainly dwarfed anything on Church Avenue at the time.
So when my mom had to really go shopping, she plopped me in my stroller and rolled me about three quarters of a mile to the Grand Union. And of course I would never leave home “without it”,
and that “it” being my little lead based giraffe.

Now the funny thing about the Grand Union is that it was almost identical to the Foodtown before they did the renovation.
The hotdogs were in the same exact place, along with the steak and chicken. They never really moved anything, that store was basically the same layout for 50 years or so. Which of course always gave me the opportunity to tell my son or wife the story about my
little giraffe.

“Hey Andres, you see where these steaks are?
When I was three years old I left my little rubber giraffe here”.
“And no one has ever seen it since”.

Yes, through my foggy memory I remember holding the giraffe and leaning over in the shopping cart by the steak. I was holding the damn thing in my left hand and reaching for something.
And yes, I do remember actually putting down the giraffe with the steaks. Why the hell did I do that?
Oh right, it was the lead paint I must have been chewing.

Well, when we got home from Grand Union that afternoon, guess what I was missing? My mom searched through all her bags and it was nowhere to be found. She even called the store and spoke to the manager, or at least that’s what she told me.

“Oh, a lost and found, I’ll be right over”.

And now, this is what they call “mother’s love”. My mom actually walked all the way back to Grand Union to look for my giraffe.
And sadly returned empty handed.

I was devastated, my little rubber giraffe was gone forever.
I certainly lost the "lead" of my life.
The year was 1960, and it was never the same without "it".

Today was the first time that I have been in the newly renovated Foodtown. I was shocked to see that they actually moved everything in the store around, including where the meats have always been.
My wife has been telling me about it for weeks now, and I must say they are doing a wonderful job. The store really looks great, it's like shopping in the suburbs!

And as I left the store I couldn't help but remember my little rubber giraffe. Thinking that someone may have found it behind the meat compartment while they were renovating the store. Just a half chewed faded yellow and brown rubber toy, sitting in the same dark spot for forty-seven years. With it's two litte eyes just staring into space, and always wondering what ever happened in the "Grand Union" that day back in 1960, when it was left behind.

Ron Lopez

Catskill Webcam 6:30 am today

Once again it's raining in the Catskills,
but at least the pond's filling up.

Ron Lopez

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

A Comment from Christine

Hi Ron--

My daughter clued me in to this blog -- what a great connection to the Brooklyn of my childhood in the 1950s!

We lived at 1442-35th Street, a little tiny strip of a street between 14th Avenue and Dahill Road. I went to kindergarten at PS 230 (Mrs. Smoller), and to some kind of summer pre-school program at PS 179 (Miss DeMayo). Went to St. Catherine of Alexandria school until fifth grade, when we "moved up in the world" to Staten Island in 1960. But Brooklyn never left me.

We used to go to the movies at the Beverly Theater, and to the ice cream parlor next door (I think it was next door...it was nearby anyway). Once in a great while we went to the Chinese restaurant, I think it was called Yom Tong Tea Garden. My father took us to the Kensington branch of the Brooklyn Public Library. We used to get Italian ices at D'Angelo's.

The picture of the old men under the el playing bocce brought me right back!

Thanks for the memories!

Christine Palladino Bridges

Moving back to Brooklyn

Yesterday I had a conversation with someone about people who are "retiring" back to Brooklyn. Yes folks, there are many older people out there who are selling their "Mc Mansions" in the suburbs and buying apartments in the neighborhoods where they grew up, because they want to come home to Brooklyn. I guess the kids are gone, the house is too big, and there's no worry about how "good or bad" the school is around the block.

Something to thin about, huh?
Because it's never too late you know.
Never.

Ron Lopez

Catskill Webcam today @ 12:30 pm

Real bad storm over the mountains some 150 miles from Kensington.

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

Kenny's Toy Store

Long before Park Slope was pretty and “Little Things” was cute, we had Kensington, Church Avenue and Kennys toy store. Kennys toy store sat on the corner of East 3rd street and Church avenue. Just about where you would open the door to enter RiteAid, back in 1963 you would be walking into Kennys. And you would usually have a dollar in your pocket.

As you walked in the first thing you would notice is how dark it was. Mr. Kenny who looked something like Albert Einstein sat behind a small counter on the left as soon as you walked in. He had wavy grey hair and a thick mustache. He was short and stubby with a large stomach. “Good morning to you young man”. The wood floors would start squeaking uncontrollably as soon as you started walking around in Kennys. And the floors were dark and dull and looked like they were there forever. Mr. Kenny usually worked with Mrs. Kenny, she too was short like Mr. Kenny and had long grey wavy hair. The squeaking floor was probably a way the Kennys kept tabs on their customers, because no matter where you were in the store Mrs. Kenny always seemed to be watching you.

The aisles of Kennys were very narrow and the toys always seemed to be covered with dust. And as far as the selection, it seemed that the Kennys sold toys that were popular in the 50’s rather than the 60’s. But still when you were granted the opportunity to go to Kennys with a dollar in your pocket you never said no.

“Oh, do I have something for you” said Mrs. Kenny. “This is something that just arrived” Mrs. Kenny held up a cardboard package with something that looked like a red egg in it. It said “Silly Putty”. Now when you find a toy in Kennys without a layer of dust on it you knew it had to be something special. “Would you like this” said Mrs. Kenny holding the strange looking package with the red egg. I nodded my head in agreement as I walked to the counter. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my dollar bill, I handed it to Mr. Kenny.

Mr. Kenny had this thing for Scotch taping ripped dollar bills, even if they had the slightest tear in them Mr. Kenny would tape them in what seemed like slow motion. Today would be no exception. “Oh, we have a tear, so we must fix” Mr. Kenny usually looked at me as he said this, I guess he thought I ripped them for a hobby. His fixing of dollar bills was a surgical procedure, and his process was slow, deliberate and exact, every time. First, came the close examination of the dollar and the tear. Mr. Kenny would always pull down his eyeglasses at this point. Second, he would lay the dollar bill on the counter and hold it with one hand. Now ever so slowly he would reach towards the scotch tape dispenser pulling off the length he needed and gently tape the bill. And when he was finished with one side this whole routine would start all over again for the other side of the dollar. When it was over he would put the dollar in the register and hand you your change. But the torture was still not over. The toy was then put into a small brown paper bag, the bag was layed on the counter, the top was folded over twice, the receipt (usually hand written) was attached to the bag and then stapled. All this within what seemed like hours to the mind of a little boy. “Thank you young man” said Mr. Kenny.

As you opened the heavy wooden door the cowbell on the door would cling and the sunlight usually blinded you from being in the darkness of Kennys so long as the bill was being taped. But as you walked home along Church Avenue you knew it would not be long before you would be at home playing with a new toy from Kennys and also taping all your mother's dollar bills before you go there again.

Ron Lopez

Catskill Webcam today @ 12:30 pm

Ron Lopez

The Fury

The blower motor in Robert Brennan’s Plymouth Fury was on full force. With hot air blowing like a hurricane on my snow-covered boots, the heat of the Fury did little to defrost my feet and toes. No, once again my boots felt like two blocks of ice, and it would certainly be a while before they’d feel
warm again.

“Let me show you how she rides Ronnie, this ones real heavy duty”

With that Robert put the Plymouth Fury into gear and stomped on the gas. The huge 440 four barrel suddenly came alive and moaned a loud throaty sound. With the rear wheels trying desperately to grip the cold frozen asphalt, the Fury started to wildly squeal and fishtail in front of my house. I just held on to the dashboard for dear life until the Plymouth finally found its way and started rocketing up the block in a straight line.

“I told you she’s heavy duty”
“I told you”

The Plymouth barreled up East Fourth at about fifty-five miles an hour and then suddenly screeched to a stop at the corner of Avenue C. The little air freshener pine tree that Robert loved so much swung crazily from the radio knob.

“And she stops on a dime too”

“ Robert, she started skidding about six houses back?”

“Don’t worry kid, she’s seen all kinds of action”

Now Robert Brennan was one of my best friends from the block, and for some reason he always liked to buy old worn out police cars at the city auctions up by Willis Point. And because Robert was a couple years older than the rest of the guys, he was the first to own his own car. And when you can’t drive what you don’t have yet, you just get into anything your friends are driving, no matter what.

And for my cousin Pete and I, it was a 1970 Plymouth that Bobby drove around all the time. A retired New York City undercover police car that drove like a tank and flew like a rocket.

“How about a trip to White Castle Ronnie?”

Oh God, that freaking White Castle up on Fort Hamilton Parkway. The place had bulletproof glass where you ordered, white tiled walls and floors, and the most horrible looking stainless steel tables and seats. And to top it off, it was always filled with the scariest looking people Brooklyn ever produced. Just a perpetual “freak show” that made any thing over in Coney Island look like kids stuff. Just shoot me and preform the autopsy on one of those stainless steel tables, but just don't forget to clean up the blood.

Oh, and they also had an armed guard inside the place, just standing in the corner with a black handgun in his holster. A real nice place to take the kids for a night out in Boro Park.

“ Robert why do we have to go there?”
“Why not the new Burger King over on Dahill Road?”
“One day we’re going to get killed over at White Castle”

“Ronnie, there’s nothing to fear, you got me and we have the “car”

Now because we drove around in an old unmarked police car, the truth is everyone thought we were cops. Including all the freaks over at White Castle who looked like they just got out of the Brooklyn House of Detention.

Even the security guard who worked there used to salute us. So when it came to feeling safe, I guess there was nothing better than driving an old police car and looking like a bunch of undercover cops.

And Robert, well he stood at six feet five inches and bigger than a bear. Yeah, I never felt tall or big around Robert, no not even at six feet three and two hundred pounds.

Robert always seemed like an older brother to me too, and in many ways reminded me a lot of my brother Joseph who passed away just a few years before Bobby became one of my best friends. He was loud like my brother, he sometimes bossed me around like my brother. And he always had the last word like my brother. Yeah, maybe a friendship that would never work for others, but somehow oddly worked wonders for me.

Yes Robert filled the void that was left after my brother died, and I certainly loved being around him all the time. But most important, I always felt safe around Bobby no matter what.

We made the left on to Fort Hamilton and drove past the brand new Burger King on Dahill road. I could see the blue and white logo of White Castle way in the distance by Forty-second Street in Boro Park.

“Oh God, that freaking place again Robert?”

“Don’t worry kid, you’ve got me and we got the car”

Robert made a hard right into the parking lot of the White Castle. And as usual the place was chock full of “hard nighters” and the scariest residents of Brooklyn. The Plymouth made an abrupt stop against the concrete slab by the front tires. Once again the little fragrant pine tree swung wildly on the radio knob. Robert shut off the now hot 440 engine, my feet were finally warm.

“You ready for action?”
“I guess so, lets do it”
We both opened the door and walked into White Castle.
Just another night in Brooklyn, the year was 1973.


The other day I was in an auto store with my son, we were standing by the counter when I happened to notice one of those little green pine tree air fresheners. I picked it up and threw it on the counter with the rest of my stuff.

"Dad who's that for?"

"It's for an old friend son,
it's for a very old friend"

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

The Band Aid Bandit by Charlie Gilli

It was a typical, quiet, summer night in the neighborhood, circa 1972. It was getting around the time to go meet "Red" (Greg Lombardi) up at the East 2nd Street & Church Avenue Carvel ice cream store, right across the street from Barton's Candy & Card store. It was almost quitting time for Red and Steven Marshack. It was about the time when Red and Steve would be doing their darndest to scrub down the countertops, mop the floors and hand wipe all the glass display counters.

They'd try to get it all done as fast as possible, so we could get the heck out of there and go hangout with the rest of the boys on Avenue C. If they could clean up fast enough, we'd be able to stop in to Scarola's and get some cold antipasto (since their Italian kitchen was closing up too, at that time of night) or maybe to the Liberty Diner for Burger Deluxes and Fries with brown gravy, before heading to the "corner" (Avenue C & McDonald).

Usually, Josh (Seff) and I would go meet Red around closing time to get him and the rest of the Carvel crew to hurry up and close the place for the night. Sometimes Ronnie Spiegel, Joey Mattera and Sal Congemi would come too.

"Hey Red! You missed a spot!"

"Steve! You look like a fuck'in pussy with that mop in your hands!"

You know, just a little chop/ball busting between friends!

Well, we would heckle the shit out of these guys, while they were busting their balls to get the place ready for closing. They had to clean all the soft ice-cream machines every night before they locked up. It took about an hour or so to do just that. Josh and I would lean on the counter like a couple of pigeons on a ledge, our heads darting back and forth spewing wise cracks at the expense of our "working" buddies behind the counter and laughing our asses off at each
other's jokes.

Every now and then, some shmuck, a last minute customer would come in because the front door wasn't locked and the "closed sign" wasn't hung up yet or the poor bastard outside would just tap on the big glass windows and beg for the guys to let them in, so they could satisfy a craving for a vanilla cone.

This kind of interruption would just serve to keep us all there a little longer then we wanted. I have to say that Red and Steve were pretty good at being cold-hearted bastards and didn't mind waving away the last minute, desperate customers (I'm glad I didn't own that place)! It was like they were the Wizard of Oz when Dorothy and her pals got to the Emerald City. "Go away! We're closed! Come back tomorrow!" "Bring me the broom stick...” you know how it goes.

This was just the scene one night, except I was without Josh,
my usual partner. It was a night that I'll never forget....
nor will Red and Steve!

I took up my usual post, leaning on the front counter and in comes one of those last minute customers...or so I thought. A real dickey looking guy with a couple of fat band-aids pasted across his nose. Red told me later that his first impression of this guy was that he felt bad for the dude and thought that maybe the guy had gotten hurt in some kind of unlucky accident or something. Typical Red. Always feeling sorry for some shitty bastard. What the heck. Red still is a helluva nice guy.

This guy plants himself to my right and he leans on the counter with his arms folded, both elbows up on the counter. He asks Red for a vanilla shake and Red apologetically explains that they only have hard ice cream left and asks him if the hard stuff would be ok for his milk shake. (Since the boys had finished their duty and cleaned the soft ice cream machines already)

The band-aid guy says, "Yeah, ok." Red bends over with the scoop to fetch the Vanilla. As he does so, the guy adds, "And give me all the money in the cash register or your friend here gets it!"

I'm thinking to myself, "What the fuck is this a-hole talking about?" So I start to turn towards the guy and he says, "Don't move!" I glance down under my right arm and I was startled to see that he's holding a gun, a black revolver, under his left armpit and it's pointed right up at my head!

Red opens the register and thought about pressing the silent alarm, installed just a week earlier, but once the cash draw opened it was near impossible to reach the button. Red took out a small, white, Carvel bag and put the money into the bag and onto the counter. It all took about 60 seconds by Red's recollection, but we agreed, it felt like an eternity! I'm glad Red didn't try to hit that silent alarm. I didn't know the alarm was there, but I recall saying something like, "Guys, don't fuck around, just give the guy his money!"

Steve comes walking out from the back of the store, where he was making those freak'in Carvel ice cream cakes and the band-aid guy says to him and Red, "And don't forget the change fund either!" Steve did as he was told and handed it over to him. Then the bandit told me to get on the other side of the counter with Red and Steve. He told us to turn around and walk to the back of the store and stay there for at least 5 minutes. He said that he'd be watching us and that he'd shoot us, if we didn't follow his instructions!

That short walk to the back of the Carvel store was scary as hell. All kinds of stuff frantically runs through your head during a time like that. Red said that he was praying over and over in his head..."Please don't shoot us, please don't shoot us." All those action movies were flashing through my head during the whole ordeal...you know, where the hero kicks the gun out of the bad guys hand or throws some incredible kung-fu kick, decks the guy and his gun flies into the air, only to land in the good guy's (my) hand. I had to keep suppressing that nonsense, since I knew that our best chance at getting out of there in one piece, was to just do what the bad guy says and get it over with.

On the other hand, in those few seconds, I was also thinking, that making a move before he starts shooting might be the only chance we had. Luckily, in those days, there wasn't a lot of the "steal and kill in cold-blood stuff" that has become more prevalent since then, so I think the basic credo was to just do what the bad guy says and you get to go home standing up. So we did. After all, what was I going to throw at him? Chocolate syrup? Sprinkles? Sear his face with hot fudge maybe? Stab him in the eye with a sugar cone? Na. No heroics.

I didn't know it then, but there was another silent alarm in route to the back of the store, under the "scoop sink" and Steve pushed it as we passed by. When we got to the back of the store and no bullets had come our way, we all breathed a huge sigh of relief and Steve told us he had pushed the alarm. We waited a few minutes, came out with our heads down and Steve pushed the alarm again and we locked the front door.

The cops got there in about 10 minutes, along with storeowner, Frank Chiarello.

Once NYPD was in the store, you could hear the chatter over their police radios, "...that the alarm at Carvel had been tripped, but it was probably by accident...!" Yeah right! Accident my ass!

It was right about this time that Red realized he had pissed his pants! Could you blame him? A few more cops arrived and one of them asked us if the perp had big band-aids on his nose. In harmony we all said, "YEAH, how did you know?" The cops told us that a guy fitting the same description had robbed the Baskin-Robbins a week earlier and that this guy had been robbing ice cream stores regularly. Thus the label, "The Band-Aid Bandit or The Ice Cream Bandit."

Red reminds me that we all went down to the 70th Pct. to look at MUG shots and we all independently picked the band-aid man's picture out. This guy (maybe) was arrested about a year later, but got off because he had a twin brother and the cops couldn't prove which one of these brothers had committed all the robberies!

Neither Red nor I recall if we ever got anything at all to eat that night, but we'll never forget the rest of that night at the Church Avenue Carvel Store!

Charlie Gili & Greg (Red) Lombardi (Technical Advisor)
Written Friday, July 10, 2009

Kensington Pictures

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

The Stranger

It doesn’t matter how old you are or where you live. Someday someone will come out of nowhere to save your life. They may be a friend, relative, or a total stranger. They will just appear to be there for you for that split second, and then they will just disappear into the crowd, because the divide between life and death is just that, a split second. And you, well you may not even give it a second thought. The conversation you were just having on your cellphone was more important to you than the arm that just grabbed you from behind to prevent you from walking right into the path of the B35 bus. A little startled at first about what had just happened, you continue on with your day without even looking back to say thank you.

For me it was a hand that grabbed my foot when I was about two years old. I guess the view of East 4th street from our roof looked inviting. It was the hand of a young mother (my mom) that pulled me back inside our apartment just moments before I would become another dot on a NYC chart. For my cousin Pete, another son of Kensington and East 4th, it was the voice of a stranger screaming at him to run faster just before a piece of an airliner killed the person directly behind him on a sunny day in September 2001. It may have also been the“Brooklyn” in my cousins blood too that saved his life. When the loud speakers blared the instructions that “everything is OK and there is no need to evacuate at the present time”. My attorney cousin just said “bullshit” and left only to meet up with falling jet parts on the street below. Buy hey, he was back to work the next day up in Westchester, you got to love that Empire Blue Cross.They probably helped him forget 9/11 by making him work on 9/12.

But years before back in 1981 there was another person, someone I will never know who just appeared out of nowhere to change someone’s life. Just there for an instant to make a difference and then return to the crowd without ever knowing their name. I really didn’t think much about it that day back in 1981. It was unusual to see the Manhattan bound F express running at 5:30 in the afternoon. But as soon as I stepped out of the first car of the southbound F, I noticed a bunch of EMS guys, Cops and Fireman on the local track. Now, I’m not much for gore and just a couple of years before I saw an elderly woman get killed by a “Kings” concrete truck right before my eyes on East 2nd street in front of Carvel. And the thought of a train running someone over wasn’t exactly something I’d like to take to bed that night. So I just walked up the stairs and then down Beverly towards my house.

By the time I got to my block I noticed a Police car parked right in front of my house. And on the porch there were two Cops talking to my mom. By the look on her face something really bad had just happened.“Grandma had an accident on the subway” said my mom.“Is she ok?” I said. “They don’t know, they just took her to Methodist Hospital”. I looked at the two Cops and said, “what kind of accident?” “She fell onto the tracks on the Northbound side” one of them said....“that was my grandmother, that was my grandmother”! I yelled!

Well before you knew it I was in my 73 Buick and driving up the hill to Methodist Hospital in Park Slope. It was probably the first time I was there since I was born. I got there before any one in my family did and my grandma wasn’t a pretty sight. There she was still on the stretcher waiting to get into the ER. Her clothes were all bloody and the gash on the side of her head was so big you could probably put a candy bar in it. But even in her condition the doctors assured us all that she was going to be just fine, but should keep away from subway platforms for a while. And what about that stranger that came out of nowhere you ask? Well, we never got to thank the man that saved mygrandmothers life. The police told us that he didn’twant to give his his name or address. As soon as he saw her fall on to the tracks, he noticed theheadlights of an oncoming train entering the tunnel up by avenue C. He ran upstairs to tell the token clerk about what had just happened. They somehow stopped the train just before it entered the station, just a fewfeet from where my grandmother was sprawled across the rail. He stayed with her for a while until the Police came, and then got on the F express once it started running. Just like that without ever knowing his name, this guy saved my grandmothers life and then got on the train and left, simply amazing. My 80 year old grandmother healed up and got better,she gave us another fifteen years of her stories about growing up in Cuba, and was able to see her great grandchildren born before she died in 1996.
All because of someone I will never know, a "Kensington Stranger" by no other name, and all I can say is “thank you” who ever you are.

Ron Lopez

My Land, Your Water and Two Little Voices

“NYC DEP Wants Ban on Marcellus Drilling in Certain Areas"
If New York City's Department of Environmental Protection gets its way, 500,000 acres in the city's watershed would be off limits to Marcellus development. The request includes banning drilling in a one mile perimeter around the city's Catskill reservoirs and all infrastructure”

Ok, so let me get the ruler out because I think my property upstate is just about a few inches over a mile from the Pepacton Reservoir and the water you drink every day from your tap. And so what if a little benzene, ethylbenzene, toluene, xylene, naphthalene, polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons; methanol; formaldehyde; ethylene glycol; glycol ethers; hydrochloric acid; and sodium hydroxide get on you while you take a shower on East Fourth Street. Hell, I bet you a little “Lava” soap can get that off you in a few minutes and it may make your skin softer too.

So bring that truck in and lower that big iron head, because today we’re drilling for Natural Gas and I’ll never have to cut my grass again, because the run off from the drilling chemicals may just kill it forever. And tell my boss I won’t be in on Monday or forever for that matter, because today I'm quitting my job.

Oh, but back to reality and the two little voices in my head.
You see my family and I own over 200 acres just up from the Pepacton Reservoir in Delaware County, New York. We are smack in the middle of the NYC DEP Watershed area, and if the city has it’s way we’ll never see that check for 38,000 dollars a month from Suburban Energy or National Grid. Yes, right on top of Bryden Hill and some 1800 feet above sea level sit our two little Catskill houses. And given the fact that sometimes they have to drill down five miles to get to the gas it’s highly unlikely that they’ll ever ring my doorbell because of how high we are on the mountain.

And that’s ok, that’s ok, because I would never want to be tempted by greed and green. No keep it to yourself and ring that farmer’s doorbell over in Delhi. Because his barn’s falling apart and his cows look pretty darn skinny, and I’m sure the National Grid logo would look great painted on the side of his barn along with a new Escalade parked in his dirt driveway.

“So Ronnie what do you think about those gas companies trying to drill right in the NYC Watershed”

“Could you imagine what kind of shit is going to end up in our water?”
“Are they crazy or what?”

Good Voice: “Oh, it’s terrible and I know no matter what the gas companies say the water’s going to get polluted somehow. Yeah the old “the air is safe to breathe down by the WTC on 9/11 kind of shit”

Bad Voice: “Are you freaking crazy? I’ll drink bottled water and make my kids bathe in Poland Spring every night, am I going to say “no” to National Grid when they screwed me for so many years and I spent hundreds of thousands to heat my house? Over 35,000 dollars a month and finally have enough money to buy a new Prius?

Sell me, sell me, I have no soul.

And then I thought about my grandfather Paco, and how he would be ashamed of me. How he scraped up every dime he had to buy 204 acres at 18 bucks a pop back in 1953 so his family would have a place to go every summer and get away from the hot steaming streets of Kensington, Brooklyn.

“You know Ronnie, there is nothing as beautiful as the mountains and the green of the trees. Someday this will be for you and your family, and I hope you keep it just the same”

“Yes Grandpa I will, and I will always think of you when I’m here”

The long drill suddenly stopped and was pulled out of the bedrock.
I could see a little benzene, ethylbenzene, toluene, xylene,
naphthalene, polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons dripping from
its ugly head.

“Oh, COME ON!
What the Hell are you doing?”

“Do you know what kind of money this baby’s
going to pay you every month?”

“Forget what your grandfather said and just
“Drill Baby Drill”.

“Drill Baby Drill?”
Now where did I hear that before?

The image of matching “his” and “hers” Priuses in my driveway at 399 suddenly flashed in my head along with that new 14 Mpg Dodge Challenger with a Hemi no less.

“Just stick that drill head back in and watch
my wife’s perennial garden.”

“Oh, now you’re talking, now you’re talking”

Good Voice: Do you realize that your house
sits right above the Pepacton?”

“Do you see the little skull and crossbones on
those five gallon drums that they’re pouring down that hole?”

“You were born in Park Slope man not Dubai”

Bad Voice: “Oh right don’t tell me for one second some Subaru owning, politically correct Park Slopian is going to turn down 38 grand a month?” “They can be sold just as easily as me” And I bet they’ll still keep their Greenpeace bumper sticker on their car along with the National Grid one. Yeah protesting the Atlantic Yards and then taking their kid to a Brooklyn Nets game. Don’t tell me about being a hypocrite”.

Good Voice: Morals, Goodness and Kindness.

Bad Voice:: Greed, Green a Prius and a dead lawn.

“Ok, OK, stop the drilling, I just can’t do this! And besides that benzene, ethylbenzene, toluene, xylene, naphthalene, polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons is starting to melt my shoes.

With a look of utter disgust the hard heads pulled the drill out from the hole in front of my wife’s perennial garden.

Oh well there goes buying my way into Berkley Carroll or PS 321.

“Well Pal, I hope you’re happy because we’re never coming back”

The hardhats all got into the big GMC and started her up, black smoke spewed from the stack as they put her in drive. Slowly they drove away as the National Grid logo faded in the distance on the big chrome rear bumper.

Good Voice: “You know you made the right choice
and your children will be proud of you”

Bad Voice: “This is National Grid and your bill is overdue”

For more information on the effects of Natural Gas Drilling:
http://www.riverkeeper.org

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

Kensington Webcam 6:45 am Today

Catskill Webcam 5:30 am Today

Another nice day on the mountain, and I'm stuck in Brooklyn!

Ron

Go Spain Go!

Because I'm officially 1/2 Spanish, I have to root for my Spanish brothers from over the Atlantic. And besides, soccer is the only sport that I know that vaguely resembles hockey in some way. You know, the goalie (I'm still a goalie), the forwards, the defencemen, the center line and so on. Hey, which came first? hockey or soccer? Um...did Poland have a team? because that's my other 1/2 you know!

Anyway, lets go Spain, and bring it home before Franco wakes up!
Ron

The Windsor Terrace Boys

The boys from Windsor Terrace were tougher than us. With names like Jimbo Drudy, Bobby O’Shaughnessy and the dreaded Billy Powell, we had to watch our backs. Of course we saw them in church on a Saturday night or Sunday morning, but no words were ever exchanged. Just cold stares. The stories about the Irish boys up the hill were never good. And Greenwood Park? Well, you just better stay away from it if you knew what was good for you.

Now back in the late 60’s and early 70’s there was a roller hockey league at East 5th street and Ft. Hamilton playground. Most of the boys who played there were from Windsor Terrace. Sometimes after church on a Sunday morning me and the guys would watch a game from behind the fence near the Prospect Expressway. A lot of red hair and short tempers under those helmets we thought. The games were played in the coldest of weather too. With red faces bellowing puffs of white smoke my feet were cold and my hands numb clutching the hurricane fence. But somehow the sound of the steel wheels scraping rough concrete made a new music I had to learn. I wanted to play this game too.

Learning to skate at twelve was not very easy. And you had to make sure there were enough cars parked on your block to hold on to while you learned. Always making sure there were no cars crossing either since who knew where your heads going to land when you hit the ground. But not long after the first box of band aids was gone and my black and blues healed I soon found myself gliding down the pavement. No longer looking for a Caddilac fin to hold on to!

The games played on East 4th were hard fought, we used car doors to bank pucks off, body checked each other into Plymouth Duster hoods, broke taillights,windshields, mirrors and sometimes house windows. Yes,we were soon becoming a menace to the block. One day as we were skating on the street we saw two figures fast approaching us from way up East 4th. One, quite big, wearing a green and white hockey jersey and the other, kind of skinny, wearing a NY Rangers jersey. They had Hockey sticks in their hands and were fully dressed in hockey gear. They even hadreal hockey gloves. They were Windsor Terrace Boys!

As the figures became closer and crossed Beverly we stood our ground. Two of them and five of us, no need to retreat. The big one stopped right by our net, “hey where’s the puck?” Nunzio, one of our boys, skated and fished it out passing it to the this big kid with sandy blond hair. With a lighting like move and a snap off the stick the kid with the green and white jersey snapped the puck right through the netting. The puck left a black mark on a car trunk behind it. He looked at us and with a sheepish grin said “oh gez, sorry”. The skinny one with the Rangers jersey took a similar shot into our net, but this time the puck hit the netting and fell harmlessly inside the goal. “What the hell you guys playing here for? Why don’t you join the league down at Ave F?" "Playing on the streets is for kids” said the big one. “Here take this” the big one handed my cousin Pete a flyer, it said “70th pct. roller hockey league has moved to Ave F park.” “Thanks” said Pete. As the two players skated down East 4th towards Avenue C we read the backs of their jerseys..........O’Shaughnessy and Drudy.

The rest is just history and I played at Avenue F for years. O’Shaughnessy was my teammate on Ryans Northstars and Jimbo played with my cousin Pete forthe Terrace Cafe Rangers. We formed wonderful friendships with the Boys from Windsor Terrace and even cried together the day we heard Billy Powell was killed by a car on the way to a game by Prospect Park back in '71. Two years ago we had a 30th year reunion at The Billy Powell Memorial Rink. Many of the Windsor Terrace boys were there including Jimbo Drudy and RobertO’Shaughnessy. It was a wonderful experience seeing the guys after 30 years of going our separate ways. Our worries about mortgages, bills, and our children’s future left our minds that day. It was just like 1975 and we were still playing the sport we loved so much as kids growing up in Kensington and Windsor Terrace. After the game we all met at the “Gallery” a local watering hole under the El on McDonald Avenue where our coaches usually drank after the game back in the day.

Phone numbers and e-mail addresses were exchanged and promises to “keep in touch” rang in the air like the bells of Immaculate Heart of Mary on a Sunday morning. Outside the Gallery I made sure to give O’Shaughnessy a big hug before I left. As we said our goodbyes we both had tears in our eyes. I guess not seeing a friend for 30 years can do that to someone and saying goodbye even more. Walking away from the Gallery and all my old friends was hard. But the glory days of 1975 and our youth still remained in an old bar for a few more hours that day in old photos and stories. But as they say, every beginning must have an end. And when the Galleries metal gate came down that night, the Windsor Terrace Boys were just a memory once again.

Ron Lopez

Connies Cafe

I have been to Connie's Cafe twice already since it opened.
And for all the folks who grew up here, it's where Royal Sporting goods used to be on the corner of East 5th and Church back in the 70's. A real nice "Old School" diner run by a hell of a hard worker being Connie. In fact Connie is a Brooklyn gal herself who grew up right here in Kensington. Yeah, Connie remembers the Beverly, the Liberty diner and the Buzzarama. Only places a native would know with real Brooklyn blood running in their veins.

So let's help support a new business here in
Kensington and grab some food over at Connie's.
Because both the food and the price are right.

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

The Playdate from Hell

The "Play Date from Hell" started like any other “play date” usually does. You’re in a park or playground with you son or daughter just pushing them on that black-seated swing. They’re laughing away with their little legs kicking back in forth having another wonderful day. And there’s that woman next to you again with that big straw hat. You have seen her about three times so far and yet have never spoke. You have your “nanny” radar on and so far so good.
Time to move on this, looks like the mom.

“Oh, so how old is your daughter?”

“Well, she just turned three on August 14.”

So far, so good, no corrections yet
about her not being the mother.

“Are you from New York?”

“Oh, me too”
“What’s her name?”

“Oh, she has such beautiful blonde hair”.

Now, for the big one as your leaving.

“Here, let me give you my number,
maybe the kids can get together one day.”

She smiles and gives you her number too.

"Mission accomplished" is all you say to yourself as
you push open the heavy metal gate of the playground.

And just like any other date, you still wonder if they’re
going to call. Everyone is just so polite nowadays, and you
wouldn’t expect them to crumple up your phone number
right in front of your face now would you?

And then one day the phone finally rings.

“Hi, this is “………” from the playground,
we met the other day.”

“Sure that sounds great”
“I’ll see you then.”

Oh, coffee or tea, what should I make?
Now, which toys have that lead based paint?
Better hide the “Little Princess” stuff.
I know he’s only “experimenting” but she doesn’t.

Ok, good, NPR as back-round noise.

The doorbell rings, and there she is.

“Hi, so nice to see you”
“Oh, she’s so beautiful.”

Now my wife is a stay at home mom and has always been a pretty good disciplinarian with our son. No beatings or anything like that, just right from wrong, stand in the corner, 1, 2, 3, so on and so on. And let me tell you, it all works. He’s eight years old now and hasn’t spit at his teacher since pre-school.

And then it started, just like that.

The big wooden spoon just struck the back of my sons little
three-year-old head. The blonde girl just laughed after she did it.

My wife just sat there thinking the lady in the big straw hat would
say something. Hoping in some way she would tell her daughter
not to do it again.

“Oh, is he having a bad day?”
said the lady in the straw hat.

Is this woman totally insane?

Your little blonde haired daughter just whacked my kid on the head
with a wooden spoon, he’s crying and you’re asking my wife if
“he’s having a bad day?”

My wife gently confiscated the wooden spoon from
the little blonde girl. She then started crying.

“Oh, Virginia, I think she wants the spoon back”
said the lady with the straw hat.

My wife gave the spoon back to the little blonde girl.

“Now no hitting,” said my wife.

“Oh, you don’t have to tell her that,
she knows not to hit.”

And it just continued…………..

My son spent most of the “play date” trying to protect himself from the little blonde girl. The mother was just totally oblivious to anything her daughter did, yet totally tuned in to my sons crying after he would get whacked by the spoon.

“Oh, Andres, I’m sorry, are you having a bad day?”
said the lady with the big straw hat.

Now, my son was pretty verbal as a three year old,
you know the third adult syndrome, blah, blah, blah.

And here it comes, those moments in life that you never forget.
The ones you tell your kids about when they’re older.

The lady with the big straw hat stood by the front doorway with
her blonde demonic child in the stroller.

She just looked at my son and said,

“I hope the next time we visit
you won't have such a “bad day”

With that my three-year-old son
just looked at her and said,

“YOU ARE A VERY STUPID WOMAN”.

The gasp could be heard around the world.

The woman with the big straw
hat just looked at my son frozen.

My wife started sweating while I was
laughing inside as hard as I could.

Let me tell you when you grow up in Brooklyn
you just love moments like this, you just do.

My wife and I did our best to make Andres
apologize for his remark, although we knew he
just said what we were thinking all throughout
the entire play date.

My wife did her best to avoid the woman with the big straw hat form that day on. Carefully surveying the playground before she opened the heavy black gate day after day. It was just that bad.

We don’t know what happened to the lady with the big straw hat and her daughter, she never called us and we never called her. It was Brooklyn justice, plain and simple. But like all good "Kensington Stories", they all start somewhere.

And we’ll never forget the “Play Date from Hell”

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

The Antenna by Josh Seff

One of my best childhood memories was watching my favorite shows and sports on a black and white TV. The TV screen was small and of course had a rabbit ear antenna sitting on top. Remember how you had to get the antenna in just the right position to get decent reception? Usually this involved a family member (that would be me) having to hold the antenna to get the best reception. If you didn’t get the antenna just right, you get the dreaded lost horizontal control where the picture would scroll around and around making your head spin.

The TV’s back then had tubes and took a while to “warm-up.” There was a TV repair store on Church Ave. and Dahill Rd. that had a “Tube Tester” to check if you had a bad tube and get a new one if it was burned out. Unlike the hundreds of channels we have now, back then we only had 7 channel choices-2, 4, 5, 7, 9, 11 and 13.

Changing channels actually involved some physical effort-getting off the couch and turning the dial. Remote control? We didn’t need no stinkin’ remote control! I’ve always been a channel changer whether it’s a radio or a TV. I actually broke our TV channel changer dial. I would spin the TV dial like a Vegas roulette wheel! The only way to turn the dial after my rough treatment was to use a pair of pliers on the little metal stub that remained. I remember watching TV at Charlie Gili’s house and changing the channels. When Charlie’s father saw me spin the dial he called out, “Hey, that’s not some part from a submarine!”

We finally got a color TV in 1975 or ‘76 but the rabbit ears remained a necessity. Now, the problem was not the horizontal control but losing the color if the antenna was not positioned perfectly. Many people had roof antennas but we rented and landlords usually didn’t like you messing with their roofs or chimneys. Roof antennas were not always the solution to bad reception either. You had to make sure the antenna was pointed towards the World Trade Center where the TV stations broadcasted their signals. I discovered the perfect solution one day-an antenna that rotates sold at RadioShack! A small motor that you control from your living room turns the antenna until you get the best reception. With the help of Steven Marshak (spelling?) we installed my rotary antenna on the roof above the second floor balcony. Hey, we weren’t on the actual roof of the house so no need to inform the landlord! The other selling point of the rotary antenna was the possibility of picking up a TV signal from Philadelphia and watching hockey games. Unfortunately, I was never able to pick up a strong signal out of Philly. I might have been hallucinating, (it was the 70’s) but a couple of times I could make out the resemblance of a hockey game mixed in with mostly TV snow.

Remember, this is before cable came to Brooklyn and we could only watch Ranger away games on channel 9 (WOR) with Jim Gordon doing play by play and Bill (The Big Whistle) Chadwick commentating. The home games were shown on the MSG Cable Network only in selected Manhattan areas around the Garden. My aunt and uncle lived in co-op apartment near the Garden so if we couldn’t get tickets to a play-off game, I would ask them if we could watch on their cable TV. Eventually Charlie, Alfred Guerrero and I got Ranger season tickets up in the blue seats-section 440! I think it was only around $180 per season ticket or around $4.50 per game! The problem is there were three people for only two seats. Fortunately, Charlie created a spreadsheet (pre-computer) and a schedule that had the three of us going to an equal number of games. The other amazing thing was that Charlie set up the schedule so we would each see the same number of visiting teams. Of course, there were complaints occasionally if someone didn’t have tickets to a big rivalry game. We even found a way around this problem so all three of us could go to a game. We would get an old ticket stub and wrap a ten dollar bill around it and hand it to the ticket taker. We knew which ticket takers would accept the “bribe.” The three of us would actually sit in the two seats if we couldn’t find an empty seat. It’s ironic that today Alfred is a security guard at the Garden! Look for Al and his big mustache at ice-level. He opens the gate to the dressing room between periods.

Today you can watch any game and team with the NHL Center Ice package on cable or satellite TV. The games are now broadcasted in high definition which is great for hockey viewing. It would’ve been nice having all these viewing options and technology when we were growing up. However, we sure had some good times trying to watch as many games as possible.

Josh Seff
　

Grandpa Carmelo

Carmelo Gili circa 1920 (Far Right with shovel)

Waves of immigrants came to America and are still coming. The American dream in its conception and pursuit is almost unfathomable in its design and yet perfect in its simplicity. Live and let live. Worship or not as you wish. Put your faith in yourself and what you can do through hard work and fair play. Some folks still believe in such things and others might think they are owed something and that life is all about getting over. Well, this story is not about that group.

Carmelo Gili or Charlie as he would later be called, left his homeland on the tiny island of Malta, in the Mediterranean Sea in 1907at the age of 13. Imagine that? 13 years old. I certainly couldn't imagine my son or daughter or myself being on my own at that age. I guess back then it was a lot more common for young people, kids really, to venture out and try making it on their own. Just to make his situation a bit more challenging, Carmelo not only left Malta and his family, but he went to sea as they say, to sail the seven seas.

In those days ships didn't really sail much anymore as in sail boats or clipper ships. For the most part, ships were powered by steam. Steam ran the engines that turned the cork-screw propellers that drove those ships through the oceans of the world.

To describe making steam as hard work would be a bit of an understatement, especially by today's standards, but that's what 13 year-old Carmelo did. He stoked furnaces in the bellies of ships from Valetta to China and San Francisco, to South America, Australia, India, Casablanca and Madagascar, Jamaica, Liverpool, Cuba and probably 100s of ports all over the globe, in his seventeen years aboard ship.

Stoking a ships furnace in those days was dangerous, back breaking work. The "stokers", later called fire-man (a person who tends fires), would basically shovel coal into a furnace. The coal would burn and heat water that would create steam to power the engines. Simple right? Except that there was no OSHA on those ships, no unions, very little safety precautions for the laborers and little law as we know it. Basically, it was tough it out or simply, just get out.

Grandpa Carmelo entered New York Harbor to stay, in 1924 and he brought with him arms wrapped in anchor chain tattoos and a chest adorned with a tattooed, fully-rigged ship, broad shoulders, the money he'd saved from his years at sea and his shovel.

He met and married my Italian grandmother Eva Colombo an accomplished seamstress in 1927and they rented a walk-up apartment on Mulberry Street in Manhattan's Little Italy. Carmelo went to work for the Heide Candy Company (founded in 1869 by another immigrant from Germany.) Grandpa made use of his shovel again and his ship-board education of boiler systems was valuable experience, since boilers were also used in the candy making process.

Hard work and determination eventually earned Carmelo and Eva enough money to buy their own home on East 2nd Street, in Kensington. They had two children; my Aunt Angel and my dad, Anthony. Later on there were 8 grandchildren, with me arriving first and named after my grandfather. (If you ever meet a Charles or an Anthony Gili anywhere in the world...guaranteed, they are a relative of mine!)

Working for the Heide Candy Company had its rewards! Around Christmas time we'd all wait for "The Box" to show up in the mail at grandpa's house. We lived just across the alleyway from my grandparents, so we'd usually see it (the box) coming! You see, some of the employees who worked for the Heide Co. would get this big box around the holidays and it was loaded with all sorts of Heide candy products; Mexican Hats, Red Hot Dollars, Jujubes and my favorite; Jujyfruits! The extra neat thing was that the candy was packaged in the giant-sized boxes that you can get these days, but you couldn't back then. The only time I ever saw a giant box of these candies as a kid, was when they showed up in the special carton that was delivered to my grandfather.

When people find out that I have a Maltese heritage, they always think that Malta is somehow a part of Italy, but it's not. It is its own country, most recently gaining independence from England back in the 1970s. Its location in the middle of the Mediterranean has always made its possession a strategic holding in wars dating back before the Crusades and it is probably one of the most "conquered" pieces of real estate in world history. The language is very guttural sounding, much closer to Arabic than Italian.

Sundays were always a big deal. It was often a day to "have company." You don't hear that expression much anymore, but this was the common phrase back then. This basically meant that someone or many some ones (usually family) were coming to visit, to eat with us and usually they would bring some cake or pastries. We'd all go to church in the morning, but my grandmother would go to the earliest mass at IHM, ahead of the rest of us because she wanted to get back in her kitchen to start some monster cooking marathon for "the company" due to arrive later on.

Sometimes those family visits were just for fun and other times they were for some kind of project. If there was some big thing that needed doing, the Gili's didn't often, if ever, hire a contractor. Roof needed repairing, new sidewalk needed pouring, brick face needed rehabbing, no problem. Call out the family and they'd come with tools and material. Once the work was done, it was time to eat!

After dinner, Maltese men into one room to scream and yell in Maltese about the politics of the day, usually about independence from the English. Grandma and the women would be cleaning up and starting to reheat and push the leftovers at you or make coffee, so we could eat the company's cakes or pastries. (By the way, they called the coffee pot the percolator.)
Italian grandmothers are about as famous as Jewish grandmothers for making you eat until you're almost ill. After that they toss more plates of food at you and look at you like your crazy when you say you're full. I have a feeling that's true of all grandmothers regardless of their heritage!

Grandpa Carmelo loved America. He became a maniac NY Mets fan and the sight of a drooping chest pocket during baseball season was common on game days. That pocket held a small transistor radio and a single wire ear plug ran up to his ear.
You'd always know if the Mets were doing poorly. If you saw my grandfather rip that wire from his ear, take the radio out of his pocket and spin that little on-off dial to the off position, mumbling something under his breath that we weren't supposed to hear, you knew the Mets were not having a good day.

If I "caught" him doing that, I'd be ready to rib him about his Mets, since I was a Yankee fan. He'd cut me off and say, "The Yankees, they stink!" He'd wave his hand at the air and go back to griping about his team. Baseball got in his blood pretty good. Looking back, I think that baseball was one of the things that helped him assimilate in America.

Grandpa Carmelo lived in Kensington for about 40 years. He never left. The 13-year-old little boy from Malta did what he set out to do. To simply live a good life. Family was always the most important thing. He never owned a car and never made tons of money, but he had his home and his family. He never wanted anything for nothing and never expected anything for nothing. After all, HE was an American.

As my grandfather got into his later years, I would always expect to see him sitting in his chair at the window at the front of his house. When I left for school he'd wave goodbye and when I came home he'd wave to welcome me back.

I was a senior at FDR high school in 1974 and coming back home on a cold, wintery day. There was a few inches of snow on the ground. As I neared my grandfather's house at 208, I noticed his snow shovel inexplicably lying on the ground near his front stoop. This struck me as odd, since he was a stickler with taking care of his tools. I glanced up to check his usual window perch, but he wasn't there.

I picked up his shovel to let him know it was left out front and made my way around to the alleyway entrance that we used each day. I walked in to find out that grandpa Charlie was gone. His 80 year journey had ended with a heart attack earlier that afternoon. The shovel I picked up was the one he was using when he died. The shovel he was using in front of his own piece of the American Dream he found in Kensington.

The family used to scold grandpa about doing heavy work at his age, but another trait of the Maltese is that they "have heads like rocks" as my family would say. At 80, with a shovel in his hands, I don't think my grandpa would have wanted to leave this world any other way.

I still have one of his shovels in my garage that my dad had in his. Some people might find it an odd keepsake, but whenever I pick it up it reminds me of where I come from and of two of the wonderful men who taught me what it means to be an American in Kensington.

Charlie Gili

(Thanks again Charlie for another wonderful story)
Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

Donald and the F-Train

He was tall and thin and carried a black garbage bag onto
the subway car. His skin was dark and his face unshaven.

I remember looking at another homeless man that day on
the F. He walked on to the train at the 14th street station
by Union Square, and just stood there across from where
I was standing.

And people gave him his “room” too, because that’s
what you do when the homeless walk onto your train,
you just give them their space, and hope they don’t
bother you.

I just stared at him and looked at his eyes, because
the eyes never change, even when you’re homeless.

He looked back at me, his eyes were as dark as coal,
he said nothing.

I know he felt strange when I saw him too. So he just
walked away and sat down on a seat facing the opposite
direction so I couldn’t notice who he was.

The people sitting next to him all got up and found
other seats in the subway car.

I walked towards him though, and sat beside him.

“Hey Donald, remember me?
it’s Ronnie from Art & Design”

He turned his head towards me,
but didn’t look in my eyes this time.

“How you doin man?” is all he said

“I’m fine Don, I’m fine”

“Yeah, well, you know since High School
things have been a little rough for me”
“I’m ok, but things are just not that good”

I remember my first day of high school back in 1972,
Donald was one of the first people I sat with at
the lunch table in the back of the cafeteria.

Donald always wore these really cool tinted sunglasses and
had a small goatee. While most other kids weren’t even
shaving yet, including me, Don looked like he may have
been about 20 years old.

Along with Donald, I also sat with Ernest and Sandy.
Donald and Ernest were black, while Sandy was Jewish.
We were certainly a cross section of New York, but hey.
That’s what made the High School of Art and Design
so cool back in 1972.

Yeah, the High School of Art and Design. I never knew
some of my best friends were gay until my senior year.
And to tell you the truth it never really mattered either.
Because we were all such good friends, and all artists anyway.
All going to a school were nobody cared about “what” you
were. And no one felt they were better than anyone else.

We all just loved that school so much,
including my friend Donald.

“Hey man I’m getting off here”

I reached into by jacket and gave
Donald a twenty-dollar bill.

Donald just looked at me and said “thanks”.

That was about 25 years ago and
I haven’t seen Donald since.

So the next time you see someone riding
the F-train with a bundle of sorrow.
Think about my friend Donald, and never
ever feel that you’re better than anyone else.
Because someday that person just might be you.

Ron Lopez

A Fathers Day Story

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

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

Ron Lopez


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

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

“Hey Dad can I see the Camel?”

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

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

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

“Your father works like a donkey”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ron Lopez

Catskill Webcam today @ 12:30 pm

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

Ron

Our own half built/half baked building

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

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

A Comment from Peter...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Be well.
Peter

Mike the Greaser

Another re-run...


Back in the 80’s there was a building on the south side of Church Avenue between East 5th and East 4th street. It was just called “SUPERMARKET”

As far as I remember it only opened
up when it was dark outside,
and the hours of operation were
very sporadic.

Most of the food inside was usually covered with dust, and most everything was past it’s expiration date. The floors were pretty dirty and I didn’t think they were ever cleaned. It was a fairly big place, about the size of “Rite Aid”, yet there was only one employee.
And he was only known to us as “Mike the Greaser”.

Now Mike was about 40 years old at the time and stood about 5 foot 9. He had thinning black hair that he slicked back most of the time, and of course his favorite shirt was a “greaser style” t-shirt. Mike was also very hairy, thick black curly hair covered most of his body that normally would have just been reserved for flesh for you and me.
He also spoke with some type of accent that we could never figure out. It could have been anything, Italian, Russian, Greek, Turkish, Arab. We had no clue.

And to this day, I still don’t know how he did it, but he used to park his 1978 Buick inside the store. Between the beer and the chips. There was probably a back gate to get it into the store with, but we never saw it and never asked. We would only buy food at Mikes when everything else was closed, and for us it usually meant buying beer and chips for a late night card game over at Glenn Gruder’s house.

Mike never asked anyone for ID either, but then again my cousin Pete had a full beard when he was 15. So he was usually our “mule”, sort of speak. Mike’s prices varied depending on what day it was or what kind of mood he was in. And he usually charged us 5, 10, 15, or 20 dollars. His numbers were always in even dollar amounts, "no tax" he always said. I don’t think he even had a cash register in the
store either.

One night while we were hanging out on my porch at 399. There was a lot of commotion up on Church Avenue. Tons of cop cars, flashing lights and a few ambulances. The next morning when I woke up, word on the block was that Mike was shot something like 5 times the evening before. Some kind of an armed robbery. So all the cop cars the night before made sense. Thinking the worst, we all started reminiscing about Mike, figuring he was dead. Thinking about him in that dirty shirt, the stale chips, the expired milk and the Buick Skylark parked in aisle 5. And not to mention the rare occasions when he lost it, and threw us out of the store. But through it all we loved Mike and were surely going to miss him.

So that same night we decided to take a walk to the avenue, and visit the scene of this horrorific crime. “Hey remember the time Mike threw that tuna fish can at you” “What about the time we rolled Mike’s car into the Ice Cream freezer” As we made the right onto Church Avenue from East 4th, we could see the store. Yet, there was no crime scene tape, and in fact the gate was up and the store was open. So we decided to go inside and see what was happening.

As we walked into Mikes I noticed a few holes in the front window. They looked like bullet holes too, very round with tiny jagged edges on the inside of the hole. There was someone behind the counter, he was bending over and was fiddling with something on the ground. He had what looked like a white rag wrapped around his head too. And then, he stood up, and our jaws dropped. We couldn’t believe our eyes, it was like we were looking at a ghost. There he stood in all his “Greaser Glory”. With his head bandaged up, his arm in a cast, and a large stained gauze pad on his side, taped to his skin with silver duct tape. It was no one other than “Mike the Greaser”

“Hey, you thought I was dead, huh?”
“You think five bullets can kill me?”
“Bullshit, that’s what I say”
“I shot the guys eight times”
“You see that blood?”,

Mike was pointing to where he usually parked the Skylark, so it was hard to see the blood because of the oil on the floor. “That Fuck died right there”. At that point Mike motioned us around the counter to take a look at something. There inside a small pigeon hole shelf right under the cash box was the handle of a black pistol.

“Dont’ta fuck with me, huh?”

We all looked at Mike and smiled and then celebrated his survival by buying some expired chips and beer.

"20 dollars, no tax".

I gave him an awkward hug before I left, trying to stay clear of his blood stained gauze pad at the same time. And then just said our good nights and went on our way back home to East 4th.

I think Mike eventually sold the property and today
in its place are a nice row of clean stores.

But along time ago there were stale chips,
old beer and a Buick in aisle 5.
And a man we once knew,
a legend by no other name.
And he was simply known to us as
“Mike The Greaser”

Ron Lopez