The Elmore's of Huntley Hollow

Today I was very saddened to see the Elmore's place for sale up near our house in the Catskills. That's because we knew the Elmore's and played with all their children. Gerry Elmore, Sharon Elmore, Debbie Elmore, Carol Elmore, Charlie Elmore, Sandy Elmore, and I'm sure more kids that I just can't remember. Last year Gerry Elmore passed away and I heard his parents did as well. Gerry Elmore was about my age, and we played many times right in the middle of the Hollow because of the lack of people driving back then. Yeah, sitting in the hot sun of a Summer's day back in 1969, and dreaming about what the future would be like. Just kids being kids.

The Hollow will no longer be the same without the Elmore's living there. But hey, I guess that's life.

The trailer comes with an old "Dilapidated" house according to the real estate listing. Well, I spent much time in that old house along with my cousin Pete. I remember Mrs. Elmore making us lunch there while we were visiting all the kids like it was yesterday. Chicken salad on white bread and a bowl of split pea soup. Oh well, I guess memories get sharper as you get older.


The Elmore's of Huntley Hollow...

For as long as I have been alive this has always been the “Elmore’s” house up on Huntley Hollow Road in the Northern Catskills. And usually on the last mile or so of our 150-mile trip from Kensington, Brooklyn, my Grandfather Paco would always beep the horn of our “given” station wagon. That’s because either Charlie Elmore or Mrs. Elmore would usually be sitting outside their house alongside that old dirt road, and of course they would always wave right back. You see back in the 60’s there weren’t that many people living on Huntley Hollow, and waving to your neighbors was just what folks did back then, even if they lived three miles down the road, and even if you were from the City.

The Elmore's were very hard working people too, highway men, blue stone quarry men and loggers. I also know they were good hunters and fishermen as well. Just living in the mountains and living off the land, just like the settlers before them did in the house they lived in. An old wooden house that usually had a small lamp on late at night, a "beacon" for us sometimes when we made those late night trips up to Downsville. When we saw the Elmore's house we knew our trip was almost complete.

Yeah, there were the “Morvinsky’s, the Elmore’s, Junie Mills, “Crazy Bill Bart”, the Keators, the Laidlaws, the Newberts, and then us the Lopez family. And everyone knew each other and everyone waved when they drove by each other’s houses. A far cry from today when I’m sure there are more than thirty houses on the Hollow, and not as much waving as the 1960’s.

But hey, even today I still give a wave
to folks living on Huntley Hollow.
Even if they no longer live there anymore,
and even if they never wave back.


Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

Catskill Webcam @ 6:00 pm Today

Still snow in the Catskills, about 150 miles from Kensington

Louie from Avenue C

Louie was standing outside Izzy and Benny's luncheonette near the corner of Church and McDonald Avenue. The smoke from his cigar blew gently into the Kensington sky. Like white snakes dancing a gentle waltz they only lasted a few seconds and then just vanished into the night.

Louie looked down McDonald towards Avenue C, the lights of another F-train could be seen far in the distance. The yellow headlamps of the train slowly moved out from the Ditmas Avenue station and downwards towards the tunnel opening near the Gel spice company.

Down, down, down, until they disappeared under the street.

Louie continued smoking his cigar and was now trying to blow smoke rings from his mouth. Out of his lips they came, but not the kind of rings Louie wanted. No they all had a break near the top of the circle. Probably the result of Louie’s mustache that was getting in the way.

“Ahh, fuckin rings!, why doin’t dese God damn tings woik?”

By now the rumble of the Manhattan bound F-Train was right below Louie’s feet. Not liking the feel of the sidewalk vibrating beneath his soles, Louie squashed the cigar against the red brick wall outside the luncheonette, leaving another tell tale black mark along with thousands of other cigars he squashed. He then made his way back inside and sat on his favorite chrome stool, his cup of warm coffee was still there untouched by the counter.

Now Louie was what us Brooklyn guys
called a real Brooklyn “character”.

Louie was about fifty years old, stood no taller than five foot one, and combed his thinning black hair straight backwards. He also used some type of grease to slick his hair back, because it always looked shiny and never seemed to move. Louie always had a cigar sticking out of his mouth sideways too, sometimes the tip would be a glowing orange while at other times it was black and un-lit.

But what had to be the funniest thing about Louie was his thick Brooklyn accent. Louie had the thickest, deepest, Brooklyn accent you have ever heard. It was just so “Brooklyn” that it even amused us, a bunch of Brooklyn boys ourselves.

Louie also made Izzy and Benny's luncheonette his second home. He could usually be seen sitting on one of the chrome-plated stools by the counter with a cup of coffee and a small spiral notepad and pencil. Most of the time before he saw us walk in, he would usually be scribbling in his notepad unaware of anything around him.

Although we were probably too young or stupid to realize it at the time, by all accounts Louie was probably a good ol’ Brooklyn “bookie” and ran his “business” from the luncheonette on McDonald Avenue

“Hey, what chu guys doin here again?”
“I tout I toll you’s to stay on East Fort?”

At that point we’d all start giggling
because Louie was speaking “Brooklyn”

The language of our forefathers.

“Hey what you boys smiling at?”
“Did I just say sumptin funny?”

At that point Louie would get off the stool and charge towards us like a raging bull. Well, actually a raging bunny, because Louie was a real sweet guy and was was always laughing when he saw us.

He especially liked my friend Glenn Gruder, and would sometimes show up at his hockey games down by Avenue F to cheer him on.

“Hey Glenn, you gonna score a goal for me today?”
“Because if you don’t, I’m gonna kick your ass”.

Glenn would usually pat Louie on the shoulder and assure him he’ll score that goal.

“Don’t worry Lou, I got you covered, I got you covered”

After finishing our egg creams we’d all say good night to Louie at the candy store. Sometimes I’d look back and see him quickly immerse himself into his little notepad and start scribbling with his yellow pencil.

Just another night for Louie in Kensington Brooklyn.
Just another night.

It’s been over twenty-five years since I last saw Louie, and the luncheonette once known as Izzy and Benny's is long gone too. Now some kind of nameless cell phone store on McDonald Avenue.

But the funny thing is there’s still all these black marks on the red bricks that used to surround the entrance to the candy store. And I can’t help but think that they’re the old burn marks from when Louie used to squash the tip of
his cigar.

Just the “drawings” on a cave wall from a real Brooklyn guy.
A real Brooklyn “character” that we simply knew as Louie.

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

Happy Saint Patrick's Day!

The "Play Date 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

Crazy Mike and the Margaret Court

Mike leaned against the fence
in front of the Margaret Court
on East Fourth Street.
With bloodshot eyes and a
cigarette burning away between
his fingers, Mike just stared up
towards Beverly Road without
any expression.

Wearing white shorts, and an old polo shirt, Mike looked a litte out of place in 1975. Black socks and brown sandals also made Mike as different as can be in a time when most guys had long hair and wore platform shoes.

I guess Mike was about thirty-five then, he stood about five foot nine and had a hard looking potbelly. With a touch of gray in his red hair Mike also sported a rough looking mustache. And all “Crazy Mike” did everyday was just hang out in front of the Margaret Court on East Fourth. Oh, and Mike also lived with his Mom too, and she was about seventy years old.

Whenever Mike spoke to you, he kind of shouted as he put his face right up against yours. I mean it wasn’t that he was trying to be aggressive or anything like that. No, it was just the way Mike spoke to you, and nothing more. And because Mike had that unusual habit, it always gave one a clear view of his eyes. Which were usually red and bloodshot.

“Hey come here Ronnie, I want to ask you something”
“Does your Mother drive you fucking crazy too?”

Mike’s face was right in mine, all his nose hairs
were "countable" and his breath smelled like alcohol.

“Yeah, you know sometimes,
but what you gonna do” I said

If there was one thing I learned about Mike, it was always to agree with him no matter what he said. No, don’t ever disagree with Mike or get him angry, because you’ll never know what he’ll do.
Just always agree, all right?

And then there was the horrific screaming that used to come out of their apartment at the Margaret Court. And it was always Mike and his mother fighting about something, and yes they never whispered. they both just screamed at the top of their lungs.

“I’m going to kill you ma, I’m going to kill you”
“Don’t you dare touch me or I’ll call the police,
get away, get away!”
“I said I’m going to kill you”
“Put down the knife Mike, put down the knife”
“Ahhhhhhhh, Ahhhhhhh"

But don’t worry this was normal, and someone else
already called the police. And there was usually a
patrol car in front of the Margaret Court almost
every day.

Yeah, Mike and his mom surely had an open
relationship and never kept anything inside that
festered into hate.

I remember the night the City coroner’s truck and
a bunch of police cars were parked in front on the
Margaret Court. And for some reason that night
there was no screaming coming out of the second
floor window. No, tonight it was silent,
no screaming at all.

Mike’s mom was holding on to the arm of a cop as
they carried a long black body bag on a stretcher.

No, no more screaming at the Margaret Court,
because Mike was dead.

We never really knew how Mike died.
Some said it was drugs, others said he just had
a heart attack.

But the strange thing is ever since
the day Mike died we never saw his mom.

And maybe never really knew
"who" was holding the knife.

Ron Lopez

Catskill Webcam @ 5:00 pm Today

The Beverly on Church Avenue

The next time you’re walking from the subway on Church Avenue, make sure to make a left into the "T-Mobile Store".

Take out that two dollars you have in your pocket, and hand it to the lady in the ticket booth on the side where that guy sells all the hats
and gloves.

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

As you open the door to the go inside, a young man will be standing there to take your ticket. You hand it to him and he rips it in two, one half goes into a wooden box, the other you put in your pocket.

Hey, how about some fresh popcorn and a Coke? You walk up to the concession stand and immediately notice a roach under the glass, walking upside down. You pass on the popcorn and opt for "Snow Caps" instead. You hand the woman a dollar and wait for your change, you think for a second about telling her you saw a roach.

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

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

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

Ron Lopez

ELO, Queen and the F Express

In a time when ELO and Queen ruled the jukeboxes of our local Windsor Terrace and Kensington bars, we had the F-Express to Manhattan. It was our own European “Bullet Train”, and it stopped right here, at Church Avenue. And I took it every day to The High School of Art and Design in NYC on Second Avenue and 57th street.

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

Next Stop Seventh Avenue, Methodist Hospital

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

Next Stop Bergen Street.

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

Forget Carroll, next stop Bergen Street.

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

Next Stop Jay Street Boro Hall.

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

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

But hey, I bet you that Denny’s still has ELO and Queen on their jukebox and maybe an old token somewhere in the floor boards.

Ron Lopez

Catskill Webcam @ 6:00 pm Today

Got the "Birdhouse" webcam working again!
Enjoy the pictures from the cold Catskill Mountains.

Ron

Kensington Webcam 3:15 pm today

Where's the snow?

Sake on Church and East Fourth

Well, for once someone took a chance and opened up a type of restaurant that we would usually drive to Bay Ridge for when we wanted to drop some more than "Yummy Taco" dollars. And don't get me wrong, I love places like "403", and order from there quite often. But when you talk "going out to dinner" it's usually not somewhere on Church Avenue, at least on in 2011. No, that was Scrolla's, and that was about 30 years ago when we had some decent quality places.

So maybe, just maybe if this place survives and is profitable, others may look at it as some kind of "canary in a coal mine" and possibly open another quality restaurant. Because let me tell you the market for this type of venue is here and always has been here. Expect they have been going out to dinner in Bay Ridge, Park Slope or even Ditmas Park instead. Last night at Sake a line was starting to form outside, something I haven't seen since they showed "Death Wish" at the old Beverley back in 1975.

And it was nice actually walking home after "going out to dinner"
instead of driving six miles from Bay Ridge.

Sake Japanese Cuisine 324 Church Avenue,
on the southwest corner of E. 4th Street.
Phone: (718) 851-5299

Ron Lopez
Kensingtonstories.blogspot.com

Catskill Webcam today @ 6:30 am

Cold as Ice...

It's Stray Voltage Season in KWT

Do yourself a favor and watch where you walk, especially anywhere near one of those Con Ed metal plates on the street or sidewalk. Because this is the time when snow melts and fills those electrical boxes with salt water from all that snow. And salt water and electricity are really not a good match, along with a human or dog walking on top of them. There have also been reports of Con Ed hiring car service drivers to watch over some of these "hot spots" in Kensington and Windsor Terrace. Be on the look out for "caution tape" and "orange cones" near these danger spots, along with some guy sitting in a car to watch over you. Now, I'm not going to get into how Con Ed is handling this, I mean "car service" drivers to watch over you? Well, I guess it's better than nothing, especially if the guy can help you avoid getting electrocuted and sent to Pitta's before your time.

Ron Lopez

Old School Kensington Roller Hockey

Hey, any of you guys out there??
If so please contact mission control!

Ron

Old 50's Kensington

When the Sun Sets over Brooklyn

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ron Lopez

Because some things just never change

The last snowstorm we had was a “snow day” for me as well, that’s because Avon Products, (where I work at Rockefeller Center) was closed for the day. Yes, today I’ll be home along with the entire family, and enjoy the latest 19 inches
of freshly fallen Kensington, Brooklyn snow.

And I don’t know what it is about a snowstorm, but somehow it just reminds me of being a kid again. Building a snowman with my dad and uncle in our back yard, icing over Neil O’Callaghan’s back yard with a garden hose and playing hockey, or maybe just having a good old snowball fight and getting my left ear hit by Steve McNally. Oh, and when Stevie hit my ear, red blood just started gushing down my jacket and onto the virgin white snow. A real nice sight for the Blanks who were probably watching from the porch of 403 East Fourth, even though it was the middle of winter back in 1969. But hey, Mister and Mrs. Blank were always on their porch, no matter what the weather.

And the funny thing is I can stand on every single spot where these things took place. A 53 year old man can just walk down his front stoop and find the spot where he built that snowman with his dad 50 years ago, got hit by Steve 43 years ago, or played hockey in Neil’s back yard 35 years ago. No, no long flight back to New York, no long drive from Long Island, Staten Island, or the Virgin Islands. No, tears welling up in my eyes because I’m "coming home" to the house I grew up in as a kid and “it will all be so wonderful to see it again” kind of stuff.

No, none of that’s ever going to happen, because I just never left, and I still live in the same house that my mom carried me into a few days after I was born at Methodist in Park Slope back in 1957.

Is it sad?
Is it odd?
Is it wonderful?

Or am I just one of those people who just can’t conform to any type of change whatsoever?

Oh right, I’ve been with the same company for 27 years. Have the same friends for 53 years. Call my cousin Pete almost every since I learned how to use a phone. And I even have the same wife for the past 12 years. And that’s a real accomplishment for me because I was never very good with having the same wife or girlfriend for an extended period of time you know.

So what gives here? Is it that I just love Brooklyn so much and would never think of living anywhere else? Is it that I would hate everything else? Or was it a “genius” real estate move that I made in 1990 when I bought my house from my aunt and uncle that would keep me here for good?

Well, what is it I ask?

Well...tell me.

Ok, I'm waiting

Waiting, waiting, waiting...

And the answer is...

I HATE CHANGE

I think that’s it.
Nothing else,
nothing genius,
nothing to read between the lines.

I just hate change, period.

Same friends,
Same block,
Same house,
Same kids,
Same wife,
Same cars,
Same job,
Same hockey stick
and goalie mask.

Oh, and same Brooklyn.

So the other day during the snowstorm I was helping my friend of 53 years, “The Prophet” or “The Rev” as I know him, shovel out his car from a four-foot snow bank, compliments of NYC Sanitation plow that just rolled on by. The “Rev” is now something like 81 years old you know and he was telling my next-door neighbor about how long he has known me.

And for anyone who doesn't know "The Rev" he has been a fixture on my block ever since I was a little baby. He stands about six foot three, only wears white, and can be seen cleaning and polishing his long Caddie or Lincoln every day. He looks something like Jeffery Holder who used to do those "Cola Nut" commercials back in the 70's and has the loudest booming voice you have ever heard. Yes, the Rev or the Prophet Allen is straight out of "Central Casting" and could probably have been in the movies if he ever lived in Hollywood.

“You see this man? I know this man since he was a little baby, a little boy playing here on the street with his brother” "Holding his mommy's hand while walking down the block"

“He’s a wonderful man”

“Praise Jesus and bless this man and his family”

“Praise Jesus”

“Oh yes, Praise Jesus”

“Whaaaaaaaaaaa, Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh”

“Ahhhhhhhhhh, Haaaaaaaaaaa, Haaaaaaaaa, Haaaaaaaaaa, Haaaaaaaaa”

“He’s a wonderful man”

“He’s a wonderful man”

“Praise Jesus”

“Oh yes, Praise Jesus”

“Ahhhhhhhhhh, Haaaaaaaaaaa, Haaaaaaaaa, Haaaaaaaaaa, Haaaaaaaaa”


At this point the “Prophet” was on a roll and screaming at the top of his lungs like he usually does on East Fourth Street in front of the Margaret Court on any given day.

And me, well I was just smiling and feeling lucky.
Felling like the “Luckiest man on the face of the Earth”
Knowing the "Rev" all these years and still seeing him
every single day. And hoping that he lives forever, because
East Fourth would never be the same if he wasn't there
in front of the Margaret Court polishing his car.
And neither would I.

Still living on the block I grew up on, still driving by PS 179 every day and remembering my first day of kindergarten. Walking by the very same spot where my uncle taught me how to ride a bike in front of 396 East Fourth. Or my backyard where I built that snowman back in 1963. Yes a collection of memories that are all still here right in front of my eyes every day, some beautiful, some tragic, some sad and some glorious.

All without a flight from the West Coast
or a drive up from Florida.

No, just open my front curtains from my
apartment and they are all there to see.

Yes, some things just never change you know.
And sometimes the lack of change is just beautiful,
wonderful, and glorious.

And I would never want it any other way,
as long as I live here in Brooklyn,
the only home I have ever known.


Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

Kensington Snow (today @ 7am)

Some heavy snow on the branches of the Cherry tree.

Ron

The Prophet Wears White

Google Street View has "The Prophet" and thats a Kensington Story!

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

Joe Mirada's Pet Store

I think Joe Mirada’s pet store was somewhere way down Church Avenue near 36th street.
And from what I remember as a kid, the place was a very, very long walk from East Fourth.

A small, smelly pet store that may have been in “Gods Country” for a reason you know, far removed from all the grocery stores and fruit stores that lined the heart of our Church Avenue. And for anyone who grew up in Kensington, the “Heart” of Church Avenue was anywhere between McDonald Avenue and Ocean Parkway.

So here was this pet store way the hell down Church Avenue and almost in Boro Park. Yeah, maybe because it smelled so much the rest of the merchants told old Joe Mirada to stay as far away as possible.

But still when you’re a kid you’re going to
find a pet store no matter where it is.

And even if it's practically in Boro Park

“Hey Joey, did you hear that Joe Mirada’s
selling hamsters for a dollar?”

I remember that day quite well; I was playing on my front porch with my cousin Pete, my brother Joseph and Johnny Reilly from the Margaret Court across the street.

“Here, take a look at the one Kevin and I just bought”

There inside a cardboard milk container with the top sliced off was this small brown looking thing that looked something like a rat. It seemed to be sniffing around with barely any room to turn it’s little body in the confines of the sour smelling Borden’s milk carton. There was also a bed of shredded paper underneath it as well; it’s tiny teeth just chewing away at the remains of yesterday’s Daily News.

“So guys, what do you think?”
“There only a dollar and Joe Mirada
said he just has a a few left”.

Now when I was growing up my older brother always made the “corporate” decisions, not me. And maybe it was because he was almost two years older than me, I don’t know. So when it came to things like when we were going to ride our bikes, or roll tires down our driveway and hit a car, it was always Joseph who made
the decisions.

“Ronnie, go upstairs and see if mom can give you a dollar, tell her it’s for ice cream from Morris. But DO NOT tell her it’s because we want to buy a hamster. You understand?

“But Joey, you know mom hates mice”

“It’s not a mouse you idiot, it’s a hamster”.

“Now just go upstairs and ask mommy for a dollar”

Well, I asked my mom for a dollar, came back downstairs and we were on our way to Joe Mirada’s pet store. I remember it was a very hot summer’s day as we rode our bikes there. A caravan of bicycles on two wheels and training wheels, making their way down the hot gum dotted sidewalks of Church Avenue to the “End of the Earth”.
Well, almost Boro Park, but that might as well have been the end of the earth to us.


“Oh I see we have more customers,
I bet you kids are here for the hamsters right?”

Now from what I remember Joe Mirada was this short little Italian man who always wore checkered shirts. The store like I mentioned earlier smelled to high heaven, and given it was a hot summer’s day in Kensington Brooklyn, the smell today was worse than it usually was.

Joe Mirada stuck his hand inside a cage and pulled out this little brown thing that looked something like a rat. He quickly put it inside another Borden’s quart milk container and handed it to my
brother Joseph.

“Here you go kid, that will be one dollar”

My brother handed Joe Mirada the dollar, and in return Joseph was handed a smelly Borden’s milk container with something inside of it that looked very much like a rat. I was sure my mom was going to have a fit when she saw it. But I would never tell my brother, because it was his decision to buy it. And that was that.

So we got on our bikes and slowly moved Eastward towards East Fourth. Spoke wheels, and solid silver wheels just spinning away until we finally made it back to the concrete confines of our front porch with our little hamster and the smelly milk carton.

Now, we may have even been trying to play with it somehow, I can’t quite remember. And just like Johnny Reilly’s hamster, it had the hardest time trying to turn its little body inside the bottom of the empty quart of milk barely able to move.

"Hey Joey, see if it wants to play with this stick"

Johnny Reilly handed my brother a small twig from
our front bushes and he threw it into the carton.

The hamster just looked at it and did nothing.

"Oh well, maybe it's tired"

But then suddenly we saw our mom walking up the block,
and unlike my brother, I knew it was all going to be over real soon.

“What are you boys doing with those milk containers?”
“Is there something inside”?

Now this is one of those moments you
always remember and tell your kids about.

My mom slowly leaning over to look inside the carton,
and then her loud blood curdling screams.

"AHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
"AHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
"AHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

I think my mother’s screams could be heard all the way from Church Avenue on that warm summer’s day. The hamster just spun in circles at the bottom of the carton as she screamed and screamed. The milk container bellowing outwards at the bottom from the hamster's attempted escape.

You see I knew my mom hated mice,
yet my brother wanted to buy the hamster
and I was powerless.

“GET IT AWAY, GET IT AWAY!”

My brother Joseph put his hand over the top of the carton trying to shield the hamster from my mom’s screaming. Yet you can still hear it scurrying around in circles on top of it’s bed of shredded Daily News.

“But mom, it was only a dollar at Joe….”

“TAKE IT BACK NOW!!!!”
“TAKE IT BACK NOW!!!!”

“I don’t want to see that thing in my house, you understand!”

Well, the rest is history folks, we went back to Joe Mirada’s
and returned the hamster, and I’m sure he gave my brother
the dollar back as well.

But I never dared to tell my brother "I told you so".
Because he'd kick my ass you know.

Yes, Joe Mirada’s pet store, the hamster, and my mother’s screams.
Just another day in the Kensington of my youth, so many years ago.

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

Some Bad Habits at IHM

As I sat in my third grade classroom in PS 179 I could hear them roaring towards us. From my desk I could look out the window and see their long yellow roofs. They parked in front of the school entranceway on Avenue C. With their diesel engines just clattering away, I knew it was my time to go. On every Wednesday at 2 o’clock my stomach would start to hurt. It was time for the public school Christians to leave our sanctuary of bliss and head North up East 3rd street to The Immaculate Heart of Mary school. It was time for “Religious Instructions”.

As I gathered my books and headed out the door I looked back and said good bye to Miss Saltzman. She just smiled back at me looking as beautiful as ever in her white go go boots. As I started to walk down the battle ship gray stairs I really started to feel nauseas. But you see I wasn’t alone, about four other children followed me down. All of us silent, no words ever spoken. “Ronnie are you feeling OK” asked the school bus matron. A friend of my Mom’s whose name always escaped me. I tried to smile at her, but my lips always had a problem arcing up on the sides on a Wednesday afternoon. I always sat in the back of the bus too. Right under the “emergency exit” sign. Maybe hoping it would open up one day and I would just fall out. As the bus driver closed the doors, I closed my eyes.

The bustling clatter of the diesel engine got louder as we pulled away and made a left onto East 3rd street. The ride up East 3rd street was the greatest torture. Especially as we passed Church Avenue, because everything I loved was right outside the school bus window, almost within reach. Kennys Toy Store, Lee’s Toy Store and a brand new Pizzeria called “Korner”. All the places I loved to visit with my Mom, yet here I am sitting on a cold school bus seat heading towards my doom. Church Avenue just vanished in the distance behind me. The bus made a left on Fort Hamilton Parkway and gently stopped in front of IHM School. We all silently gathered our belongings and filed out the bus. At this point I would really start to dread them. With my stomach feeling worse I was hoping to start throwing up this time before we got inside. One of them opened a heavy red metal door, dressed only in black, she just stared at us through her little round eyeglasses, not saying a word. The
public school heathens had just arrived.

We sat in the classroom, all silent. One of them stood in front of the chalk board, she too was dressed in black with something white around the top of her head. Some kind of hat. Right below her head was a large white disc that looked like it was sawed in two. She held a long wooden yardstick in her wrinkled old hand. She just stood there glaring at us. I could make out her bee bee eyes behind her glasses, they were dark blue. She started to speak, “Now who can tell me about Jesus......And then it happened like it always did. There she was standing in front of the class. She had to be the most beautiful teacher at 179. Miss Saltzman, with beautiful dark eyes and long silky black hair. She had to be a dream, because when she spoke to me I just melted. When I’m old enough I’m going to marry Miss Saltzman, my third grade teacher. And even when she handed me my test papers that usually scored no more than 65. I just stared at her beautiful milky white hands and then her beautiful face, then down her neck to her tight pink sweater and then at her two beautiful full......Wack!, Wack!, Wack!, the tip of the wooden yardstick slammed hard on my desk, just barely missing my little fingers and almost hitting my Timex Dumbo watch that my Mom just bought me for Christmas. “I said wake-up and pay attention young man!” “Don’t you care about Jesus?”

At that point I was too scared to look up at her, I could only stare at the cross that was hanging on her waist with some sad looking skinny man with a long beard nailed to it. “I said look at me when I speak to you!” Now she was screaming at the top of her lungs. “I said look at meeeeeeeeeee.........and that’s when it happened. Without warning it just burst from my stomach, hot and steamy, with little pieces of the hot dog I just had for lunch. And it was all over her black dress, with some of it hitting the little man on the cross. I had just vomited like so many times before, and the “nerve medicine” my Mom gave me every Wednesday morning failed to work, again. I just sat there frozen and she just stood there silent. “Now go to the boys room and clean yourself up”.

I got up from my desk, I could feel evey ones eyes staring at my back as I walked out the door and down to the Boys room. I tried my best to wash myself off and I must have been there for a while, because when I walked out I could see my Mom talking with the Nun outside the classroom. My little sister Isabel was there too, just sitting in her stroller staring at the Nun. We left early that day and as we walked along Fort Hamilton Parkway towards East 4th the Church bells started ringing.

“Mom do I have to go back?”
“You know what you have to do Ronnie”
is all my Mom said.

Well, I did somehow manage to survive “Religious Instructions” and even made my Communion and Conformation at IHM. All because I knew “What I had to do”, Something thats just in your blood when you’re from Brooklyn. But the truth is even today some 43 later, I still can’t help but feel a little nervous when I see a Nun. The memories of “Religious Instructions”, the bus rides and the vomiting just come back to me like a nightmare. Because you see, even at 50, Some Bad Habits” are just too hard to forget!

Ron Lopez

Catskill Webcam @ 7:15am Today

This is a shot I just took from our webcam up at our house in Delaware County. Far up in the mountains where the snow never gets dirty, and just 150 miles from Kensington and Church Avenue.

Ron @ Mopar195@yahoo.com

Catskill Webcam @ 3:45pm Today

Kensington Snow Storm (1/12/11) @4:44am

Old Time Kensington Roller Hockey

Here's an old time photo of some roller hockey down at Ave. F and McDonald taken in the early 70's. Thats Pete Liria in the foreground.

Old Photo from Betty Blade's photo stream

Can anyone guess the location of this Kensington photo?
It is a photo from 1980 actually, now it's much nicer!

Betty has tons of great Brooklyn photos new and old, and many of
Kensington from way back when.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/bettyblade/

Today and Yesterday

Some Things Never Change

Hey Kevin, Happy New Year!

New Years Eve at Pitta's Funeral Home

The New Years Eve parties that my Grandparents had at 399 East 4th were something else. For what seemed like days they would both prepare the food for the party. Turkey, ham, roast beef, cole slow, potato salad, black beans and white rice, fried bananas, along with many traditional dishes from Spain too complicated to mention.

And my Grandfather Paco was a true gentleman also. There he would be alongside my Grandmother helping prepare all the dishes that would be spread out on the dining room table by six o’clock on December 31st., including desserts all made by hand.

You could usually expect upwards to fifty people at the house on New Years Eve. Cousins from as close as East 2nd street to as far as Patterson, New Jersey made the trek to Kensington for the “Big Bash”. Just packing the house like sardines in a tin can and usually spilling out onto the front porch too.

But one problem that always faced the family was the lack of chairs. Sure there was the couch and Paco’s lazy boy along with the eight or so dining room chairs. But still they were all just a very small dent on the side of the big ship called 399, and simply not enough to support all the guests.

So one year after Christmas my Uncle Manuel, who lived on East 2nd street, told my Grandfather Paco about the idea of renting chairs from Pitta’s on McDonald Avenue. “Pitta’s” was and still is a funeral home off Fort Hamilton Parkway, and according to my uncle Manuel, "never does New Years Eve funerals". So why not drive over there and ask about renting some chairs for a “good price” was his suggestion to my Grandfather.

Now you have to understand that my Uncle Manuel was always looking for a “good price”.

At six feet five inches, he had the most booming “Brooklyn” voice you could ever imagine, and was also a truck driver who sometimes brought boxes of things that “fell off the truck” to our house.
So when it came to finding a “good price” or "no price" at all, you could always depend on my Uncle Manuel to find it.

My grandfather Paco on the other hand was alot more reserved than my Uncle Manuel. He never really wanted to know where the boxes "fell" from, but gladly took anything my Uncle offered him nevertheless. I guess they were just the "SAP" versions of "Oscar and Felix", and somehow managed to get along quite well as
brother-in-laws.

“Hey, you kids ready to help get the chairs?” said my Uncle Manuel.

“Sure!” said my brother Joseph, Pete, and I in unison.

“Now you know this place we’re going to is a funeral home,
so I don’t want to hear any screaming when you see a stiff, ok?”

All of us shook our heads together, including me,
too embarrassed to ask my older brother what a “stiff” was.

So we walked down the stairs and piled into our 63 Rambler wagon and drove to Pittas on McDonald Avenue. We parked the Rambler in the back of the funeral parlor by the loading dock where they bring in the new customers. My Uncle Manuel made the sign of the cross when he got out of the car, although I never remembered seeing him
at IHM.

“Now you children must not go into any of the other rooms, we must respect the property and only go where the man tells us to. We are here to pick up chairs and not to play,” said my Grandfather Paco.

My uncle Manuel on the other hand just started laughing and told us not to look at the “stiffs” because we might have nightmares.

We walked up the back steps into the funeral parlor, I immediately started smelling something sweet and thought it must have been flowers. The carpet was a dark red and the place was really cold.
As we walked up the hallway there were doors to the left and right of us, all closed.

“Here are the chairs, how many do you need?’ said the owner.

As my Grandfather Paco and Uncle Manuel worked out a deal on the chairs we started walking back down the hallway we just walked up from. All the doors had nameplates on them and all but one was closed shut. It was open about a half an inch and was completely
dark inside.

“You want to look?” said Joseph.

We just said nothing as he started to open the door; the smell of the flowers became stronger as the door opened more. We noticed a light coming from the front of the room but still couldn’t see anything.

“Come on, just open it,” said my cousin Pete.

We all slowly pushed the wooden door open with our eyes closed. Once it was fully open we all opened our eyes. Our screams could probably be heard in the subway tunnel deep below McDonald Avenue that day. There in the dark room below the glow of a single white lamp was an elderly bald man lying in a wooden casket. He had white hair on the sides of his head and wore glasses. Not knowing what do or where to run we just stood there screaming at the top of our
little lungs.

Before we could move the heavy hands of my Uncle Manuel and Grandfather Paco were on our shoulders pulling us backwards. As I looked at my Grandfather his face was red and he looked quite angry. My Uncle Manuel on the other hand was laughing at the top of his 6 foot 5 lungs. The man at the funeral parlor just smiled at my Grandfather and said “that’s OK it happens all the time.

My Grandfather didn’t say much during the ride back to East 4th, but seemed to forget about it by the time we parked in the driveway. We all helped carry up the chairs and another New Years Eve Party at 399 East 4th was well underway. Just waiting for the "ball to drop" and scream "Happy New Year" at the top of our lungs in the Brooklyn of my youth, a long time ago.

Ron Lopez

Catskill Sunrise 7 am New Years Eve

A silent News Years Eve up here in the mountains,
while Times Square rocks some 145 miles away.

Ron Lopez

Kensington Blizzard 8:11pm 12/26/10

A Merry Christmas to All

Kensington Webcam 5:48 am

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

Save some coins this winter

I have seen a few posts so far about insulation, window replacement and so on. And I’m sure it’s all in an effort to save fuel this winter. Now I’m not an expert on this stuff but I can tell you what I did to lower the cost of my National Grid and old Keyspan bills.

My house has over sixty-five windows and kills me every winter when it comes to amount of money I have to spend to heat its old body.
It’s a large wood frame and lacks the proper insulation between the walls that much newer houses have.

Well the first thing I did over a period of time was replace all the old windows with modern double insulated windows. And made sure to have the windows “capped” properly and caulked. This was an instant success when it came to saving money, probably a few thousand dollars the first winter.

And let me give you some real numbers on this so you can understand the importance of windows. My house is over 4000 square feet and my gas bill is about four thousand dollars a year with new windows. My good friend down the block owns a house that's about 2800 square feet. He pays about six thousand dollars a year for his gas because he still has the old windows from 1963. I keep telling him to change his windows, but still he hasn't.

Then we looked into having insulation blown into the attic crawl space above the third floor ceiling. This was also an instant money saver and helped keep the house cooler in the summer and warmer in the winter. The cost also was much less than having insulation blown between the walls of the entire house. Maybe 1500 dollars about five years ago.

My wife also read about these really thick insulated drapes that cover the windows, they are very and heavy and really keep the cold out during those 10 degree days. And in the summer they really help in keeping the hot sun out of the apartment. Once again a smart move and I have seen my gas bills go down once again.

Also make sure that there is nothing blocking the area where your boiler pipe goes into the chimney. Every fall I make sure to “ShopVac” this area clean, because your boiler needs to breathe properly or otherwise it will choke itself.

I still have other things in mind but once again it all costs money. For instance I can either have insulation blown between the walls, which is about ten thousand dollars. Or remove all my vinyl siding, attach those 2-inch thick insulation boards and then put my siding back on. That would be the ultimate, but once again a big expense.

These are just some ideas and I hope
they can save you some money this winter.

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

Thank You Freddie Schefferman

On any given August night back in 1975 you could find me down the block on Freddie Schefferman's stoop. But not just me you know, the rest of the boys also made Freddie's stoop their perpetual brick and mortar home. Glen Gruder, Robert Brennan, Neil O’Callahan, Jimmy Spinner and my cousin Pete Liria.

Now most of us were anywhere from fifteen to twenty at the time, and Freddie was much older. Freddie could have easily passed for Jesus or Tommy Chong from “Cheech and Chong”. With long wavey black hair, a beard and little round glasses. It was hard to imagine what Freddie really looked like too.

Freddie may have been 35 years old at the time. His mother and father owned the house he lived in. And from the stories Freddie told us all the time, we were pretty sure that he grew up on the block too. I know Freddie graduated from Pratt in Brooklyn and did work “freelance” from time to time. Hey, he even owned a 68 Triumph Spitfire convertible, so he had to have some kind of dough. But most of the time Freddie just loved to “hang out” on the block. Just looking like “Jesus” in his bell-bottoms, sandals, and yellow and white striped shirt. Leaning against the white picket fence of his house talking to anyone who wanted to “hang out” with him.

Freddie did spend some time in Vietnam too; I think he told us he used to make maps there. But we never pushed it because who knew if he would “Freak out” about it. And Freddie knew just about everything you know, politics, art, religion, history, philosophy, and most important, Brooklyn.

“You kids should have been around here when the Trolleys ran on Church Avenue. You couldn’t imagine the shit we used to do with the Trolleys”

Freddie did share many of his Church Avenue Trolley stories with us. From squashing pennies on the rails to making late night explosions on the high wires by throwing a metal pipe up at the lines, hoping to arc them both at once, and causing something to blow. I guess it did work sometimes, because Freddie told us many stories about being chased by the cops up our block too.

“What the hell are you guys doing here with me?”
“you should be out getting laid somewhere,
you guys are really schmucks!”

Now we never asked Freddie the same question, because it was
still a Saturday night, and the clock just struck midnight for him
too. But we just took his insults in stride, and just listened to
more of his stories.

“Did you guys check out that new program “Saturday Night Live”, now that’s some funny shit. Hopefully NBC won’t cancel it next year like they always do. Bunch of schmucks!”

Freddie was a Jewish 60’s flower child with an edge.

“You guys are little assholes, didn’t you see
that girl walk by and smile at you?”

“Why don’t you talk to her and get her number?”
“When I was your age I had a girl on each arm every night”

No one ever dared to ask Freddie what happened,
because we never saw him with anyone on the block.

No, instead of a beautiful girl on each side of his shoulders,
Freddie had us instead. And let me tell you, we were far
from being beautiful.

Freddie hated the establishment too,
every President sucked,
every Governor sucked,
every Mayor sucked.
But then again we never asked Freddie if he ever voted.

On very rare occasions Freddie would let us down into his basement to see all his photography equipment. Freddie knew all about mold making and casting too. In fact he made me my first fiberglass goalie mask that I still have today. We may have even seen “pot roaches” in empty cat food cans down there too. If Freddie did smoke pot, we never knew it, because he kept his personal life in the basement.

Sometimes some of my friend’s dads would playfully rib Freddie about the fact that he seemed to be blissfully un-employed. Especially my friend Robert’s dad Bob Brennan.

Now Bob worked on the World Trade Center and told us countless stories about being up on the tower crane some 110 stories up. About how it swayed back and forth and almost got him sick on windy days.

“Hey get a job you bum”

Freddie would just laugh with all of us sitting around him.
Like overgrown Santa’s elf’s around our spiritual leader.

“Hey, I am working” “I’m teaching these kids about life,
including your son” “I’ll send you the bill next week!”

Sometimes another great Brooklyn philosopher and storyteller, Freddie’s downstairs tenant “Bobby Wilson” would join in on the conversation. Bobby Wilson was stocky and stood about six feet tall, with a big square jaw, dark blue eyes and midnight black hair. Bobby always looked like he was on the verge of murdering someone. He drove a tow truck for “Al & Leo’s” collision on 36th street near Fort Hamilton. In fact the place is now called “36th Street Collision” and Al is still the owner. Bobby always wore a dark blue jump suit with red script letters “Bobby” on his left chest, With the police scanner blaring and the volume up high, you always knew when Bobby was on the block. And don't forget, he had his name painted on the truck also, so you just couldn't miss him.

I think if Bobby didn’t know Freddie, he may have just beaten him up because of his long hair. Bobby hated hippies, freaks, the un-employed, the protesters, and the left-wingers. I think you get the picture. Yet together they were our own "Curtis Sliwa and Ron Kuby" right on East 4th street. Just arguing about everything and taking opposite sides on any subject. And of course Bobby’s solution for everything if conversation and debate didn’t work was to just “kick their asses” Most of Bobby’s stories were about his adventures driving his tow truck for Al and Leo. And usually when he was the first person to get to some horrible accident somewhere before the cops.

“Now who has a weak stomach here?”
“Because if you do, I don’t think you want to hear this one”

“OK, I heard this call on the scanner about a roll-over on McDonald and avenue C. It was late at night and I’m just a couple of blocks away. I get there and the car's totally in flames. It looked like a 69 Charger but I wasn’t sure. And the guys still in it because I see his head. So I try to pull the guy out of the car and the only thing I can grab is his head. So I’m on the ground squatting like this, just pulling and pulling. And them “Boom”, I fall backwards and the guy’s head comes off right in my hands. I’m on my back just looking at his head in my hands. I think he was even trying to talk to me too cause his lips were moving”.

At this point Freddie would be looking up at the
sky above East 4th, just rolling his eyes.

“Hey Freddie you think I’m bullshittin?”
“Cause if you do I’ll go upstairs and show you the guys ear,
I cut it off as a souvenir”

Freddie would just shake his head.

And the stories just went on and on, and the hot summer nights just rolled on by. I guess our parents were torn, on one hand they wanted us to be going out more, but then on the other all my mom had to do was poke her head out the window and see us all on Freddie’s stoop.

But just like everything when you were young,
you thought it would never end.
Until one day our nightmare came true.

Freddie told us he found a job and was going back to work.

Well, back to work, that’s ok. Because I worked too, and went to college also. So maybe Freddie couldn’t hang out till 2 AM anymore.

And then it hit us like a brick, my heart sunk, my world ended. Freddie told us his job was in Alaska, and he was leaving within a week, and would not be back for years.

We left the stoop that night feeling very depressed, but still held out some hope that Freddy was full of shit.

But then the day came that would be etched in my mind forever. Just a few days after Freddie told us the news I was sitting on my porch with some of the guys. Across the street was some guy walking with a clean white shirt and kacky pants. He crossed the street and started walking towards us. He had short black hair, clean smooth skin and a big bright smile. He also wore little round glasses.

“Do you guys know who I am?”
We just looked at him perplexed and said “no”
“You’re kidding, you don’t know who I am?”
“Sorry” we said, “we have no idea”
“You schmucks” the voice sounded familiar, yet the face wasn’t.
“I’m Freddie, you assholes”

Oh, my god, it was Freddie, he cut his beard, hair, and was wearing a white button down shirt and dress pants.

We all just stared at him in shock.

“I told you guys I got a job,
what did you think, I was full of shit?”

I guess maybe for once Freddie wasn't
full of shit, no he was really leaving the
block, and wouldn't be back for years.

I don’t remember the day Freddie left,
I may have been working or in college at the time.

We tried to pick up the pieces with Bobby Wilson and his tow truck stories, but it wasn’t the same without Freddie. Then tragically Bobby’s son Bobby jr. got real sick and died of a brain tumor. And Bobby just wasn’t the same anymore.

From what I heard he just stayed inside
his apartment and did a lot of crying.

The stoop in front of Freddie’s house was empty, yet there
was still hope that at least Bobby would be back someday.

But then one day when I got home from work I remember seeing a NYC morgue truck in front of Freddie’s house. I figured it was Freddie’s mom that died because she was quite old. As the black body bag was being carried out of the house, Bobby’s wife Eileen was holding on to it and crying. It was Bobby Wilson.

The doctors said it was an aneurism,
but we knew it was just a broken heart.
Because Bobby just could not live without his son.

I remember the funeral at Pitta’s on McDonald Avenue.
The whole block must have come that night.

And there was Bobby in the casket.
With a cigar in his pocket, and still looking like he could
kick someone’s ass, even in death.

Yeah, it was over.
Everyone was gone.

So the stoop remained empty forever at 418 East 4th.
And after Freddie’s parents died he sold the house.

We moved on with our lives. Found girlfriends or got married.
Some of us even moved away far from the block.

I heard Freddie finished his work in Alaska
and finally did get married.

In fact, rumor is he still lives in Brooklyn.

But truth is, I haven’t seen him in almost 30 years,
and neither has anyone else.

And I hope that some of those late night stories
about Brooklyn and life rubbed off on me too.
Because I grew up with some of the greatest storytellers
in Brooklyn, although at the time I don’t think they had
a clue that they were just that, “story tellers”.

And Freddie, wherever you are.
Thanks for all those great nights on your stoop.
Just hanging out and passing time,
and giving me a "gift" I will never forget.

Ron Lopez
Mopar195@yahoo.com

Catskill Webcam today @ 1:30 pm

Here is a webcam shot from the house taken just a few minutes ago.
The house shot is from the "Bird House" cam,
while the mountain shot is from the "House Cam"
located in top floor bedroom.

And just think Kensington is only 150 miles away
over those mountains!

Ron Lopez

Park Circle Lanes on a Winters Day

I think my earliest recollection of Park Circle Lanes was when my cousin Tony took us there on a snowy winter’s day.
I must have been no more than seven years old and it was the first time in my life that I had ever seen a bowling alley.

And the walk to the bowling alley was real simple too. Just straight up East Fourth and then a right on Caton Avenue. Follow the horse crap from Kensington Stables and then you're there! You see the bowling alley was right across from the horse stables and also the Park Circle roller rink. Just a little wonderland of things to do when it was snowing outside.

So with cold toes and snow on our feet we opened the doors and walked into the warm air of the bowling alley. The long dark maple planks that made up the alleys along with bright lights shinning on the bowling pins were the first thing I noticed. There was a concession stand that sold hot dogs and popcorn along with soda machines lining the back wall. And of course there was cigarette smoke in the air, because back in the 60’s everyone smoked at bowling alleys. So smelling like smoke when you got home was no big deal, no, just change your shirt and it will all be fine.

Now cousin Tony was always so nice to us little kids when we were growing up on East Fourth. He must have been at least fifteen years older than us and I’m sure could have been having much more fun with his friends down by Avenue M where he lived. But for whatever reason Tony always made sure to show us all a good time, either riding sleds in Prospect Park or ice-skating at Wollman Rink. Yeah we all loved Tony, and were always excited when we heard he was coming over.

“Ok guys, we’re going to have to get each one of you a pair of bowling shoes”.

I remember being very confused because I was told to
take off one shoe and give it to the lady behind the counter.

“What size is he?”

“He looks like a size five to me”

“Here, just make sure you return them with the laces UN-DONE!

The women behind the counter handed me a pair of strange looking red and white shoes. I walked over to a plastic bench and proceeded to put them on.

There were also racks and racks of bowling balls all over the place too, mostly black bowling balls with a few red ones scattered around.

“Ok Pete, Ronnie and Joseph, I am going to get each one of you a bowling ball and I want you all to be very careful with them. They are very heavy and if you drop it on your foot your parents aren’t going to be very happy with me.”

Tony walked over to the racks and lifted various balls with his right hand. After a couple of minutes he started bringing over the black balls and gently placed them on the rack right behind the ball return

“Now Ronnie this is how you throw the ball”

I remember watching Tony as he rolled the black ball smoothly down the long dark alley. Within seconds the pins exploded and the ball disappeared into darkness. Tony looked at us and smiled.

“See guys that’s how you do it”

When it was my turn I remember picking up the heavy ball with both my hands, I slowly walked up to the alley and rolled it with all my might. Within moments the ball slid sideways into the gutter. I walked back feeling somewhat dejected but Tony made sure to cheer me up by telling me I did a great job. He also did his best to encourage me too.

"Ronnie, try to roll it straight down the lane next time,
I know you can do it".

So the second time I rolled the ball it did go straight down the lane, it hit about three pins and I felt like a millionaire!

That was 1965 on a snowy winter's day in Kensington Brooklyn.

It’s funny how you just remember certain things in life, and if there’s one thing I will always remember it’s the first time I rolled a bowling ball down at Park Circle Lanes. The agony of seeing it fall into the gutter, along with the joy of seeing the ball knock down a pin or two. The smell of popcorn and hotdogs along with cigarette smoke on your clothes. The walk home through the snow filled sidewalks of Kensington with Tony, Joseph and Pete. Feeling so proud of myself that I got a twenty-five, and so excited to tell my mom about the bowling alley and the fun I had there.

I still remember that day, isn’t that something?

So whatever happened to Kensington’s Park Circle Lanes?

Well sometime back in the late 80’s or early 90’s it closed down like many other bowling alleys in Brooklyn and just became another memory for a child of Brooklyn. Now replaced by a gigantic church right across the street form Kensington Stables where it once was.

Oh, but don't you worry, some things never change. One snowy Saturday a few weeks ago I took my kids over to Melody Lanes in Sunset Park. When the lady behind the counter handed us our shoes she made sure to remind us to return them with the laces UN-DONE!

And both my kids had the time of their lives,
and maybe someday will think of it too.



Ron Lopez