Christmas 2012 in Bay Ridge and Dyker Heights


Well, the Mayans didn’t get me, but some sort of flu-like ague that settled into my chest and sinuses on the 15th. of December decided to stick around (literally) through the week that I was in Brooklyn. It hadn’t been debilitating; my energy never flagged, the worst of the attack usually only lasting a day or so, but then I get to slog through a couple of weeks with a stuffed head, ears and chest. It could be worse, so I’m not complaining.

It was cold in Brooklyn, like in the 30s– just this side of freezing, but cold enough to erase all the green from the Bay Ridge / Dyker Heights landscape, rendering everything bleak. You know it’s temporary, though, and soon the gardens on the block (that haven’t yet been replaced with garages or parking slabs) will erupt again with bushes and flowers, the trees leafy and full.

Cold weather used to send me into asthmatic paroxysms, but that didn’t happen this Christmas. Mom and I took a walk over to Fifth Avenue to have burgers and fries at a little diner-y place, and I felt good enough to go for yet another walk after we got back home. I didn’t have to use my puffer at all, though a shot of generic Dayquil every few hours was keeping me feeling pretty good. The puffer, incidentally, has been taken off the market because it employs fluorocarbons to blast the life-saving medicine into my lungs. And we have learned that fluorocarbons erode the atmosphere. My position is: the fluorocarbons don’t leave my body– I can FEEL them– so what’s the nag? The nag is that the drug companies want asthmatics to have to troop to their doctors for (expensive) consultations and (expensive) prescriptions. The screwing of the wheezing public continues, step by step. Anyway.

I walked southeast of our neighborhood, which is situated at the very edge of Bay Ridge, and into Dyker Heights. (If you go slightly more east, into the 60s near 7th. and 8th. Avenues, skirting the interstate which raped and defaced this section of Brooklyn, you’re in an area that’s not Bay Ridge or Sunset Park or Dyker Heights. Years ago my friend Donald decided to name this no-man’s-land Peacrest.)


Dyker Heights is still very Italian, and, except for a couple of shopping streets, composed mainly of single or duplex houses. Some of the single homes are very, very grand. This is because the owners of these houses, who are now mostly well-to-do but still desiring to live near their business interests, have invested their money in their immediate property. Italians being Italians, the more grand a home is, the better chance you have of showing the world that you’ve Made It Big. Corinthian columns, gardens, statues, fountains, pergolas, ornate dentilled cornices and elaborate porticos can often ALL be found gracing ONE dwelling, often half of a duplex. The Puttanescas may be content with their gray shingled two-story, but the attached Cazzolungho home will be seen erupting with the stylistic architectural excesses of at least seven historic periods.


I got to see these homes up close because I had to go to “the Italian store” for Christmas Day comestibles. As the plans stood at the time, Christmas Eve was going to be me, Mom and my brother Tony at Colandrea’s New Corner Restaurant (just down the block from Mom’s house), while Christmas Day was going to be spent at my sister Gina’s house in Staten Island. We were going to bring our end of the bargain– pastries, and a stuffed escarole.

Do you know what a stuffed escarole is? You buy a bunch of escarole; you separate each leaf and wash it because dirt collects down near the base of the leaves; you arrange the leaves in an overlapping sunburst form in a pan; and then you place a large chunk of stuffing in the center of these leaves. Then you draw up all the leaves, creating a ball shape, and then, finally, you bind the whole thing with thread so that it can be cooked in its pan. Then you load it in your brother Tony’s car and bring it to Gina’s house on Staten Island.


To Scaturro’s Italian grocery store I went, walking all the way in the bracing cold air, thanking God that it wasn’t windy. Mom lives between 8th. Avenue and Fort Hamilton Parkway, a long block; Scaturro’s is on 11th. Avenue, and from Fort Hamilton Parkway to Eleventh Avenue is two long blocks, and then I had to turn left and go nine short blocks to 63rd. Street. It wasn’t bad. Walking gave me up-close glimpses of the neighborhood, and I realized that our latest crop of immigrants has decided that their front porches and area ways can be used as storage for all manner of plastic pails, cardboard boxes, hanks of rope, unidentifiable things made of metal, dead plants, and garbage pails. Incredible! All of these things used to be kept in the basement, but now Grandma is living in the basement. Hence the scenery.

Scaturro’s is great. It’s like an A&P of old, yet run and patronized exclusively by Italians, a few Asians, and the occasional Yuppie interloper. With ears poised like a lynx, you hear all sorts of things:

“When is the bread man getting here? I ain’t got all day and I want a bag of FRESH sandwich rolls, not stale from an hour ago”

“Now I gotta make a plate of sfingi to bring to her house, not that she always appears at mine man’ d’a bocc’… with the hands out expecting to be fed. ”

“You can’t find a jar of pignoli nuts in this town if you don’t buy it six months before you need them. And then they’re stale.”

I found the produce section and noticed someone examining the offerings: tall, sandy-haired, be-scarved, WASPy. What was he doing in this neighborhood?

“Which ones are escarole?” I asked the Yuppie interloper, because really, I had no idea; all that greenery looked the same to me. And he shrugged because he hadn’t yet seen Martha Stewart’s episode about Italian vegetables, and then we both realized that wide rubber bands twisted around the bases of the greens happened to identify them. ESCAROLE. PARSLEY. BASIL. I took the largest bunch of ESCAROLE I could find and placed it in my basket. I also had a few other things to get, like the aforementioned rolls. “How long you staying with me? Seven days? Okay, get seven sandwich rolls with the seeds for lunch, but not sesame. And don’t get the long rolls, get the short ones” When I’m out of rolls, I guess I have to get back on the plane.

I got back home with my groceries, passing the same plastic pails and the same cardboard boxes. I loaded everything onto the butcher block table, scarred with the knife dents that my Dad made when he demanded order from us rotten children by banging his cutlery along its edge. Mom inspected the escarole minutely.

“Look at this, it’s so small. Didn’t they have bigger?”

“I got the biggest.”

“And it’s full of dirt. Look at this! It’s not your fault, I’m just saying.”

“I didn’t check. Already I was causing concern by rummaging for the biggest. Can I take a hot shower?”

“Hmm. I don’t know if I can serve this. Well… we’ll see. I shoulda sent you to C-Town. They always have big escarole. I’m not blaming YOU, of course, but I shoulda sent you to C-Town.””

Also on my list was an injunction to buy PASTRIES, but NOT NOW; GET THEM LATER WHEN TONY CAN DRIVE YOU. It so happens that there are no longer any Italian pastry shops on Fort Hamilton Parkway where you can buy large pastries. So, on Christmas Eve, as soon as Tony got to the house, we got back in his car and drove to the Mona Lisa bakery on 86th. street, just south of Dyker Beach Park and next to Mezcal’s Mexican Restaurant. We lined up with all the other Italians buying emergency Christmas Eve pastry. I listened in on the buyers’ conversations; mainly they were speaking in Neapolitan and Sicilian dialects, and so the Tuscan half of my being quivered and snickered with derision.

“So whaddya think? Six zhvoolyadell [sfogliatelle] and six ganool [cannoli] , and maybe some cream horns?”

“I told her I would bring some zeppole but not if she’s gonna have that attitude she has. With that attitude she has I’m gonna bring her an empty box filled with my best wishes.”

“Did you put extra change in the parking meter? I ain’t got all day and I don’t need a ticket on Christmas Eve, Christ child or NO Christ child.”

Tony and I went to Mezcal’s after buying pastries, rebonding over a few straight shots of Sambuca. My brother is very funny; I love that guy. And then we drove back home.


~ ~ ~

Tony and Mom and I celebrated our traditional Christmas Eve at Colandrea’s New Corner Italian Restaurant, conveniently located down the block from us; we didn’t even have to find a parking space, always a celebration in my house. We had the five o’clock seating, which is a good thing, believe me; by eight o’clock all the waiters are exhausted from having to deal with beehived aunts from Bensonhurst and Long Island. We chose from their very nice menu and then waited for my father’s cousins to appear. Like the Magi, they appear at New Corner annually, just after we do. Actually, they’re cousins-in-law: two of my father’s departed cousins’ husbands, a son of one of them, and one of the husband’s sisters. We’re very close; we see them once a year as long as we eat at New Corner.

At one point during our meal we noticed bright lights shining from their table. It turned out that Joe’s sister, who has big, beautiful, blue owl eyes like her brother Joe, was reading her menu with the aid of magnifying eyeglasses AND an LED flashlight. How dark could it be?! I had to go over and tell them that the resultant reflection was burning out my retinas– and what exactly were they doing, spotting planes?


~ ~ ~

Christmas Day wasn’t spent with my sister Gina according to plan, as she had an emergency and spent a few days in the hospital. (She’s fine; she’s tough as nails and thick as oak.) And there we were, loaded down with a box of pastries AND a stuffed escarole. What to do? We decided we would await instructions from her family, but God forbid we miss a meal, so we ended up having Christmas dinner at– did you guess it?– Mezcal’s Mexican Restaurant. It was just about the only place open in that section of Brooklyn, and they made us reserve a table for two p.m. They were very nice. They played Christmas music over the speakers for us, delighting in repeating “Feliz Navidad”  until we memorized it. We were the only three people in the place until three p.m., when two more people showed up. “They must be the three o’clock seating!” I exclaimed, because I had had two Coronas already. We made fun of the travel posters– “See Puerta Vallarta and die!”– and the holiday lights strung with plastic green and red peppers, and finally headed back home in the quiet cold of Tony’s car.

The rest of the week, I ran errands, walked a bit in the cold, and kept tabs on Gina’s progress. I also watched a lot of TV that I normally wouldn’t watch, let alone know what it was that I was watching. I just don’t watch a lot of TV, but there I’d be in Mom’s living room, listening to her change channels with the clicker.

“Whaddyou wanna watch?”

“I don’t know what’s on. I don’t watch much TV.”

“You’re such a snob. Why can’t you just relax? Here, pick something.” And she would start clicking through the ten thousand cable stations she has on her state-of-the-art system.

“That looks good,” I would say when Bea Arthur or Norma Shearer ghosted across the screen.

“Nah. I saw those a hundred years ago.”

“Oh look, Lucy!”

“Nah. I saw them all a million times.”

She’d eventually settle on a gory movie or show which usually involved severed limbs, decapitated teenagers, Nazi zombies, exhumations of murder victims, or nature films with names like “Survival In the Wild” featuring close-ups of ants devouring one another. “I just like to figure out the special effects in the slasher movies,” she’d admit, “but those ants are pretty damned real, right?” In another life she would have made an excellent forensics expert or movie make-up artist.

I walked one day far afield, thirty-six blocks east and four avenues north to Green-Wood cemetery where my father is. He’s not in the hilly area where the big mausoleums and monuments are; he’s in an area that I refer to as “the Flats,” close to the landscapers’ buildings, in view of the side street brownstones and the traffic along Fourth Avenue. He probably loves it. I called Mom from the gravesite and told her that I was visiting Dad, and that he said hello. (You never know.) I brushed away some of the scattered leaves and bits of plastic shrubbery that had blown onto his stone from other sites, thinking, as always, how much he would have appreciated the Mexican restaurant, Joe’s sister’s flashlight, and the determined  people lined up for pastries. I thought of him the day I stopped in Regina Pacis on the way back from Scaturro’s, just to marvel at that mini-Vatican and say a small prayer. I know how much he would have appreciated all of this craziness, especially because he loved Christmas so much and everything that went along with it. Especially the stuffed escarole. And he helps me appreciate it all even more.


The small Marian chapel at Regina Pacis (“Queen of Peace.”)


The Manhattan skyline from Sunset park, just east of Green-Wood Cemetery.

Part 6– Trekking Manhattan with Carol!

We didn't go here.

“We can do anything you want when you get here,” Carol said. “Anything! We can knit in my house… we can decouppage… we can watercolor… or we can sit on the couch and not talk.”     

That last thing is exactly what we did when I visited one time– her husband Matt came home from work to find us seated at opposite ends of the couch, reading magazines. We had been so used to talking on the phone and writing voluminous letters– this was YEARS before the Internet– that we didn’t know what to say to one another in person anymore. Not that we had anything NEW to say; we long ago grew accustomed to repeating the same stories that convulsed us the FIRST time we told them. Why not stick with what you know? And now that we’re older, we often forget that we’ve told one another these stories already, so everything seems fresh and new again… and we laugh and laugh !     

For our trek into Manhattan, we arranged to meet on the De Kalb Avenue platform in downtown Brooklyn, which is the subway stop generations of friends have used as a meeting place since the first steam train plowed its way beneath Brooklyn. When they reconfigured this junction, they closed the Myrtle Avenue stop nearby; I’m not sure about these days, but when we were younger you could see that ghostly, shuttered station in the gloom as your subway car passed it by. (And, by the way, the transit authority has switched some train numbers / letters; eliminated others; and severely reduced service on a lot of lines. Everyone is in an uproar. The suits and skirts in charge don’t have anything better to do, nor do they care. Why should they? THEY don’t depend on the buses and subways for THEIR means of transportation, I am quite sure. And don’t get me started about Mayor Bloomberg being a subway rider)     

We didn't go here either.

Carol had never been to the Cathedral of St. John the Divine, an Episcopalian monolith up in Morningside Heights, so we got on the 2 (or was it the 3?) and took it to 110th. Street. Then we walked and walked, because we were lost and confused. We even walked in a circle! It’s one of the biggest Cathedrals in the world, we cried; how can we miss it? But then we collared someone who gave us explicit instructions, and we found it eventually. How could anyone miss this? And this is only part of the front door!      



It’s practically impossible to get a complete photo of the entire giant edifice without getting back on the subway and then emerging at the next stop to try and take a photograph from that distant vantage point, and so I think there are a lot of photos of the front door in people’s collections.     

We then went to the Museum of Arts and Design  to see an exhibit called Dead or Alive: Nature Becomes Art. It was fascinating. The artists had gathered all these dead things– insects, flora, and fauna– and then recreated them as mesmerizing and creepy art pieces. My favorite installation was the gray fabric that Alastair Mackie fashioned from mouse fur which he gleaned from owl droppings, along with the bones of the ingested and digested mice. He arranged the bones in a neat, white pile, and then wove the fur on a full-sized loom into fabric. I asked the docent what it felt like– I was dying to touch it– but he said he hadn’t been allowed to feel the finished product, but that he had heard it felt like cashmere. Needless to say, there was no picture-taking allowed. And you know what else fascinated me about this museum? Translucent inserts built into the floors allowed you to look UP or DOWN at people walking on the floors above or below; I’d suggest that ladies leave their hoop skirts at home if they’re planning on strolling through this intriguing place. And surrounded as I thought I was by sophisticated, arty New York gallery types, I did overhear one woman say “looks like a friend of mine” when she passed an armature of a horse covered completely in long, frizzy, black hair.     

Being seasoned New Yorkers for many years, we didn’t re-visit any of the things that we’d grown up with; we wanted new and quirky, and so that led us to the Manhattan Temple of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints… aka the Mormons.     


You can see the Angel Moroni overlooking everything as he wields his golden trumpet. Suggestion: this being Manhattan, why not have Moroni play well-known selections while he’s standing up there with his horn? String of Pearls, maybe, or something jazzy by Louis Armstrong; and maybe when the sun goes down he can play Taps. Bwaa-bwaa- bwaaaaaaaaaaaa. MUCH nicer to fall asleep to than the din of a million voices screaming  “CAN’T YOU FRIKKING DRIVE?!?!”  in a thousand tongues. We did go inside the temple building, but– as non-Mormons– we were not allowed onto the elevator which brings the devout into the temple precinct itself. We were not worthy!! But the manager guy did greet us and ask if we had any questions– “Nope!” I replied, even though I had a hundred– and then he gave us a little card with a picture of the Salt Lake City temple pictured on it, along with a phone number: we could call and request a copy of the Book of Mormon OR have a missionary stop by the house for cocktails if we so desired. And then he said “well, at least it’s much cooler in here,” and I said “yes, it’ s wicked hot outside… I mean, extremely hot.” And he and the lady peering at us from an office laughed, and that ended our visit to the Mormons. But I’m still dying to get on that elevator, just to go upstairs and see… I wonder if they have a gift shop? St. Patrick’s does!   

We then went to St. Bartholomew’s, another huge Episcopalian church, this time on Park Avenue. I’d wanted to see its architecture for years, and I finally had my chance. And Carol is so game; she was just as curious as I and so, sated with coffee, soda, and soft pretzels, we found St. Bart’s– and the dome crossing was sheathed in scaffolding! Oy. It was like when I visited the Sistine Chapel in 1984– I flew four hundred thousand miles to see art, and it was covered in scaffolding. They’re very chatty inside St. Bart’s; I notice that about Episcopalian structures. They want you to come inside and get acquainted with all their programs and social services, as they are very dedicated to their surrounding neighborhoods. And St. Bart’s sold ball caps emblazoned with the Episcopalian logo– we were tempted because they looked so preppy and sporty.   

St. Bart, Wearing A Black Mesh Bra

 It was very ornate inside– sometimes those Anglicans are more Catholic than the Romans!–but none of my photos of the fabulous stained glass windows came out. And it’s interesting that it’s plopped onto Park Avenue like that, its Romanesque-ness surrounded by bland glass and steel. I mean, you know it’s St. Bart’s, but I couldn’t tell you what the surrounding buildings were!    


 Here are some other buildings that caught my eye, any of which I would move into if they would have me:     

            I love these green fire escapes! There’s something soothing about them.  I wonder if they were originally made of copper which has now acquired that marvelous patina?   


Some nice French Empire going on here.  I’m not a particular fan of mansard roofs, but I liked this design.   


It may say Met Life, but I still call this the Pan Am Building. Fittingly and emphatically.     


Something marvelous down near the Strand Bookstore. I stared and stared at this building.     

I don’t remember ever being to the Strand, but Carol and I disappeared inside for quite some time. The way we enter bookstores is that we go in as a couple and then immediately separate and head to different sections. I like obscure things like ancient languages– the Reader’s Digest printed in Albanian, e.g.– and so I am always sent to the basements of these stores, which is where they keep the obscure stuff. This time, when I asked for Foreign Languages, I was told “down in the basement under the staircase.” And there I headed, perfectly happy to immerse myself in the dust and gloom, where I found an ancient copy of Candide… in Swedish! Carol was somewhere upstairs, in the light and fresh air, and I eventually met her so that we could touch and remark upon every item they were selling in their little gift area. We almost bought canvas totes, but demurred for some strange reason, considering our track record: years ago we went to EPCOT in Florida and spent $40 on incense at the Japanese pavillion… which Carol ended up throwing away twenty years later.    

Nor here, which is a good thing as I would have stood up in front of the General Assembly and YELLED.

We didn’t have a sit-down meal– too many pretzels– but Carol and her husband had already taken me to dinner the week before at an Italian restaurant in Park Slope, Brooklyn, called Scotto Ditto. NICE! I had a Manhattan– maybe two?– and a very good meal. I spoke Italian to the non-Italian waitress, who looked at me with that polite New York face that says “I have no idea who you are or what you said, but I’m a professional and so I have to put up with you anyway.” But she was a lot of fun, and we had a memorable meal. (Why do we always say “memorable meal?” I have no recall of what we ordered and consumed, only that it was excellent.)  Carol never knows what to have in restaurants, and I usually don’t either, and then I forget what it is that I did finally order… so it’s always a surprise when it shows up.  “Oh, look! Scampi! How nice!” Matt, of course, is efficient and well-prepared, but still loses precious minutes of his life due to our indecision and inability to come to conclusions.  

Afterwards we had complex coffee drinks at a non-Starbucky local bistro staffed and patronized by local hipsters, among whom WE looked like Edna, Stan, and Joe from Indiana. But WE were comfortable and un-self conscious, and whiled away the time wondering where their hair ended and their wool hats began. Query: why wear a wool hat when it’s six thousand degrees outside? 

They saw me off on the subway to Bay Ridge late that night, and I wasn’t even nervous; the trains are busy at all hours now, often with people playing tambourines, tubas, or three-card-monty. You can choose to either ignore them all… or dance!    

I dozed.    




PhotoBike Tour 5: Deeper Inside Brooklyn



The Sunset Park Neighborhood-- 43rd. Street, 400 Block

The borough of Brooklyn opens up like a lotus flower when you rent a bike. When I arrived, I contacted a bicycle store in Bay Ridge that featured hourly and daily rentals, though there was no indication about longer-term rentals; I was interested in at least a week, with the possibility of extensions.       

My Florida-honed sense of decorum and politeness evaporated as I marched the three avenues and one street to the bike shop, and soon I was negotiating a weekly rate with the owner. Times are hard, I know, and so we both decided they were very appreciative of my business– and I was proud to have negotiated the final rate with my Florida-honed sense of decorum and politeness; I should be running BP.       

The first journey I made on my bicycle was to see my friends Carol and Matt on Carroll Street. I was always charmed that Carol lived on Carroll Street; she is an accomplished artist and very humoresque blogger (see at right) and the woman I bonded with in art class back in Brooklyn College circa 1976.  (I was taken with the fact that her art supplies locker in Boylan Hall was boldly labeled CAROL’S LOCKER!!!!!!! ) She also had braids and an attitude. Soon we were disco-ing in Manhattan with abandon, and then I moved to Florida; she still hasn’t forgiven me.       

When I was a kid living on 72nd. Street in Bay Ridge, anything below about 39th. Street was considered off-limits. There were myriad reasons why, some legit, some not so much; the fact that there were really ancient neighborhoods out there always intrigued me, and I would bike right to the edge of the perceived danger in those days, with my little Instamatic, and i’m glad I did because I still have all those shots of 1960s-1970s Brooklyn.       

Early on a Saturday morning I biked to Carol and Matt’s in time for their stoop sale, which is a garage sale for people who don’t have a garage. Carol’s sister Alice arrived with her son Jimmy and THEIR wares, and can I tell you that Alice got a parking space right in front of their building?  This is virtually impossible; later on, the neighborhood association presented her with a plaque. I assisted with the sale under Carol’s orders, depending as she did on my years in retail merchandising. I enjoyed the cajoling and kibbitzing with the locals– what’s so cool about Brooklyn is that everyone on the block knows just about everyone else– and talks to them !    


Brooklyn is riddled with architecture, unique among American cities. I myself am a frustrated architect– I wanted desperately to attend Cooper Union after high school, but my marks weren’t good enough. So I live vicariously through the designs of the men and women who preceded me. Here are some of their creations:       

The Parachute Jump at Coney Island

 The Parachute Jump terrorized a couple of generations of daring beachgoers when it was installed here after its tenure at the 1939-1940 New York World’s Fair. You’d sit in a canvas seat, rise a few hundred feet into the air, be brought to the outer  edge, and then you’d plummet to the bottom; presumably, the chute would open, preventing you from spending the rest of your life looking like a pizza. I never went on it– I was too young– but plenty of people did, and lived to tell about it. But we always watched the greasers and their screaming, beehived girlfriends from the safety of the hot sand when we visited the beach.       

 Here is Regina Pacis Catholic Church, also affiliated with St. Rosalia Parish. It’s on 65th. Street, a major thoroughfare, and so it’s riddled and crossed with wires. The church features a statue of the Virgin Mary whose double crown was stolen in the 1960s; the neighborhood Italians held prayer vigils around the clock for its safe return, but it was only until an anonymous, veiled threat was posted in the newspaper that they were returned. It’s a beautiful church; if you are over fifty and your first name is Bernadette or Filomena, chances are good that you were either confirmed or married or waked in Regina Pacis:  


Regina Pacis-- Queen of Peace

Here’s another Catholic church– the Basilica of Our Lady of Perpetual Help, which is the centerpiece of what was originally a heavily Irish parish. My friend Donald was sent to his final rest from here, and the organist played overwrought and sentimental hymns during the funeral Mass; all I could think of was that dear Donald would have preferred Donna Summer and the Hughes Corporation, or even Giorgio Moroder (“From Here to Eternity”) but I didn’t have anything to do with the musical arrangements.       


 Bay Ridge, once home to a huge Norwegian population, has like one shop dedicated to the presence, and of course I went inside. Nordic Delicacies carries all sorts of things Norwegian, and I bought Nordic Kirk a teacup, some powdered soups, and napkins festooned with the colorful flag. There was a magazine on display, whose headline I voluntarily translated for the lady behind the counter– a large-font bevy of twenty-somethings bleating “WE LIKE OLDER MEN!”  And the elderly lady responded “yah, especially ven dey have money!”       

Nordic Delicacies

I spent a couple of days in Staten Island with my sister, and Mom came with me one day to use the pool. Here are Gina and Mom:       


And here’s a shot of Gina being VERY gorgeous and happy:       


 Gina indulged me one day when I asked her to drive with me to Rossville, an area of Staten Island that features a ships’ graveyard as well as an ancient cemetery. While I was clambering among the weeds, she called Mom: “Now he’s rummaging through a cemetery!” And Mom told her, very seriously, “that’s what he likes to do.”      

The Dead Boats of Rossville

And here’s the Blazing Star Cemetery at Rossville, with this grave marker dated 1789:     

The Dead People of Rossville

 One day I biked to Gravesend, an area of southern Brooklyn that was settled by the Dutch in the 1600s. A house owned by Lady Moody, who established the colony, still survives, though the elevated subway runs directly through the center of the ancient Gravesend grid:     

Lady Moody's House (circa 1643)

And here is something rather fabulous, nearby:     


 Brooklyn’s Ocean Parkway now features a bike path, though you have to cross many heavily-trafficked streets while biking. Here is one of the more monumental synagogues built along this major boulevard:     


Ocean Parkway goes all the way south to the Coney Island area, though I diverged and took Ocean Avenue which led me east of Coney, into the neighborhoods of Brighton Beach and Manhattan Beach. Here’s a view across Sheepshead Bay looking out towards the Island. I went with Mom one day to Jordan’s restaurant and seafood store; we had lunch and then brought home lobster tails for supper. That’s what we do: while having a meal, we discuss the meals-to-come.  


 Back in Bay Ridge, here are a couple of very old houses typical of the neighborhood:     


 Nearby Stewart Avenue features another vista of old Bay Ridge:     


  An ancient (1892) warehouse along the old Bay Ridge waterfront, actually considered Sunset Park these days; I wonder what they did here? I love neighborhoods like this; I was the only one around, just me on my bike, but felt strangely secure.     

At the right you can click on earlier posts regarding my Brooklyn visit, with lots more pictures.      

  Next… Manhattan with Carol !     



Part 3– A Drive to Brooklyn and Beyond: Philadelphia, the N.J. Turnpike… and Brooklyn’s Doorstep !

So much for encountering hospitality at the gas station– what a nice welcome to the Philadelphia area, the city that so heavily promotes its brotherly love!  How NICE it was to be able to leave that unpleasant experience behind in Chester. I found a McDonald’s on my own in the Pilgrim Gardens neighborhood, where I freshened up and dined on shoestring potatoes before heading over to my friend’s apartment in nearby Germantown.

After a wrong turn off Lincoln Road, which incidentally is fraught with crazy drivers doing at least DOUBLE the posted 25 mph speed limit, I arrived at Tyson’s. What a gracious host! His compact apartment became mine as well as his, and it was fun seeing all his paintings and things that I’d remembered from his time living in Florida. It’s in an old building on a residential street, filled with everything he loves looking at. He’s got the right idea: display it, don’t store it! And then dust it!

After a dinner at a favorite local restaurant, which was just a couple of blocks past the neighborhood mental institution, we settled in for a long chat. Tyson is a tour operator and docent in Philadelphia, and knows the area’s history inside out. What’s great is that he relates it to you in his Georgia drawl, tempered with the vocal resonaces of his Virginia Eastern Shore ancestors. Tourists love it.

The next morning, after breakfast at a little restaurant built into a local train station, Tyson gave me an impromptu tour of the Tulpehocken Station Historic District in Germantown, which reinforced my faith in brick buildings: those things have been standing for over a hundred years in many cases, and it’s no wonder. Look at the way they’re built!

The Lister Townsend House (1887)– “The Castle”
The Atonement Reformed Episcopal Church
The Queen’s house, built in 1851 for Maria Christine, Queen of Spain. Architect John Fallon directed the construction of this Gothic Revival structure in the event the Queen had to seek refuge in another country.

An ancient wrought iron fence.

The Ebenezer Maxwell House (1859)-- one of the homes Tyson works at.

Me, in front of Benedict Arnold's House (1762). He was the second owner.

Tyson in front of Laurel Hill Mansion, where he is a guide and historian. East Fairmount Park.

This is where actress Grace Kelly grew up at 3901 Henry Avenue in the Mt. Airy neighborhood.

I loved Philadelphia, and I didn’t even have to stand in line to see the Liberty Bell. Besides, I saw it with the Cub Scouts back in the 1960s, and I hear that it hasn’t changed much since. And I had to get back on the road… Brooklyn was over two hours away yet.

… actually, Brooklyn was closer if you drove like I did on the New Jersey Turnpike. Amazing! I had been aware of the fact that I would be subject to its multi-lane craziness, and I was well-prepared with change for the toll fees. I wondered if I’d be on a race course, and I wasn’t disappointed– everyone was going beyond the speed limit, and everyone was on their cell phones. It was like being in the road show version of Jersey Shore, surrounded as I was by sporty little cars filled with big hair, sunglasses, and attitude. (You can tell, really.) It was fun– I raced along with them all, my ball cap pulled firmly down over my ears, sunglasses in place, chewing gum going a mile a minute… and it was thrilling speeding UP and off the highway into a rest stop at one point. And then you speed back onto the turnpike and before you know it you’re at Exit 13 for the Goethals Bridge into Staten Island.

You can’t easily see through the guard rails along this bridge, I think because they don’t want you to know what lies on either side of the road through here: serious industrial New Jersey. Factories and refineries and smokestacks blanket the land, and New Yorkers’ wisecracks about “Cancer Alley” come to mind. It didn’t seem as smoky as it did back when I was a kid, when we rode the ferry to Staten Island from Brooklyn, and then drive a few country miles to New Jersey. Back then, Better Living Through Chemistry was a mantra that everyone adhered to religiously…

After a few curves through Staten Island, the western tower of the Verrazano Bridge appeared over the hills, and in just a few minutes and I would be in Brooklyn. Even though everyone cursed Robert Moses when he rammed the bridge and its approaches through pristine Bay Ridge, we still feel a grudging bit of civic pride in that monstrosity. It’s overkill, definitely; it didn’t have to be so grandiose, but there it was… with Mom waiting at its Eastern end.

Next stop: Brooklyn !

Brooklyn and Beyond– A Few Travel Photos

Before I get to blogging about my drive to Brooklyn, I thought I’d post a few pictures of what I saw coming and going and during. Architecture strikes me, and I’ll cross busy streets and stand in front of buses in order to take a picture of something that strikes me (besides the bus). Here’s a random sampling of what I saw. Enjoy !

A Methodist Church in Dillon, South Carolina

A sturdy home in Philadelphia's Germantown

One of Philadelphia's art museums


Coney Island's Cyclone

A home in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn

St. Finbar's Catholic Church in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn

Brick underpinnings of the Baltimore basilica

The Washington, DC Basilica

The National Cathedral (Episcopal) in DC

I looked out my car window, and there it was.

Bay Ridge's Newest Residents

Bay Ridge's last vestige of its Norwegian past

An apartment building in Manhattan

Bay Ridge brownstones

An ancient cemetery in Gravesend, Brooklyn

The family homestead in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn

Ab abandoned village on Virginia's Eastern Shore

Beautiful Fredericksburg, Virginia

The boat graveyard in Rossville, Staten Island, NY

A Tiffany window in the Fredericksburg Episcopal Church