Recently I was taken back in conversations to my old school by someone else who attended a few years after I did. A story was recounted about a teacher and the building itself. But it was more about the people, games and the times, all memories to sustain for many years. I've been back to that old school. It was torn down years ago and replaced by an ugly (in my opinion) brown building with small windows and looks like a prison. I want to go back just to check out-the inside.
I am thankful for all of the memories affecting me in a few different ways, but ways that, even though changed who I was meant to be, made me. They just made me. Besides how do I know who I was meant to be? How do any of us, until we are that is, until we are.
One of my favorite memories is skating on cobblestone streets, mainly my own, fifty-ninth street between third and fourth avenues. Neighbors sitting outside watching over us kids, some retired, some moms and dads off work, and some who just took time to be watchful. Those wonderful people who as kids we didn't always think so wonderful. But I think I was a bit different. I loved looking out for the adults as they did for us. My looking out was a bit more selfish.
For instance, take Mrs. Romano. She was Puerto Rican, lived on the second floor in my building and made the best Spanish rice I ever tasted. Years later working in Mental health there was a department called Senderos (The Path) and I hung out there as much as my time allowed, even volunteered a few groups. Yup, they called me down anytime they were cooking and made a special plate loaded with Spanish rice. As I took it to my desk I was always asked by other staff, how do you rate? My answer? A mouthful of rice and a smile.
Well Mrs. Romano would bring rice to just to me and finally one day my mother told her I couldn't have it anymore, that her husband said it wasn't right that only Nancy gets some. That bothered Mrs. Romano so what she did then was make the rice, give me a wink and I would run to the second floor, eating a big bowl on the white marble steps. If I heard my mother call, I'd quickly scrape the bowl and rush downstairs. Immediately my mother could smell something on me and ask if I was up at Mrs. Romanos eating Spanish rice. I lied of course, but what I said was, "no mom, honest, I was just talking to her and her door was open." I knew she knew I was lying and all she would say was,don't let your father catch you.
Another Spanish family, The Romans lived on the third floor. They dressed better than anyone in the whole building, well except for us of course. We were about the same on dress-up days. Mr. Roman spoke with a lisp, had big ears, perfectly parted hair and his nails were manicured ! His wife wore red lipstick and brightly colored dresses with many prints and flowers. Her high heels were never higher than her husbands height. If I remember right, they had twin boys. I had a lot of respect for this family. They set a tone in me about dress and class that just stuck.(But you should see me now :) ) My first visit to a beauty parlor was on the corner of third avenue and sixtieth street. It was a Spanish place and they loved to work with a lot of hair, which I had.
Those ladies made me beautiful one day for a school dance, where I danced with Mr. Vitalo, my principal. My hair was dark brown with some lighter highlights and it was curled up high with banana curls draped down to my shoulders. That was the first time I knew I was pretty. Even the ladies kept telling me in Spanish that I was pretty and they took my picture.
It was the cultures that made Bay Ridge what it was. While many didn't like new cultures move in, enough of others did to make it better. It was my father most of all who didn't like anyone who was of Spanish origin or "colored" as the term was then, yet as mean as he was he made very good friends with a man from Jamaica.
A bunch of kids were sitting on the stoop when John came up the steps of the Brownstone. John was very dark black and he owned a lunch truck. That truck was so bright white that John stood out on the beach more than anyone. John and an Italian guy each had a lunch wagon and were worlds apart. John was immaculate with himself and his business. Nick, the other guy was, well, horrible. Besides being dirty himself, his food was to be carefully examined when we ordered hot dogs. The beach makes you hungry that you just get desperate. John lived on fifty-ninth street between second and third avenues.
When he came to our door we couldn't imagine what he wanted. We already bought plenty from him on the beach. No one could beat his manners, personality and food as well as cleanliness. Well it wasn't long before we found out he wanted one of my brothers to work for him on his lunch wagon. The worst thing he said was, and he can eat all he wants. John told us where he lived so if we wanted we could check him out. But we already knew he could be trusted. Some people are just that way.
We had games like stoop ball, box ball, hit the stick, stick ball, punch ball, running bases and too many more. There was one thing all games had in common. No batteries. Brooklyn was battery free. All it took was good people, fire escapes, hot summer nights with music coming from any open window, winters with snow so high we made the best tunnels, mountains and snowball fights on the East Coast. Shovels could be heard scraping the streets, people laughing and helping, cold breaths from walkers and food. The food that to this day just doesn't compare to anywhere else in the world. Thank you Bay Ridge!
I am thankful for all of the memories affecting me in a few different ways, but ways that, even though changed who I was meant to be, made me. They just made me. Besides how do I know who I was meant to be? How do any of us, until we are that is, until we are.
One of my favorite memories is skating on cobblestone streets, mainly my own, fifty-ninth street between third and fourth avenues. Neighbors sitting outside watching over us kids, some retired, some moms and dads off work, and some who just took time to be watchful. Those wonderful people who as kids we didn't always think so wonderful. But I think I was a bit different. I loved looking out for the adults as they did for us. My looking out was a bit more selfish.
For instance, take Mrs. Romano. She was Puerto Rican, lived on the second floor in my building and made the best Spanish rice I ever tasted. Years later working in Mental health there was a department called Senderos (The Path) and I hung out there as much as my time allowed, even volunteered a few groups. Yup, they called me down anytime they were cooking and made a special plate loaded with Spanish rice. As I took it to my desk I was always asked by other staff, how do you rate? My answer? A mouthful of rice and a smile.
Well Mrs. Romano would bring rice to just to me and finally one day my mother told her I couldn't have it anymore, that her husband said it wasn't right that only Nancy gets some. That bothered Mrs. Romano so what she did then was make the rice, give me a wink and I would run to the second floor, eating a big bowl on the white marble steps. If I heard my mother call, I'd quickly scrape the bowl and rush downstairs. Immediately my mother could smell something on me and ask if I was up at Mrs. Romanos eating Spanish rice. I lied of course, but what I said was, "no mom, honest, I was just talking to her and her door was open." I knew she knew I was lying and all she would say was,don't let your father catch you.
Another Spanish family, The Romans lived on the third floor. They dressed better than anyone in the whole building, well except for us of course. We were about the same on dress-up days. Mr. Roman spoke with a lisp, had big ears, perfectly parted hair and his nails were manicured ! His wife wore red lipstick and brightly colored dresses with many prints and flowers. Her high heels were never higher than her husbands height. If I remember right, they had twin boys. I had a lot of respect for this family. They set a tone in me about dress and class that just stuck.(But you should see me now :) ) My first visit to a beauty parlor was on the corner of third avenue and sixtieth street. It was a Spanish place and they loved to work with a lot of hair, which I had.
Those ladies made me beautiful one day for a school dance, where I danced with Mr. Vitalo, my principal. My hair was dark brown with some lighter highlights and it was curled up high with banana curls draped down to my shoulders. That was the first time I knew I was pretty. Even the ladies kept telling me in Spanish that I was pretty and they took my picture.
It was the cultures that made Bay Ridge what it was. While many didn't like new cultures move in, enough of others did to make it better. It was my father most of all who didn't like anyone who was of Spanish origin or "colored" as the term was then, yet as mean as he was he made very good friends with a man from Jamaica.
A bunch of kids were sitting on the stoop when John came up the steps of the Brownstone. John was very dark black and he owned a lunch truck. That truck was so bright white that John stood out on the beach more than anyone. John and an Italian guy each had a lunch wagon and were worlds apart. John was immaculate with himself and his business. Nick, the other guy was, well, horrible. Besides being dirty himself, his food was to be carefully examined when we ordered hot dogs. The beach makes you hungry that you just get desperate. John lived on fifty-ninth street between second and third avenues.
When he came to our door we couldn't imagine what he wanted. We already bought plenty from him on the beach. No one could beat his manners, personality and food as well as cleanliness. Well it wasn't long before we found out he wanted one of my brothers to work for him on his lunch wagon. The worst thing he said was, and he can eat all he wants. John told us where he lived so if we wanted we could check him out. But we already knew he could be trusted. Some people are just that way.
We had games like stoop ball, box ball, hit the stick, stick ball, punch ball, running bases and too many more. There was one thing all games had in common. No batteries. Brooklyn was battery free. All it took was good people, fire escapes, hot summer nights with music coming from any open window, winters with snow so high we made the best tunnels, mountains and snowball fights on the East Coast. Shovels could be heard scraping the streets, people laughing and helping, cold breaths from walkers and food. The food that to this day just doesn't compare to anywhere else in the world. Thank you Bay Ridge!
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