59th st. Kids, Trains & Tony Snyder-Brooklyn

         Every time I see a train, I think about Tony Snyder. I don't ever remember seeing Tony angry. To me he had a rare set of parents and that isn't meant to take anything away from other good parents. I used to wish he was my brother. Tony was sweet, innocent and so good hearted. We could all take lessons from him in attitude alone. Tony I believe now was truly made in the image of Jesus. That's the kind of thing we don't think about as kids.
         Tony was a tall and lanky kid with a smile that made you smile, no matter how bad your day was, no matter how bad you may have just been treated at home or school. Tony was a light. I wish I knew where he was now.
         Tony Snyder looked like both his mom and dad. More like mom except size. Tony's mom was a very large woman, but I think many people didn't notice her size so much. Like most on the block they too were poor, but she also had those looks of love on her face. She smiled most of the time, but also had those definite worried looks when it seemed Tony or anyone had a problem. She looked so much like she cared deeply. Her brow would be furrowed, head tilt, arms would envelop a person and she would comfort them, speak softly with a slight southern accent.
         Tonys' mom wore print dresses all the time, lowered neckline, puffy short sleeves with all her flesh exposed. She sure seemed happy. Flip flops on her feet, she would sashay to a neighbor and ask how they were doing that day. She had bright red hair which curved with the smiles she brought. She'd toss her hair sometimes and seem like May West was about to say, come up and see me sometime. Tony's dad seemed so opposite.
          Maybe because he worked a lot. I think he drove a cab. While mom looked Irish, his dad looked Italian, so I'm not sure of his heritage, but Snyder is Irish-I think. Anyway Tony's dad was dark featured, brown eyes, black hair and half bald.
He was also shorter than his wife. But they had so much love, so much. When he walked down the street from work, under one arm he carried his steel lunch-pail and a newspaper. In the other, well he usually had a cigarette, and one behind his ear. Tony would run to meet him, smiling, kiss his dad and dad would return that kiss, hug Tony and Tony would grab and carry the lunch pail. He wore a cap, the kind that snaps in front. Tonys' dad was rarely without a cap, even in summer. If his mom was outside she would just stay on the steps and watch Tony with his dad.
           She would make comments to us kids, see how much Tony loves his dad. Oh they're such a pair, she'd say. She would greet him too with such a big hug a person couldn't see his face any longer. Mrs. Snyder smothered her husband with love. When she talked about him, her eyes sparkled. She'd look up to the sky as if she was dreaming and talk about what a wonderful man her husband was, how much she loved him and the love he gave his family. Wow. I was envious. I thought how does that happen?
             Tony loved too, trains as much I think, well almost, as much as his mom and dad. I never knew as a kid anyone who looked and acted like him. He had thick deep dark reddish brown hair, more red and so wavy. It was curlier in front and dripped over one eye. Watching him walk to you, first you see his smile, then his hair and finally whatever he had in his hands. Tony had his hands full most days with a new train, one he just fixed or a piece for a train board. His family and trains seemed to be his life. He made train boards for anyone who asked and that's how I got to know Tony better.
             My little brother loved trains too. But I think whatever he loved was a test, to see what our father would get him, and he got anything he wanted. We were poor, but not when it came to Jimmy. So I was told to ask Tony if he would make a train board for Jimmy. You know what Tony said? With a city block wide- smile, "oh sure I will" he said. Tony grinned on and on and told me how he would do it, how big, add grass and buildings. I told him he better talk to our father first too see how much he'll pay. Tony shook that idea away tell me, he'll make it and take what ever is given! Can you imagine that?
           The following Friday night Tony showed up with a four by eight piece of wood. He cut it down to be a three by eight so it would fit under a bed. Every Friday night after supper Tony stopped at our apartment at 328-59th street, His apartment building was only a few doors up. Each time he brought more pieces to make a town, adding tracks as he could never getting a dime from our father yet.
He did have one condition. He made Jimmy work with him to appreciate a train board and all the work it took. Finally the day came and it was finished.
           Jimmy loaded his Lionel Train set on his new town, plugged it in and the engine took off with all the different cars and a cool looking caboose. Smoke came pouring out, a whistle blew and we looked over at Tony with his train hat on, smiling away. Jimmy held the controls with Tony guiding him. It was less than a month that Jimmy lost interest, and it took about three months for Tony to make that board. I still see his face, smiling as he built that board, wore his train hat and wore a heart of love nourished by helping another kid love trains the same way. I asked my father about paying Tony again and was told to mind my own business, so I dont know if Tony was ever paid. But I do know Tony, and Tony didn't get paid they way most of us do.
        Tony, like his mom, like his dad, cold teach us all about love, happiness and what's really important in this world. It wasn't long before people on our side of the street had to move. The city was tearing down that side, so I lost contact with Tony. He did come to see us a couple of times, at our new apartment in an old brownstone a few blocks away. It was sad to see Tony leave when he did visit. Each time I worried it was the last, and then one day it was the last. Tony Snyder, where are you? Are you still happy? You were my goodness. Thank you.

Norwegian Sweaters

       Those colors, nothing like them! When I was little I used to pray for a Norwegian Sweater. My mother was Norwegian, and I went to a church with a lot of Norwegians. They had a ladies club, appropriately called, The Norwegian ladies club. I am half Norwegian, always only wanting to claim that side of me, but to admit the truth, I am also part Scottish and English which makes me Norwegianplaid:) Now back to the story of my sweater, that ugly one, made just for me.
        My mother could knit and crochet and I asked year after year for a pretty sweater like the kind I saw men and women wear as a kid. They were in deep reds, shade of blues and white. Oh I loved them. When we had May 17th, That Norwegian parade day...well all you could see were thousands of beautiful Norwegian sweaters. They stood out like a brand new car.

         One year I noticed my mother sitting on the stoop with Lisa Ingebretson who married a friend of my brother. Lisa, although much younger became friends with my mother. They spoke Norwegian and Lisa's husband didn't know much so Lisa could confide in my mother and boy did she. My mother always told us later what was said. So Lisa and my mother sat on the stoop many nights in Brooklyn at our old Brownstone knitting and or crocheting. They had long needles and wool in bags. Yakking and yakking, knitting and knitting, they would sit for hours. So one night I noticed the sweater Lisa was making. I saw the red, navy blue and white contrasts peeking from her bag. I remember yelling, Lisa! Lisa! That's the kind I want. Lisa smiled. She was so sweet, with her small blue eyes and seemed to get thinner each time we saw her-and we knew why, and hoped for the day she'd become single again. But I hoped that of my mother too for very good reasons.
     Lisa, friend that she was said, well maybe your mother would make you one for Christmas. I know I jumped and asked her, would ya mom, huh? She acted like I was butting in, shushed me and said not now, later. Well later came a few weeks later and I asked her again. She said I'll think about it and I added, oh thank you but not gray, I hate gray. Red okay? With Blue in it, my favorite color...and she knew that I loved blue.
      Some time after that she and Lisa were at it again on the Brownstone stoop. Now my mother had a bag I didn't see before. I asked like kids do around Christmas-is that my sweater? It's not gray right, I hate gray. Lisa laughed and said I don't think your mother would make you a gray sweater, but yes she did just that.
Why? I never knew why. Christmas came and she handed me the bag telling me she didn't have time to wrap it up. I didn't care. I was so happy to finally get my sweater. Then as I slowly pulled it from the bag I knew disappointment was written all over my face. I was twenty-one and will never forget that Christmas.
       My mother said son-of a b.... you don't like it do you? I did my damnest  to make you that and that's the thanks I get. My face was red and warm as I answered, but I do like it, lying through my teeth. She knew and so did I as she said well I'll give it to someone else. I said again-no I like it, I really do. She finally did something for me and I wanted to keep it. When I thought it couldn't get worse she said try it on. Oh crap!
        I put it on and oh Lordy, it was the itchiest thing I ever wore and started scratching. Hands on her hips she asked, what the hell is wrong now and I answered just as fast, it's itchy. She cursed. I said I'll just put it in Woolite tomorrow to soften it. She cursed again, mumbled, I can't do nothing right, son of a b----ing kids. Wow and this was Christmas? So the following year I left home, moved in with my sister and left the sweater with her. Yes, my mother found it, showed me and said, so you really like it huh?
         A few years later I was married and had a son. Guess what my mother did. She made him a sweater-gray.
          I'm still looking:)