Ford Street

The Day I Left Brooklyn

I left Brooklyn on June 24, 2008.

I’ve left Brooklyn before, certainly, but I always had a safety net – my parents’ home. I came back, though, because the pull of Brooklyn (and the pull of family) was so strong. Most of my adult life, I’ve lived in Brooklyn, and certainly all of my childhood. 45 years, on and off, in one place. That creates a really strong bond. And a really solid foundation.

However, yesterday I left.

I moved to Manhattan, which most people who know me assumed I’d do the moment my mom passed away. I didn’t see any reason to, though, because I had a great place, and my family and extended family are there. Manhattan seemed too impersonal and too much a place for work, rather than living. So I stayed.

There would have to be a good reason, wouldn’t there? I moved in with Rebecca, and she’s pretty much the only reason I’d do something like this. I put most of my stuff in storage, gave away some stuff to friends, family and the Salvation Army, and tossed the rest. This is, as Rebecca puts it, the ascetic portion of my life.

I was a bit sensitive about everything I had to give up. I hated packing books for storage; it was like having to say goodbye to friends! Yes, I have a lot of books, but books are what I love. I did come to realize that I didn’t need a lot of what I got rid of – stuff is stuff, after all. I was determined to keep a couple of knick-knack-type things, and one of them was an Ernie Pyle doll; basically a G.I. Joe action figure that came with a little typewriter. I am a huge fan of Ernie Pyle, and he’ll play a part in my Master’s thesis, so I decided to keep the doll on the same shelf as my World War II books. So I packed him away in a plastic bin with the World War II books and sent him on his way.

There were a LOT of those plastic bins. There was also a lot of wine. I found myself alone with one of the moving guys at one point, and he said, in a friendly sort of way, “So, you and this woman – you’re gay?” I allowed that yes, we were gay. He nodded his head with no small degree of certainty. “I knew it.” This seemed logical to me, but I wanted to make conversation, so I said, how did you know it? He answered immediately; “All that wine.”

There you have it.

The movers came Monday, and I spent yesterday cleaning the house and getting the last things out. My uncle came over at one point, because I’d told him that I was just leaving the air conditioners I’d purchased for the house, so he should take one. He looked them over and announced that he was taking the one in my bedroom. I nodded and went back to cleaning the bathroom. After a minute or two, I heard a horrific crash, kind of like the noise an air conditioner would make if it fell out of a second-story window. “Nah…,” I said to myself, and ran to the bedroom. There was my uncle, looking absolutely aghast, next to a hole where the air conditioner used to be. I ran over and looked into the backyard…at the dead air conditioner. Then I stood up and commenced to laughing my head off. My poor shaken uncle, who has been in this country for 40 years but sometimes sounds as if he’d arrived from Greece last Wednesday, said, “I’m never see such a thing in my life!” Well, neither had I, and I had a good long laugh about it. Thank heaven no one was under the damn thing, or my day would have ended very differently, I imagine…

I brought some last-minute stuff over to my friends’ house toward the end of the day. Cleaning supplies, stuff like that, that I didn’t want to leave behind. My Swiffer, etc. It seemed a logical thing to do, both because I wanted to give them the stuff and because I felt like it would give me some closure to spend some time, on that very busy day, with the Ferraras, whom I’ve known since before I was born. Gracie Arcamone baby-sat for me when I was a kid, and provided that sage advice for growing up that a teenager provides to a child. Stuff that you can’t learn from grown-ups; don’t hang around with that kid because he’s a jerk, don’t smoke because you may look cool but it’s wrong and you know it, that sort of thing. Gracie was the kind of kid that all the parents trusted to baby-sit, even though they knew she was a hell-raiser. The thing is, she was (and is) a hell-raiser with the common sense of a King and the soul of an angel. She is what we in Brooklyn call “from the neighborhood” or, even better, “Good People.” Gracie is Good People. She was smart enough to marry Good People, too, in the form of Peter Ferrara. She was lucky enough to have three kids, all girls, all Good People who are growing up to be, in their own way, just like their mom. I give thanks, every day, for the Ferraras, because if it wasn’t for them, I wouldn’t have been able to stay in that house after my mom died, and keep my job. I travel a lot, and the girls (Grace, Yvonne and Priscilla) watched my dogs and cat often, staying at my house quite a bit, sometimes living there way more than I did in a given month. Then I started dating Rebecca and spent even more time away from home. Their kindness and love enabled me to feel comfortable away from home, and provided (‘cause they’re from the neighborhood) a great foundation for my relationship with Rebecca. I may tease them all the time, but they are part of my family, and I don’t know what I’d do without them.

So I went over to their place, for a soda, sitting around on the couch I gave them so they wouldn’t have to buy one for their daughter, off to an apartment near college in the fall. Two sofas in a living room makes it seem like 17 sofas in a living room, but it’s so lovely and cozy. So I sat, for the last time as a Brooklyn resident, with them, and we giggled and I told them the air conditioner story, and then I had to go.

I parked my car in front of my driveway when I got back to the house (I couldn’t pull into the driveway because of all the garbage!!!) and started to walk up the stairs for the last time. When I got to the curb, though, something made me look down. There, in the street, near where the moving van had parked, was a little item that looked a lot like…

…Ernie Pyle’s little hat.

It was. There, in the street, was Ernie’s little uniform hat. I don’t know how it leaped out of that bin, and I don’t know how it survived a day in the gutter without being swept, windblown, or captured by a stray animal. I dusted off the little hat, and put it in my pocket. Then I looked up, squared my shoulders, walked up the stairs for the last time, took a long look around, thought of all the great memories that I am taking with me, and turned off the lights.

It’s a wonderful feeling to know that I don’t need a safety net any more. On the way down the stairs, I might have whistled “It’s a long way to Tipperary.”

I live in Manhattan now, with the woman I intend to spend the rest of my life with.  She's Good People.  (Apparently, they have Good People in St. Louis, Missouri, as well.)  I admit that I hope we don’t spend the rest of our lives in Manhattan, but for now, it will be glorious fun. I will, of course, always have Brooklyn in my heart.

Yes, the blog is called Ford Street and I live in Greenwich Village now. Deal with it. It’s a metaphor. Like Ernie’s hat.

On we go…

Just another Sunday in Brooklyn

I really wanted the Saints to win the Super Bowl. It would have been downright poetic, don’t you think?

No chance of that now, sadly. 

I stopped at a 7-11 today, to pick up light bulbs (don’t ask). While waiting to pay for my light bulbs, I observed: a guy putting in an order for 6 cases of cigarettes from North Carolina (apparently the cashier moonlights), a guy buying 2 joints (apparently the other cashier moonlights), and a guy placing a bet on the Indianapolis Colts (apparently everyone that works at the 7-E moonlights).

I waited, in the meantime, patiently, to participate in the only legal transaction in the store. 

Just another Sunday in Brooklyn. 

Christmas in Brooklyn

I get my hair cut at a salon in Brooklyn called Concept Elite.  Been getting my hair cut there for about 28 years.  My friends get their hair cut at fabulous places in Manhattan, where they pay about 50 percent more for a haircut and a snotty hostess.  I love Concept Elite.  I love the microcosm that it is.  I love the community; I love the camaraderie; I hate the fact that I feel like I have to get dressed up to get a haircut.  (You should perhaps know that I win out over this feeling most of the time, and end up going in jeans or sweats.) 

The conversations are always fascinating.  Some of the time, they reaffirm why I don’t choose to hang out in Brooklyn a lot.  Some of the time, however, they reaffirm why I choose to live in Brooklyn. 

People from Brooklyn may have their own particular thing going on.  They definitely speak differently than you do.  They perhaps think differently than you do.  They do, however, know one thing for sure; your family and your friends are what come first in this world.  Sometimes, particularly in Brooklyn, your friends are your family.  Everyone is your family.  Brooklyn, more than many other places that I’ve been in this world, is a place where you look out for the guy next to you.  Brooklyn teaches you to care.  No matter where I go, for the rest of my life, I will carry Brooklyn with me.  I will wear it as a badge of honor.  I love being from Brooklyn.  When I’m around, you’d better believe Brooklyn is in the house. 

The folks at Concept Elite have suffered a bit, of late.  One of their own has been stricken with cancer.  So there are signs up in the salon; if you buy hair products, the proceeds go to this fellow.  His name is Tommy, and he has throat cancer.  The signs, and the collections, are a good thing.  What you perhaps don’t know if you just walk in for a haircut is that every employee agreed to donate part of his or her salary to this guy, for an undetermined amount of time, so that he continues to get a paycheck while he’s sick.  Tommy is single, and the people at Concept Elite really are his family.  And they demonstrate it every day they come to work.  No fuss, mind you, because this is what family does for each other.  You just do it, you don’t think about it. 

My cousin Tria was talking to her friends recently, about how Brooklyn is perceived as “the city” (as in New York City) and while it’s certainly a part of New York City, it’s also like any other small town you’ve ever seen.   It’s very neighborhood-y, and the part of Brooklyn that I come from is perhaps more neighborhood-y than any other part, period.  I was damn lucky to be born here, and to have this sense of community instilled in me by my parents and my neighbors. 

If you read this blog, you know that I still have trouble with Christmas, since my Mom died.  It’s still a very, very difficult holiday for me to deal with.  I still want to hide, from about mid-December till about mid-January, just to make sure all the lights and other trappings are gone.  This year, though, I think I’m making strides.  I will be with my family, as always, on Christmas Eve.  On Christmas Day, I am going to a friend’s house.  It’s the first time in my entire life that I’ll celebrate Christmas with someone who isn’t related to me.  It’s pretty scary, but it’s comforting as well.  Life goes on.  You make your own traditions.  And you add on to your own family with new people, who will be part of your life forever.  And maybe next year I won’t want to hide on Christmas.  The folks at Concept Elite will be a part of that, because they’ve shown me a little bit of Christmas today.  For today, I felt like part of their family.  I put some money in the jar for Tommy, and I was glad to do it.  I was glad for Tommy, who is going through a terrible time but knows he has family to count on.  I have family to count on too.  They’re all around me. 

That’s Christmas in Brooklyn. 

Three hundred million people and the Golden Rule

Sometime tomorrow morning, the U.S. population is going to hit 300 million people.

Hoo boy. 

What does this mean?  If my neighborhood is a microcosm, then here’s what it means:

There are more and more condos being built. (If you live someplace more rural than Sheepshead Bay, in Brooklyn, then substitute “cheap housing” for “condos”).

All of the venerable institutions that you grew up on (locally, that would be Castle Harbour restaurant, the Sheepshead Bay Diner, Leon’s Bake Shop, the Palms Shore Yacht Club, Captain Walter’s, the list goes on) are gone, and you wonder where you’re going to get anything decent to eat within five years’ time.

The folks that have lived here “forever” are becoming less and less tolerant of the folks that are “new” (if you live in Sheepshead Bay and are tolerant, you have my apologies).

The offspring of the folks that have lived here “forever” are becoming less and less tolerant – instead of more and more tolerant (which makes more sense to me) of people who don’t look or act like they do (if you live in Sheepshead Bay and you are accepting of people who don’t look or act like you do, then you have my apologies).

Who the hell’s business is it what your sexual preference is, anyway? This evening I discovered that some people I know – rather, the grown children of some people that I know, from the neighborhood – lured a man to a secluded beach near Sheepshead Bay, because he was gay, and when he got there, they robbed him and apparently started to beat him up, and the “confrontation” (the word is not mine) spilled out onto the Belt Parkway, and the poor bastard was hit by a car and killed.

May all of you reading this never know the confusion that this guy felt, emailing people who he thought were like-minded individuals, and then meeting whatever horror he met out by Plumb Beach. May you never know the hatred that this guy felt, from people he had never met, because he was different from them.

And may Sheepshead Bay, and so many places like it, not lose a sense of community – for all of the members of its community. The white, the black, the Catholics, the Russians, the narrow-minded, the Irish, the Jews, the Italian, the homophobic, the gays, the Chinese, the Hispanics, the Muslims, etc. And let’s not forget the single women who choose a career over a husband and a family. For that matter, let’s not forget Republicans.  I get a little bent out of shape about politics sometimes, but at the end of the day, for Pete’s sake, I’m not going to lure someone out to Plumb Beach and kill him because he voted for Bush.  Let’s get back to a modicum of civilization, shall we?

Michael Sandy is the name of the man who died.  The names of the four young men involved in the hate crime – and that’s what it is, let’s call a spade a spade – are Gary Timmins, John Fox, Ilya Shurov and Anthony Fortunato.

“Love your neighbor as yourself." — Moses (ca. 1525-1405 BCE) in the Torah, Leviticus 19:18

"What you do not wish upon yourself, extend not to others." — Confucius (ca. 551–479 BCE)

"What is hateful to you, do not to your fellow man." — Hillel the Elder (ca. 50 BCE-10 CE)

"Do unto others as you would have them do unto you." — Jesus (ca. 5 BCE—33 CE) in the Gospels, Luke 6:31; Luke 10:27 (affirming of Moses)— Matthew 7:12

"Hurt no one so that no one may hurt you." — Muhammad (c. 571 – 632 CE) in The Farewell Sermon

"One should seek for others the happiness one desires for himself" Buddha (Siddhartha Gautama, c. 563 - c. 483 B.C.)

I can find more ways to say it if the above is not clear.

Dear Best Western:

Congratulations on the new motel in Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn! You fellas must be so proud.

Just a couple of things, though. 

First, the neighborhood is called Sheepshead Bay, not Brooklyn Bay.  The fact that you’ve named your new property “Best Western Brooklyn Bay” indicates that your advance guy clearly didn’t do his homework, or told you that he came to the neighborhood when he really got himself and the wife tickets for “The Lion King” on Broadway and never showed up in the Bay.

Second, the building.  There is a lot of construction going on around these parts, lots of condos, lots of retail properties – and the smart ones are trying to make their contribution blend into the Bay, or at least nod to the Bay’s history. A little nautical theme here and there, some tasteful brick, etc.

But not our new Best Western.

This place is undoubtedly the ugliest building in Sheepshead Bay. In fact, wherever Brooklyn Bay is, I’m sure that nothing there is this ugly. I’m not even posting a picture on this blog because it would drive down real estate values for all the other perfectly decent posts.

You, boys, have made the Golden Gate Inn look good.

Please don’t have the CEOs five-year-old kid pick the color schemes any more. Or perhaps the Chairman of the Board lost a bet to the President of Hilton International? Whatever the reason for the baby-blue-and-yellow nightmare parked on Emmons Avenue, I am going to cuss all of you every time I drive past that thing. Plus, I’m never staying at a Best Western again. 

Sincerely,

Liz Savery

Fun at the DMV

You know, we all bitch and moan about the employees at the Department of Motor Vehicles.

But.  Really.  Think about the people that GO to the DMV.  You have to be a little bent, I think, to deal with the public on that level every working day of your life. 

I had to go to the DMV today, to renew a license (I wanted a new photo) and thus I had to submit myself to the perils of government employees, and my fellow Brooklynites.  I went prepared.  I bought a book, a bottle of water, my Blackberry, a banana and a lot of patience. 

I left with a bit more tolerance for the DMV folk.  Yes, there was one woman who was the devil herself, and hollered to all and sundry for such trivial offenses as stepping over the yellow line without permission, but there were an ordinate amount of fruit loops there.  The crazy train does indeed stop at the Coney Island DMV.  To wit:

·        One guy, when asked to step back for his photo, turned AROUND to face the white partition instead of facing the camera.

·        One girl who needed a photo taken asked if her boyfriend could be in the photo too.  This made the photo lady scream "get back behind the yellow line!!!"

·         I overheard a group of people studying for their written exam.  One guy said; “Wait, so if I have 6 drinks, I have to wait 6 hours to drive?  That's bullshit!”

·         Another guy, who was incensed at how long he had been forced to wait, kept staring up at the large electronic board and hurling insults at the numbers displayed (who all represented waiting customers, for example, I was number E915) – he’d say things like “What the hell is B203 about? What is taking D394 such a long time?  When the hell is E903 going to be finished?”

·         There was a woman who had one of those small traveling pet cases, and she had a ferret.  She, and her pet, were met with some degree of disgust by the denizens of the DMV today, to which she replied; “I never go anywhere without him!”

Plus, at least 30 percent of the people there to get licenses, or permits, or whatever, did not speak a word of English, and still had to be dealt with.

And, my friends, I was only there for about two hours. Imagine what goes on in a day. So.  The next time you’re tempted to lose your temper with the DMV folk, think about the F’ING LUNATICS that they have to deal with on a regular basis, and have some sympathy.

No spinach, but plenty of bacon

Hmmmmm.  No spinach at the market tonight. Of course I wanted spinach badly, since I wasn’t allowed to have any.

I often regard food shopping as something of a personal challenge, seeing as how I often simply don’t have the time to do it. Which is a shame because I rather enjoy food shopping, when I’m not extraordinarily pressed for time. Which I have been for about six weeks now.

So no spinach.  And I am grumpy, shopping, because I want fresh spinach. FINE!  I go through the motions, get the crap I usually get, going a little bit lean because all this business travel adds up to a lot of business eating, and I want to lose, say, 30 pounds before I go to Japan next week. I can do that in a week, right?  All it takes is a little willpower. Hell, I can do that.

So I get to the checkout, and the couple in front of me are unloading their basket.

Ho-ly merde. 

It’s as if they are two 16-year-old boys. (Which they are not.)  Or two bulimic 90-pound teenage girls. (Which, trust me on this, they are not, either.)  They bought everything that we all really want to buy, but we know better. They bought everything that we all secretly crave but cannot have.

They bought a lot of cheese. Microwave waffles.  Oh and syrup for the waffles. They bought whole milk and butter and eggs. 

Dude.  They bought BUTTER. 

They bought 4 half gallons of ice cream. 10 half gallons of tomato juice (this I cannot explain.) Loads of cheese. (this, in particular, made my heart break.)  They bought white bread and bacon and 3 kinds of cookies. 

Dude.  They bought BACON. 

Wait up.  Who actually buys bacon? What the hell is that about? Who really eats bacon, except, you know, in a restaurant or on a business trip? (And not every single trip, mind you?)  I eat bacon at home one day a year…Christmas morning. Throwback to being a child.  I gotta have the bacon.  I buy a small one, eat some, give the pets a slice each (what the hell, it’s Christmas) and toss the rest. But bacon in September?  What the HELL is that about? 

They bought actual sugar.  Not the fake crap I buy.  They bought candy and real soda (not diet) and po-ta-to chips.

Dude.  They bought CHIPS. 

You see what I’m getting at here? This was astonishing to me.  It’s as if these two never read a newspaper or watched a news program since, say, 1975. To hell with cholesterol!  To hell with fat!  To hell with an early, slow, lingering death!

Wait.  I left out the best part. THEY BOUGHT ENTENMANN’S CAKES.  They had three kinds in their basket. Doughnuts, some kind of chocolate cake, and another thing that I couldn’t really see because of the tears in my eyes.

I swear that my arteries hardened just watching them pay for their stuff and waddle out.

Then I paid for my miserable fruit and vegetables and yogurt and 1% milk and trudged out to the car. 

Oh.  I should give credit where credit is due and mention that the Doomed Twosome also bought exactly two Lean Cuisines. Maybe the diet starts next Monday? 

Roadside shrines

I was walking my dog yesterday and saw a large group of people, all dressed in black, approaching the Belt Parkway from the service road.  (I live on the corner of the service road, and am thus intimately acquainted with the Belt Parkway.)  They were carrying flowers, and I knew immediately why they were there.  Late last week, there was a horrific accident on the Belt early in the morning, and this must have been the family of the man that died.  The police probably told them that the accident was right near the Knapp Street exit off the Belt, and so they went there to remember him, to create a little shrine for him. 

Roadside memorials started out as a Catholic thing, I believe, popular in Spain.  In some cultures, these are erected a year after the death, in others, almost immediately.  We’ve all seen them by the side of the road as we travel…they are little sober reminders of the responsibility of driving. 

People put a lot of faith into these shrines.  A woman I know lost her son to one of those monstrous highway shootings that you think only take place in B movies, and she maintained a shrine for her son for more than two years.  It wasn’t your ordinary bundle of flowers, either – It always had a floral arrangement spelling out his name, plus a NY Rangers jersey, and all manner of other flowers and things.  I remember thinking; at least she has a place: a place where Franco last connected with the Earth, to remember him by.  I never wondered why she tried to keep the place sacred, and I often wished I had such a place that I could associate with friends of mine who have died, or even my mom. 

Did the shrines become more popular with the advent of the automobile?  Logically, hundreds of years ago, if people were living on the road, or moving from one place to another, and a family member died, there was no choice but to conduct your own funeral service and create a shrine in the middle of nowhere.  As cars became more popular and began contributed to the deaths of the public more actively, the popularity of the roadside shrine must have grown as well. 

I was in Chile earlier this year (a very Catholic country) and the shrines there were extraordinary.  They were little condos, many of them, with painstakingly decorated roofs, walls and candles.  One of the locals told us that shrines became popular with people who went to them to leave an offering, for good luck.  If you visited a shrine and left a small offering, or prayed for something, and were rewarded, you naturally went back to that shrine and repeated the process.  After a while the ground around the shrine would become very busy indeed – believe me, some of those shrines were turning into real estate issues.  If you were walking by and had a problem on your mind, and you saw a shrine that was very well tended and very popular, you would naturally bring your problem to that shrine, since it must be “lucky” – and so the little shrines grow and grow.  I am planning on going back to Chile early next year, and this time, I’m going to take lots of photos of those shrines. 

Back to my own little issue; the family on the Belt creating the shrine.  The thing is this; I guess these people didn’t know it, but there are two Knapp Street exits off the Belt; 9A and 9B.  This gentleman actually ended his days on Earth just past exit 9B, not 9A – where his family was creating a shrine.  I stood there, dithering.  Should I tell them?  What did it matter?  They had selected a tree that they liked, and were putting flowers there for their Dad, or grandfather, or friend, or whoever he was to them.  Did it matter if the place they had picked was actually a couple of hundred yards from where he died?  This bothered me.  They must have thought that I was some kind of awful gawker, standing there with a dog.  I didn’t know what to do; in the end I just went home.  They will remember the man in their own way, and I will leave them to it. 

A Ford Street blog buddy

From the it’s-a-small-world department: a woman doing a search yesterday stumbled on this blog, and was very likely curious about it because of its name. She lives on Ford Street too!  And not Ford Street in Lexington, KY or Austin, TX or wherever.

She lives here in Sheepshead Bay.  Two blocks from me.  And, she has a blog! 

Unreal.  There are, shall we say, not many people in this particular neck of the woods interesting in blogging.  I would stake the car payment on the fact that, of my excellent neighbors here on Ford Street, not many know what a blog is. And two blocks away, a woman connects in the ether.

This is pretty much why God created the internet.  That, and distance learning, joke emails, a fascination with the sacred and the mundane (mostly the mundane) and, of course, amazon.com, the greatest threat to my personal finances since the invention of the debit card.

Adolescent gynecology

This is a picture of a place that I pass on my drive into Manhattan. 

My question is, would you bring your daughter here?  I mean, shouldn’t the sign even be illegal?