Suitor

Our house in Brooklyn is nearly 150 years old; once long ago it was right by the docks, now the docks are cut off by the expressway...but sometimes I swear that I can still smell the salt smell coming in on a breeze, especially on a summer night when my imagination is hard at work.

I like to climb the narrow spiral staircase to our crooked little roof deck, and lean on the wooden rail that looks out over the rooftops to the East River. Sometimes on nights like these, I think that Brooklyn is my suitor, a rough and beautiful boy pressing close next to me, whispering so quietly that I can't even hear the words, offering me the water and the windows all lit up with people's lives.

Walk in the Rain: a Quiet Little Post

And on another note...

Here are some pictures I took one rainy day a few weeks ago, of the walk from our house to Hedgie's school, and back again:

Here's Hedgie, walking up our block, briskly ahead as she likes to do:



Some odd little houses around the corner--they always remind me of tiny Taras, little plantation homes:




A forbidding view of the pretty church attached to my old preschool:



The pear tree next door to Hedgie's school:



Inside school, where there has been a little lice epidemic; funny public service announcement posters by the kids:



On my way back home, without Hedgie, more opportunity to take some pics. Here's the sign outside a neighborhood church, always changing and always very thoughtful. I especially like this quote:



The church steps where my friends and I would sit between high school classes, back in the day:



A dying breed: the emergency call box:



As far as I'm concerned, best bagels in the city. But I'm sure folks would argue that their neighborhood bagel place is best. Hey, most of them are good. Just like the pizza. It's damned hard to find a bad slice of pizza in Brooklyn.



The store where my family has shopped for generations:



Took a detour with camera to the scenic promenade; Gothic and Victorian and melancholy in the rain--my favorite look for a neighborhood:





Can you quite make out Lady Liberty, ethereal in the fog?



And back home again, balancing umbrella, camera, handbag, and iced coffee to give you a taste of my Brooklyn neighborhood:

It's a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood

This is what I see when I stand in front of our house and look up:



And here's our brick house; apparently, before the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway cut the nabe off from the water, it was located down by the docks, and went through several incarnations as a boarding house and a house of ill-repute (or so they say). It still has the peculiar little warreny rooms and our bedroom has the original tin ceiling.



I drove around Brooklyn doing errands, and ran into a horrendous traffic jam right here:




I panicked and booked, going the wrong way down a one-way street to escape the foul fumes and claustrophobia. Going a different route, I passed this off-duty lunch truck. "White & Hot"? Maybe there's actually a little disco in there:



And this guy, the angry gorilla who presides over a used-car lot. I'm not sure what the advertising concept is. Is he freaking out over the amazing deals? Or is it more like a threat--he'll chase you down if you pass up the amazing deals?


And the wonderful ruined bathhouse, haunted with the ghosts of nude old men:



And a 3rd Avenue mural:

Brooklyn Mayberry

Our neck of the woods, as I've mentioned before, is really a small town. It may be in Brooklyn, but it's not what you think: although NYC is synonymous with big, bustling, anonymous, those of us who live here know that its neighborhoods can be awfully Mayberryish.

In Mayberry Brooklyn, you can't walk 8 blocks (that's the distance between home and Hedgehog's school) without passing someone you know, at least enough to warrant a smile and wave, more often a passing conversation ("hey!" "Nice weather!" "The nicest!"), and sometimes even a quick stop to chat. Hedghog commented the other day: "Mama, sometimes I just want to walk along and think thoughts." Well, Hedgehog, that's just not the way of Mayberry.

Next characteristic of Mayberry Brooklyn: all news hits the pavement running. Everyone knows everyone's business before the sun is halfway in the sky. A typical conversation on my block which I'll call Elm Street: "Pssst! c'mere..." "hi, what's up?" "did you hear the news?..."

Take your pick:
a. "we think Vinton Calloway killed his wife, although she appeared at first to have died of a heart attack"

b. "Sally's roof fell in and she just boarded up the room rather than have it repaired"

c. "Darcy McAllen fell in love with that homeless guy who sleeps under the BQE overpass, and now she gives him part of her trust fund money every month in the form of booze and tube socks"

d. "Leah passed by here with her third Venti Iced Americano of the day...she must be hopped up as hell, I don't know how she thinks straight enough to raise that kid of hers..."

You get the picture.

Anonymous it ain't.

All that's missing is Aunt Bee--and just give me another five years...