Brooklyn on My Mind and Everyone Else's

Brooklyn is enjoying another moment in the sun, not that it was ever truly dark. Lately, however, the cognoscente have seemingly rediscovered my native borough, driving up real estate prices, populating the byways with flavorful, exotic fare, building skyscraper apartment houses, even turning the once tallest structure in the county—the Williamsburg Savings Bank on Flatbush Avenue—into a co-op with multi-million dollar penthouse units.   

The latest enchantment to illuminate Brooklyn is a film adaptation of Colm Tóibín’s novel Brooklyn. The movie opened Wednesday (http://nyti.ms/1iBkP1T); the book was published in 2009. I didn’t read the book, haven’t yet seen the film. But I did grow up in the time and place the heroine of Tóibín’s tale emigrated to from Ireland in the 1950s.

There’s a lot of nostalgia surrounding Brooklyn these days, an emotion that has engulfed me as well. Perhaps it is pushed forward by Bernie Sanders’ quixotic campaign for the presidency as evidenced by an article a few months ago chronicling his Kings County roots (http://nyti.ms/1VFhZZi).

A few weeks earlier The New York Times ran a story about ex- Brooklynites returning to live in, or at least visit, the borough (http://nyti.ms/1JXIeno). 

Truth be told, the parts of Brooklyn mostly and longingly portrayed in film and print—areas such as Park Slope, Cobble Hill, Fort Greene, Brooklyn Heights—are far removed from the Brooklyn of my childhood, the northern part of Sheepshead Bay along Avenue W between East 18th and East 19th Streets, a block west of Ocean Avenue. It was on the southern side of this treelined street of attached single-family row houses with the occasional (to my knowledge, illegal) ground floor tenant where I enjoyed a pleasant, if not idyllic, upbringing.

Small things now evoke long-cached memories. 

The other day I spotted a tennis ball atop a grated storm sewer cover. I was transported back to the street stickball games I played. The leafy maple and sycamore trees along Avenue W posed one type of hazard to be overcome—if you caught a ball on its way down from a tree you recorded an out, but if it fell to the ground you would call “hindoo,” and a do-over was in order. 

The trees, however, were not the biggest obstacle. Balls, usually pink Spaldeens, falling into storm drains could wash out any game. Unless, unless you had a wire clothes hanger you could stretch out and, lowering the hook end into the sewer basin, fish the ball up from the murky bottom.  

Our grandson Finley loves playing with toy trucks, usually in his home’s carpeted basement or living room. I, on the other hand, played “dump truck” outside, on the dirt edge of the grass of our front lawn. 

As we got older, my friends and I shifted our play spot to the dirt under the trees between the street and the sidewalk. Our choice of “toy” also “matured” into pen knives. We’d play a game called “Territory.” You would start off with equal plots of land. By throwing your knife into your adversary’s dirt adjacent to your plot, you could claim more territory, but only if the blade stood the knife upright with at least two fingers’ worth of clearance from the ground. 

Oh, I neglected to mention an important part of the game. When your foe threw his knife you were required to stand astride your territory, an act of courage made all the more challenging as your territory diminished in size. I don’t recall any foot injuries, though I would not be surprised to know I am repressing memories of mishaps. 

One doesn’t see any yellow Checker cabs anymore, but they were the preferred and common conveyance when our mother took us to the beach back in the 1950s. Their back seats were deep enough to accommodate two round jump seats that folded into the floorboard when not used. We’d go to Brighton Beach, eat cold meatloaf or hamburger sandwiches our mother made and buy cool orange drinks in short, cardboard containers from vendors who pushed through the sand with hot ice boxes slung over their shoulders while wearing safari hats to shield the burning rays of the sun. 

Sometimes, Saturday nights during the summer, our whole family would go to Coney Island. My favorite ride was a train ride on a track that circumvented the entire kiddie park. When darkness veiled the night, we would sit on the sand and take in the weekly fireworks display. Afterward we’d bundle back into the car and as we approached home our father would sing one of the few American western songs he knew, “Home, home on the range/ where the deer and the antelope play/ where seldom is heard, a discouraging word/ and the sky is not cloudy all day.”

Brooklyn Days of Yore

Power Broker: Stephen J. Solarz got my father involved in politics.

The nine-term U.S. representative from Brooklyn passed away Monday at age 70. Solarz taught political science at Brooklyn College when I was there (1968-69), served six years as a state assemblyman (1969-74) and began his congressional service in 1975.

Though always interested in politics, my father never involved himself in any campaigns, other than the presidential elections of the Ocean Avenue Jewish Center (OAJC) in the Sheepshead Bay section of Brooklyn. From the late 1960s through the early 1980s, my father was either president or a power behind the presidency of the synagogue. Solarz recognized his importance and sought him out when he decided to run for office.

Dad forged a paternalistic attachment to the dark-haired future congressman. He was almost 30 years older than Solarz, who, in turn, was only five years older than Dad’s eldest child. Dad would become a ground-level sounding board for Solarz. After he closed his business, Dad would help out the Solarz campaign by stuffing envelopes and other assorted tasks in the office.


Sweaty Anticipation: It was during my father’s glory days at the OAJC that the noise level in the gymnasium would build to ear-piercing extremes. Excitement would grip all those present. Moans would go up after every call. Shrieks of, “Just one more,” would reverberate against the cement walls.

No, a basketball game was not being played (I can’t remember any athletic contest ever happening in the gym). Rather, the sweaty anticipation and exhilaration emanated from the hundreds gathered for the weekly bingo game.

Bingo was a major fundraising endeavor for the OAJC back then, with my parents in charge, mom in the back room watching over the money, dad working the floor. They even enlisted me, first as a bingo card salesman and then as a game caller.

With $1,000 in prizes ($500 for the jackpot game), OAJC bingo drew players from miles around. They were a quirky lot. Mostly middle-aged women, they would engage in good luck rituals. Before the first game, some would run a lighted match under their game cards. Others would scratch their behinds to coax out desired numbers from the air machine that popped out the numbered ping pong balls. Several played a dozen or more cards by sight and memory—no chips over the numbers of the hard-backed board cards or a dab of colored ink on the the paper game sheets spread before them.

Calling the games was the most fun. I’d sit on a platform at one end of the hall, under one of the two electronic scoreboards that lit up each called number. Next to me would be another volunteer. He’d hand me the balls when they were pushed out of the machine. I’d announce the number, wait a second or two and announce it again. As the jackpot game progressed, tension in the hall would become palpable. Forty years ago, $500 was a considerable sum.

I-22, G-53, O-69, N-37. As the cards filled up, with no number producing the cry of “Bingo,” excitement would build. Despite the microphone, players would shout they couldn’t hear the numbers. It was time for the one decorum-producing remedy you could do but once a night. “The next number,” I’d intone, “is, B-Quiet.” For a moment, players would rustle through their cards, looking under the B column for the number. Then they’d chuckle at their gullibility, settle back down and, when finally, a winner was selected, lament they were just one call away from winning the grand prize.

Fundraising bingo is still played in Brooklyn, though not as often as in my youth. In case you missed it, here’s an article from Sunday’s NY Times: http://www.nytimes.com/2010/11/28/nyregion/28bingo.html?_r=1&scp=2&sq=bingo&st=cse


Is Wal-Mart coming to town? That is, New York City?

There are no Wal-Mart stores in the Big Apple, though there surely are plans to plop them down in the five boroughs. Thus, the City Council is planning a debate next month on the impact the world’s largest retailer would have on small businesses and communities throughout the city (http://www.crainsnewyork.com/article/20101129/SMALLBIZ/101129912).

I could save them a lot of time and money. The impact would be HUGE. And since I’m into saving, I’m going to save myself some creative time by simply referring you to my blog of last April 30 that first commented on the bias elites have toward “Tar-Zhay” and against Wal-Mart (http://nosocksneededanymore.blogspot.com/2010/04/bite-out-of-big-apple.html). Wal-Mart is denied the same opportunity non-union, small-store busting Target, The Home Depot, Lowe’s and other big box retailers have enjoyed serving New York City residents.

Old habits die hard, which is why I’m still writing Wal-Mart as a hyphenated two-part name instead of the nouveau Walmart spelling now preferred by the corporate folks in Bentonville, Ark. I’ll try to conform, though to be accurate, Wal-Mart is the correct spelling when referring to the corporate entity. Walmart is for the stores only.