my private coney presents : IT WAS HER NEW YORK

The Operative Word Was "AND"

2012-01-31T00:01:00.000-08:00

On the eve Of Dana's 91st year Chinese food was ordered up.

There was no choosing this OR that. There was only AND.

So curry shrimp AND eggplant, dumplings AND spareribs, hot and sour soup AND wonton. And when they offered a free dish or soda, we all voted for the dish. AND sesame chicken. AND two kinds of apple pastries. AND rugelah....

AND AND....

So we ate as we wished, as much as we wanted and in the case of the spare ribs as much as we could.

The ridiculous OR and the arbitrary NO, that stupid CAN'T - all those inconsiderate words that pushed delight and pleasure into tiny boxes and corseted moments were finally defeated. This birthday year would be the year of the AND.

AND Polly the cat agreed.

Sunday Memories: It Was Their New York

2012-01-29T00:01:00.000-08:00

Bleeker Street

Where in 1975 he found he had a sharp wit hanging with his buddy from the bookstore they both worked at.

The Lincoln Center Library for the Performing Arts

Where I hid from everyone in 1972 and 1973 and 1974, listening to records on industrial record players with thick, heavy headphones.

The Bohemian National Hall

What we found on an adventure through a city we grew up in but at different times and in different neighborhoods.

Treasure Hunting

2012-01-26T00:01:00.000-08:00

On a rare walk around the Upper East Side, there it was.

Just like the many once scattered across Manhattan, it was filled with hundreds of nooks and crannies filled with thousands of possibilities.

Found tonight in the Mystery Shop was a pretty pink and orange satchel stuffed with two glass canisters all for $10, a pair of much needed oxfords for $10, two ties, both silk, one a Ralph Lauren the other a Calvin Klein, $3 each, a pair of metal framed reading glasses that wouldn't break like the plastic ones for $3 and a green leather belt with real leather for $7.

Even the pet carrier for $10 was worth the risk Jupiter wouldn't fit in it (he didn't) and how, if he didn't, it could then be donated to the shelter that just moved to 2nd Street. No matter what you didn't know you needed, it was there waiting to be discovered and uncovered.

While we divided up our new belongings, neighbors came and went, saying hello to Grant the owner and asking questions about the lamp they hoped was still there or if he had any coins to sell for a collector's birthday present. I knew it was time to leave when I had to fight the impulse to buy the naked Barbies for $3 each.

Later, in the the local bar next door, the three patrons and the barkeep talked about what they had tucked away at the Mystery Shop and how they needed to get back there one day to pick up their treasures.

The Mystery Shop
1672 First Avenue
between 87th and 88th Street
212.423.9920

The Year Of The Dragon

2012-01-24T00:01:00.000-08:00

A student, probably one of the Chinese students from the Baruch Houses on the other side of the bridge, gave this dragon to Florence one year.

Word had gotten around in that immigrant enclave in the projects that an elderly teacher in Amalgamated on Broome Street gave $5 piano lessons to children and adults. By the end of her life, the majority of her student were Chinese-born or their children who were Chinese-American.

She offered the dragon to me at some point in the decline of her teaching. The ability to remember what each and every student was working on that week without reviewing her notes was no longer reliable and her knowledge of each family member and sibling terrifyingly erratic. It was OK to call me 'Louise' or 'Seymour' or 'YOU!' but to not remember a student's name was unacceptable.

There is a favorite Buddhist Gosho that states the call of the Sutra is like the roar of the lion. Therefore, what obstacle can't be overcome? This little dragon, which has resided on my alter since the day she gave it to me, is as close to a lion as I have. It reminds me not just to roar with fearlessness at the many real and imagined obstacles I face, but to roar in honor of Florence.

Sunday Memories: A Tale Of Two Brothers

2012-01-22T00:01:00.000-08:00

From different cities and different worlds, the four daughters of the two brothers have all taken turns visiting, each one of us stepping into quiet worlds of indeterminate memories, bringing whatever gift we have left to give.

My sister attempting to celebrate our father's birthday, one rarely reached without people applauding, flew all night, strategizing paper plates, store bought cake and a car ride up and down a single hill, while I once again became a daily audience to his fading looped attempts to hold onto his daily life.

And hours away, one daughter sends weekly emails from the other side of a day, read aloud by a nurse to her father, my uncle ...

...while his other daughter hours and miles from her home was briefly remembered by him when he saw the shape of her nose.

Yet somehow, through the haze of a descending night, these two brothers still remember that they call each other 'bro' and that they both love cars. My father remembers his brother lives in a nursing home and my uncle remembers they took his watch away once he settled there.

They remember birthdays with a ferociousness that defy the fact one told me that joke two minutes ago and the other said he visited with a beloved brother-in-law dead for decades just the other week.

And still remembered, bedridden and fed institutional meals, is Kashrut and the choice to have chicken and milk because "I don't observe the laws".

In this silent devastation, minds leaving bodies that hold fiercely to the idea of another meal or another joke, an unexpected blessing unfolds. The brutal childhood, the broken marriages, the raging tempers, the failed attempts at love, the heartbreak of a disappointing life occasionally become the old world, a distant shore, a vague memory.

So we four daughters of two brothers from different cities and different worlds hold the memories once spat out in pain or fear or rage or lectures, while the two brothers may or may not remember our visits.

***
Related posts:

It Was His California

Sunday Memories: The First Home

Sunday Memories: A Winter Coat

RAIN DELAY: Thursday Post

2012-01-19T07:11:00.000-08:00

Due to travel, there will be no Thursday post. Stay tune for Sunday Memories this coming January 22nd. Meanwhile, enjoy Tuesday's post of Guest Blogger Ted Krever's Staten Island. And if you are in the neighborhood, hop the ferry and enjoy the most beautiful harbor in the world.

Guest Artist: Ted - The Subway In The Parking Lot

2012-01-17T00:01:00.000-08:00

They took the subway car out of Golden’s Deli today.

Golden’s wasn’t Katz’s, where Smitty took me a couple of months ago. But it was a real kosher deli on Staten Island, where knishes and pastrami aren’t as automatic as in the rest of New York City. And Golden’s was a family business that was thriving on Staten Island when I first got here, which is more than twenty years ago.

Their food was good but the magic, when my son was growing up, was the subway car – an ancient monstrosity with 200 coats of icky tan paint, overhead fans, wicker seats and tables inset under posters for Virginia Slims cigarettes, Ali vs. Frazier on Pay Per View television (!) and Elvis in Concert.

A quick online search suggests it’s an IND R1-R9 train, built (it says here) between 1930-1940, a line that soldiered on until the 70′s.

I remember both the cars and the posters. My son had no such memories—the car might as well have been built for Charlemagne, as far as he was concerned. What he knew was he could get a really good burger and thick crinkle-cut fries and sit in a subway car while eating them! The thrill was there when he was 10 and coping with his parent’s divorce and it was there a year or two ago, when he was 6’5″, in college and into video games and filmmaking.

So it was dizzying on several levels to see that subway car in the middle of a parking lot at 9 this morning. It was a piece of my life yanked out of place.

The crew attached chains to pull the thing onto a flatbed truck. Where’s it going? I asked the foreman. Brooklyn, he said. To storage. The family is looking for another location but, in the meantime, have to have a place for it. Is this the biggest thing you’ve ever moved? No way, he said, voice rising, we move everything. You name it, we move it. We move whole buildings, jack ‘em up, move ‘em all over.

the chain broke a second later

A minute later, the chain pulling at the nose of the car snapped and thick metal pieces flew Godknowswhere. The crewman started laughing and pointing at the driver. ‘You said it wouldn’t hold!’ he said and the driver puffed up a bit, being right and all.

They replaced the chains with stronger ones and pulled again and this time, got the job done. As I was walking away, the foreman was on the phone to someone, saying ‘You’re escorting us, right? Okay, a few minutes, you’re escorting us.’

The owner of the Deli walked by – I asked him if he wanted to be in the photo. He shook his head. “It’s not a happy day for us,” he said. It’s an old story—the strip mall raised the rent so now the Deli’s just another empty storefront, to be replaced, surely, by some chain store that will shrug off the cost and add to the creeping sameness of America.

But what I felt, watching them haul that subway car onto the flatbed, is my son living now in Virginia while another of the places I connected with him is on a flatbed truck, heading for storage.

***

Originally posted on January 11, 2012 at tedkrever.com/blog.

tedkrever.com is participating in the internet strike on January 18, 2012. His site will resume normal function January 19, 2012.

**

Ted Krever writes books and was once accused of attempting to blow up Ethel Kennedy with a Super-8 projector.

Guest Artist: Rob - Sunday Memories - The Look Of Love

2012-01-15T00:01:00.000-08:00

While my private coney pictures is on the road this week, Rob Pappagallo will Guest Artist It Was Her New York with occasional writings from mpc. Thank you, Rob!!!

Robert Pappagallo is a native New Yorker who goes around shooting his city.

****
This photo may not be used without permission from Robert Pappagallo

Guest Artist: Rob - Perseverance

2012-01-12T00:01:00.000-08:00

Guest Artist: Rob - Proof That There Is...

2012-01-10T00:01:00.000-08:00

Sunday Memories: The Greatest Gift Of All

2012-01-08T00:01:00.000-08:00

We met when we were young but thought we were old, me 28, him 31, both of us going through the throes of what we thought were world-weary adulthood-ness like divorce and break-ups and love and children and responsibility and dreams and writing. Always writing.

We managed to stay friends even though the sentence he heard most from me was "you're wrong". Being a black belt in karate, he was grounded and sane and very much at peace so he'd just smile, laugh and go "Ok". That's what black belt karate guys do - they shrug you off because they don't need to prove how many different ways they can kick your ass in.

But it wasn't just his gentle acceptance of my furious little Lower East Side verbal fists that just had to be punching something. It was his gentle welcome into his life and thus life itself, asking me to stand witness to new marriages and new homes and then one day new life itself.

I got to watch that rare moment that happens a billion times a day but when you're watching it is the only time it ever happened ever. I got to witness the birth of his daughter. I got to see that moment when that little being appeared and I suddenly knew her, knew her fully as a person, there was a perfect, full person inside that itty bitty baby body.

I carry that moment around as a talisman, like the words of a song by Iron and Wine that paints in words the moment our heart opens - "like babies want God's love". Even as a Buddhist these words are the only ones that could possible describe the second we met.

And here years later over tea and a noticeable decrease of me telling him he's wrong, I watch him talk to that perfect girl, now 15 and dressing in clothes from the worst era of all fashion, the 1980s and I hear song words in my head of a gift, just like babies that want God's love.

The Writer Cat

2012-01-05T00:01:00.000-08:00

He has become a bit too big to jump up on the desk so now I have to pick him. He is on a diet even if he doesn't know it.

However, once there he does what he always has done since he moved in.

Makes himself comfortable.

Long Day's Journey Into The Week

2012-01-03T00:01:00.000-08:00

Sunday Memories: "I...I will begin again..."*

2012-01-01T00:01:00.000-08:00

My father, me and Florence on New Year's Day at Coney Island

Was going to Coney Island on New Year's Day a regular tradition? I can't quite remember, but I remember this one in particular. I was in fifth grade and had broken my arm. So only one arm was in the coat sleeve. The other was stuffed inside my coat.

We took the F train from either Delancy Street or East Broadway and rode the hour out to Coney Island.

It was brutal cold. There were definitely other people out on the boardwalk. But the picture Louise took captured only us. Braving the elements the way we each hoped to brave the new year.

***
*New Year's Day/ U2

All is quiet on New Year's day
A world in white gets underway
I want to be with you, be with you, night and day
Nothing changes on New Year's day
On New Year's day

I will be with you again
I will be with you again

Under a blood red sky
A crowd has gathered, black and white
Arms entwined, the chosen few
The newspapers says, says
Say it's true, it's true
And we can break through
Though torn in two
We can be one

I, I will begin again
I, I will begin again

Ah, maybe the time is right
Oh, maybe tonight

I will be with you again
I will be with you again

And so we're told this is the golden age
And gold is the reason for the wars we wage
Though I want to be with you
Be with you night and day
Nothing changes on New Year's day
On New Year's day
On New Year's day

Eating Out

2011-12-29T00:01:00.000-08:00

Near the Fulton Mall

After flinging thousands of sweaters and shirts in every color and fabric up against our faces to find the perfect one for only $4.99, cheaper if we had gone on Thursday Customer Appreciation Day 25% off, Mimi and I ended up at the one place that offered a real grilled cheese sandwich with cheese that might not have been so real, but we didn't care, they made them with tomatoes and they had Lipton's Tea. We were starving and sitting down was like coming home only better because everything always tasted good after tough shopping on a cold day. And besides, you didn't have to do the dishes, the plates were plastic.

No tables, just counters and fierce Greek between the guys behind the counter and a couple customers on the red stools. One after another kids came in asking for change of a dollar, they all needed four quarters for the parking meters outside.

Shake Shack just opened nearby and some of the nicer chains are moving in on the small, tough stores that weathered everything because when you are always living flat-broke, the economy never changes and your customers can just about afford you. Mimi thinks soon those grilled cheese and souvlaki joints will be a thing of the past, the kids of these guys having better things to do than flip cheese sandwiches and slice shwarma off the grill. I think the quarter-meters aren't going to last much longer either, my street now filled with computers that take electronic change.

Still, I pointed out we would have had to stand on line to Shake Shack which probably wouldn't have had a good cup of tea. And besides how can you beat a grilled cheese sandwich made on a real grill.

Perfect Timing

2011-12-27T00:01:00.000-08:00

Right before it all happened

The frame was too high on Dana's new bed. Getting up was like rock climbing and getting down was the Giant Salom but without the snow.

So we ordered a new one, thinking it would arrive in a couple of days.

But then the new computer system didn't work. So the frame arrived a week later.

We thought oh so we'll come down on that day.

But then Dana asked we come the next day.

I promised we'd be there at such and such a time, but of course we got there almost an hour later.

Then the Penitent Optimist couldn't get the frame to line up and I didn't help by insisting that one side was longer than the other when in fact it was just angled more like a trapezoid and he was trying to re-angle it in between me whipping out a 12 inch ruler once used in PS 110 by Dana's son to prove that in fact that side of the bed frame was longer.

Finally the bed fit perfectly and Dana could sit down on it without any athletic training.

She insisted we stay for lunch and have tea and kaiser rolls, herring and lox, cream cheese and butter, and lots and lots of rugelach. The apple pie we passed on.

There was no way we could use the frame that was too high. It was pointless to keep it. But it was a really good frame and no one wanted to throw it out. So the Penitent Optimist taped up and stuck a piece of paper on it that said "free bed frame! new!"

Before we headed down to the communal recycling room, Polly the cat needed love. "I want a picture of that!" Dana said. So the Penitent Optimist rummaged through my crowded bag of screwdrivers and shopping bags, found the camera case, pulled out the camera and took a picture. The second after he clicked the shutter, Polly had enough love and jumped down.

I forgot the right elevator was the shabbos elevator, stopping on every floor from 1 to 20. So we got off on the 14th floor and waited for the not-for-shabbos left elevator. The numbers let us know whoever had gotten on at the 12th floor was being detoured up to us.

We stepped in with our almost brand new but too high bed frame and there was an almost coordinated, neatly dressed, middle aged couple, laundry stuff in hands, annoyed their trip down had been interrupted with a brief trip up.

Until they saw the frame.

"Are you giving it away?" they both asked.

"Yes! Do you want it?" asked the Penitent Optimist.

"Yes! We need one!" and without much ado, he handed the couple the barely used, month old, too high bed frame.

Sunday Memories: Letting There Be Light

2011-12-25T00:01:00.001-08:00

From the miracle of lighting the oil in the temple...

...to the lighting the candle on the eve...

...shared moments became new memories.

The Festival of Lights

2011-12-22T00:01:00.000-08:00

Unexpectedly, the Miracle Of Lights can appear.

Sorta like love.

Just Another Manic Monday

2011-12-20T00:01:00.000-08:00

Sunday Lingering Memories: Widower's Walk

2011-12-18T00:01:00.000-08:00

Every day since Rags died, Jupiter has waited.

The Road To Damascus

2011-12-15T00:01:00.000-08:00

Where Florence and all of us once lived

This path once led to home. Then it led to sorrow. Now it leads to another person's life where joy and much better cooking happens.

Special Announcement: Wanna Be A TV Writer? Wanna Actually Have A Good Teacher?

2011-12-14T12:54:00.000-08:00

My friend Joel Thompson once again is inspiring students from around the country and the world to leap into writing one-hour TV dramas. You can take his workshop at UCLA Extension. So if you are in Los Angeles or thinking of visiting Los Angeles and changing your life, check out it out!

(FYI-His students adore him and often take him out after the course ends to fete him. In the world of writing/teaching THAT is quite rare.)

The Art The Brooklyn Museum Didn't Know It Was Exhibiting

2011-12-13T00:01:00.000-08:00

Sunday Memories: The Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present and Future

2011-12-11T00:01:00.000-08:00

Another annual gathering.

Delighting in visits longer than brief moments carved out in elevators...

... running past one another through lobby doors...

or chasing errant cats in stairwells.

Then we stopped. And after an Italian song of love and rest...

... we laughed hard, sharing stories of Rags who won 4th place for most misbehaved in the American Mutt Show...

...could jump six feet straight up...

... twirl 360 degrees because she was going out for a walk...

...and remind us what total joy could look like stuffed in four feet.

What encouragement to go forward with hope.

Special Announcement: Leo the East River Barge Cat Needs A Home

2011-12-09T00:01:00.000-08:00

EV Grieve is posting the announcement for Leo the cat that was rescued from an East River barge. Pass it forward if you can't take him yourself!

R.I.P. RAGS, OUR BELOVED NEIGHBOR, OUR DEAREST FRIEND

2011-12-08T00:01:00.000-08:00

An old girl, Rags went quickly.

Ann Marie had found Pat's door open, which rarely, if ever, happens. So she went to make sure Pat was OK.

Ann Marie then got John who was on maintenance duty who told me as I walked in from my trip to Astoria. I joined him, Pat and Ann Marie and we all tended to "Pet", Pat's nickname for Rags.

After, in between Pat's family calling from around the country, Pat and Ann Marie drank wine, I had whiskey and we talked of our New York and writing and journalists who were household-names and old friends of Pat's and great actresses who were household-names and old friends of Pat's and whose Lady MacBeth Ann Marie saw in the 60's and about the days when cigarette smoking was normal and how Carola gave me whiskey after Florence's memorial.

Jupiter wandered in and out of Pat's, but only after Constance, the mom of Jackson came downstairs to get her cat Scarf from my apartment which he got into because my front door was open as I ran back and forth to put up the notices that Rags had died.

I don't know much about other buildings but here we gather in small and tender ways, our faces intimate and familiar to one another as only they can be when traveling together for so long. We recount one another's history. We bear witness when life happens on life's terms. We keep company when company is needed.

We are at home in our building, And we are neighbors.

**
Originally posted August 4, 2011

This Is Pat and Rags' New York

Pat and I have lived next door to one another since 1976. Rags moved in much later. She was Stephen's.

Pat's the real thing.

Grew up in the Bronx, worked the newspapers when newspapers were still newspapers and journalists were still journalists. Knows everybody who's anybody who made New York reporting the kind of reporting they make movies about, including all those tough guys that actors imitate when they have to play a "real" reporter.

Jupiter is still in love with Rags but completely confused about it ever since Rags stopped ignoring him and started visiting us. So now Rags runs into the apartment, Jupiter runs away, Rags sniffs all the rooms, Jupiter runs after him, Rags eats all Jupiter's food, Jupiter watches, Rags runs out, Jupiter follows and then after Rags goes home or to the park, Jupiter sits at her door and sniffs for about an hour.

This is home and this is our New York.

Monday Monday

2011-12-06T00:01:00.000-08:00

Sunday Memories: A Winter Coat

2011-12-04T00:01:00.000-08:00

Although the date on the picture says "Aug 67" more likely than not my father took this picture in the winter but using the camera sparingly (after all, film was expensive and so was processing) he didn't finish the roll until the summer. So probably every season was recorded in one roll of film.

This was my winter coat for several years. A couple of sizes bigger than me (of course) and grown into (of course), my father called this my Joseph Coat Of Many Colors. When the musical came out I became very confused. THAT coat didn't look like mine.

I also didn't realize that Joseph, as a son of the desert probably didn't need a hood on his. But this was how I understood this coat, bought second hand or handed down but clearly a coat that that traveled through other lives before reaching me. I wore it as the mantel of a man in the midst of sibling rivalry but destined to heal his family. This of course led to many years of therapy.

And these were my parents' winter coats. Judging from the angle, I must of taken this picture.

Florence was still wearing winter coats then. I suspect she gave them up around the same time she gave up skirts and men. Her coat was a Harris Tweed bought probably at Macys or A&S or B. Altmans or Gimbels. It was expensive. At some point she relined it. Forty-four years later, it's still in great shape and I wear it. Being shorter than Florence was then, I look like Little Red Riding Hood, only without the hood or the red.

My father's coat was, I believe, a Hudson Bay, also very expensive. Or it could have been an LL Bean. It was his winter coat until he moved to California in the 1980's. It is still in his closet. Just in case the weather suddenly changes. The last time I checked, it was dusty but ready to go. For a brief moment, he and I talked about giving it to my then boyfriend who was unprepared for the North American winters. However, I suspect he clung to that coat the same way Florence discarded hers. A reminder of other times and other weather.

Hands Across The Water

2011-12-01T00:01:00.000-08:00

I don't think this is what Sir McCarthney was thinking of in his song but every time I heard that song I saw the East River.

Encore: Just in Time for the the Holidays: Thanking the Problems for Being the Gifts

2011-11-29T00:01:00.000-08:00

Originally posted Thursday, November 27, 2008

Years and years and years ago times were, well, not so hotsy totsy. I was urged to every night make a list of three things I felt grateful for. I thought it was the stupidest thing I ever heard of. If there were things to feel grateful for, I wouldn't be in the shape I was. But desperate for anything better than what was, I did. Often item 2 and 3 were the pencil and the paper I was using. Scrapping the bottom of the barrel.

Then one day I noticed a gentle reprieve. The list grew. My life soften.

Things got better, things got worse, things got different. Things got real. Life went on.

Then things got, well, not so hotsy totsy. I was urged to thank my problems. I told the bearer of such advice to go fuck himself. But desperate for anything better than what was, I did. And slowly a rejection turned into a reprieve from a firing line, a disaster led to the perfect place where things ran perfectly, a broken heart broke open bigger and I ended up loving someone else more.

Each obstacle held the gift I always wanted. I began to thank my problems. But only after the fact when I saw how well things always turned out

Things got better, things got worse, things got different. Things got real. Life went on.

And then things got completely and unequivocally horrible grief loss rage insanity wiping shit off floors begging love not to leave sudden wakings in the middle of the night desperate to have those lost years back desperate not to feel it was all over desperate...

There was nothing to do but thank and thank and thank while pouring out pain like a mother giving birth not always sure the gift I sought laid beneath such poundings. The more I poured out pain, grief or loss or desire or yearning or unresolved or uncertainty or fear or .... pages and pages and pages of thanks poured out too, like the kisses that pour out when love invites.

Thank you for our crisis which motivated me to go deeper and open up more and be vulnerable like I never have and recognize the deep bruised injury. Thank you for the opportunity to practice loving even when I'm being rejected, It hurt like hell and I was so exhausted from all these years of crying but there was this feeling of finally emerging from the prison I had always lived in. Thank you for such sorrowful childhood moments. It taught me to stand in the heart of a crisis a trauma and understand war and understand peace. Thank you for my desire and my passion. It has kept me moving to bigger rather than smaller. Thank you for the directness of your words the clarity of your heart oh and thank you thank you thank you for that kiss that night. Thank you for this pain that makes me weep with regret and love with abandonment. Thank you for such a beautiful home. It may be filled with heartbreaking memories but it is a home that sheltered me these three tough decades and I can still afford to live in and it is now so rare and I am blessed.

Thank you for the memories of where everything that went wrong was only on its way to going right.

Sunday Memories: Thanks Winning

2011-11-27T00:01:00.000-08:00

The doorbell rang.

This was before intercoms and videos. Lobby doors were open, directories were very clear.

So Florence answered the door. There stood a delivery man holding a huge box.

My father had won in some office lottery a 25 pound turkey for Thanksgiving.

That's how I knew it was Thanksgiving.

I remember sitting down to the first and I suspect only Thanksgiving meal we ever had as a family. But, I have no memory of the meal itself.

I also suspect, poor memory and all, that it was the only thing my father ever won.

Oh Happy Day

2011-11-24T00:01:00.000-08:00

On day in 1965, during one of the many tussles I had with my sister, Louise, I struck a rare blow and, shortly after that, she landed in Beth Israel Hospital (our hospital of choice where my broken arm got set and where my mother, Florence visited frequently until the night she died).

Years later, in fact two weeks ago, I found this drawing I had made commemorating both the Thanksgiving holiday and my sister's recovery from spinal meningitis. Perhaps I was genuinely thankful. Perhaps I was greatly relieved I hadn't killed her and was now reprieved from a life burdened with a horrible secret and crushing guilt. Either way, I was clearly glad to give thanks.

Florence's mother, Sophie told me one day to always say 'I'm sorry' first. I did for years until it became detrimental to my health to believe I was always wrong and beholden to make things right, regardless of the circumstance.

I always thought 'I love you' was the most important sentence in the world, probably because I heard so little of it. I did many things to say that sentence and I did more things hoping it would be said. Those words, important as they may be, were at times just words without action.

It was, when forced to heal from too many 'I'm sorry' and 'I love you' that shouldn't have been said, that I learned how to say 'thank you' to everything. With every statement of gratitude I grew back my sense of self. 'Thank you' became my fountain of youth, richness, and joy.

The night Florence died at Beth Israel the words I said most were "thank you". Perhaps if I had drawn a picture of that night it would look exactly like the one I drew for my sister so many years before, only with more machinery around the hospital bed and without my dad.

Thanksgiving 2011 - November 24th would have been Florence's 87th or 88th birthday. I was privileged to join her on her journey to her end and somehow along the way I got to love her and be loved by her in ways I could have never imagined.

Since then, I have survived these past years because of the varied gifts she had bestowed upon me, both tangible and intangible, least of all this blog of stories about the City she and I love with all our hearts and souls, and every bit of our passion and our art. For that and for everything I am truly thankful.

So Florence Deutsch Moed, Happy Birthday and Happy Thanksgiving.

The Halls To Peace...

2011-11-22T00:01:00.000-08:00

... are often unadorned.

One just hopes they are well lit, not just with strong bulbs, but with good intentions to seek common ground and the heart and soul of the other.

Sunday Memories: When A Picture Is Like A Song

2011-11-20T00:01:00.000-08:00

We were talking about how songs were haven for memories, sometimes so painful they couldn't be listened to for years. And smell, like when I walked into Florence's building and smelled the rice and beans of the apartment right by the elevator and, if it was shabbas, the competing chickens cooking from floor to floor.

Once a wind flooded me with memory. I had missed Autumn in New York one year and didn't realize until the following October when a wind embraced me and I remembered how much I had needed it around me. It was a memory of every Autumn I had ever lived in my hometown.

But pictures were less memories and more like stickies or little notes left to remind me of facts - a painting of childhood fairy tales, a photo by Weegee, a postcard sent by a friend reminding there was no excuse not to write.

And then opening this picture, I remembered not the facts that some guys were working on the roof across the street, but that the day was warm and the time was open and the air still hurt to breathe and I forced myself to move a defeated arm and, just like I had been taught, seek expression.

Peace Be With You

2011-11-17T00:01:00.000-08:00

The United Nations

And Peace Be With You.

**
The longer road begins with a word, a word that opens the possibility of everyone being welcomed to the table. And one hopes the word and words that follow build that welcome. Sometimes it is called the law. And sometimes that law welcomes justice to the table.

There is this programme available all around the world that teaches the teachers the word and the many that follow.

Programme of Assistance in the Teaching, Study, Dissemination and Wider Appreciation of International Law

Winter on 14th Street

2011-11-15T00:01:00.000-08:00

Sunday Memories: When We Could Still Cry In The Middle Of A Fist Fight

2011-11-13T00:01:00.000-08:00

This was first grade.

Second grade you couldn't cry when punching the boy you liked who punched you first because you were teasing him too much in front of the other boys because you liked him so he had to take care of business and let you know he didn't like you even though you knew he did.

No, this was first grade. Where liking a boy wasn't on the table but teasing still was.

And when Mrs. F., the teacher chided you for being mean to one of the sweetest boys* in the class her words still held the blow of disappointment and shame for not being the best you could be. Hearts still sang with surprise and delight and tears still burst out and the squabbles of fists and words were easily healed with quiet words from teacher and a hug or a handshake between classmates.

*Mark S. where ever you are, I'm really, really sorry. I know I apologized in first grade and again many years later at the Avenue A bus stop on 14th Street, but I just wanted to let you know I meant it that second time. And I mean it now.

Guest Artist: Rob - Once I Was

2011-11-10T00:01:00.000-08:00

**

Robert Pappagallo is a native New Yorker who goes around shooting his city.

This photo may not be used without permission from Robert Pappagallo

Midnight At The Oasis

2011-11-08T00:01:00.000-08:00

Staten Island Ferry

Sunday Memories: "Candy, Candy, Candy For A Penny" - Another Installment

2011-11-06T00:01:00.000-07:00

These were the revealed holy grail of my youth, a mountain of them at the Essex Street Market, where, as Florence got fresh fish or fruit, I stared wishing for the prerequisite penny that might release the treasures within.

Needless to say, that never happened. Candy, a verboten item, rarely crossed our palms except for brief moments during Halloween and perhaps a birthday party or a successful begging from a friend's lode.

Now, it is utterly impossible for me to pass one without putting in the prerequisite quarter.

First post: Candy, Candy, Candy For A Penny - August 10, 2008

GUEST ARTIST: DANA - Encore - "One Day I Wrote A Sentence"

2011-11-03T00:01:00.000-07:00

A series of Dana's writing.

How Dana, Guest Writer, started writing.

Ghost Longing (excerpt)

“His homecoming every night was thrill enough for me because his physical presence was sexually provocative. I loved the intimate challenge of living with a stranger. Present, but not completely knowable.”

GUEST ARTIST: DANA - Encore - The Sad Little Crone

2011-11-01T00:01:00.000-07:00

A series of Dana's writing.

Another one of Dana's short New York stories.

I seem to have trouble visualizing accurately how my face betrays my age. Especially when I hit a patch of exhaustion and my color drains completely. On my birthday I went to Trinity Church to hear a concert by a group called Alhambra. They specialize in Sephardic songs accompanied by very exotic instruments. Sensuous and rhythmic 14th and 15th century melodies. When they ended, I was caught in their spell. But hunger and fatigue had to be remedied. I crossed the street to a dingy pizza joint and ordered a large orange juice. Then I plopped down at a corner table to simply rest. I closed my eyes for a moment and awoke suddenly when a young Asian woman poked her nose in my face and asked tenderly “Are you all right?” followed by, “May I buy you some lunch?”

My first thought was “I really must buy a new winter coat. My God, I must look dowdy."

“No lunch, please.” I told her I was enjoying my birthday but just needed a little rest. Then I stood up and left the place. She followed me asking where I lived and how I was planning to travel home. I kept reassuring her that I would take the subway, as usual. She offered to escort me down the steps. I refused her kind help Then she put something in my right hand and ran into the crowd. I opened my hand to find a neatly folded $5 bill. I was truly shocked but also touched and somewhat ashamed at her judgment of me. Her compassion brought tears to my eyes. So that’s how I appear to her!

When I got home I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror. There she was – the dear little old lady or perhaps the sad little crone needing a good meal. I swore I’d save that $5 bill forever. But I broke my vow 4 days later.

SUNDAY MEMORIES: GUEST ARTIST: DANA - Encore-"If I Bring Forth What Is Inside Me, What I Bring Forth Will Save Me"

2011-10-30T00:01:00.000-07:00

A series of Dana's writing.

This is Dana.

Her husband, before he was smart enough to marry her, had, as a teenager, a crush on Florence. When they all grew up, Dana and Florence and their husbands and children lived across the hall from one another on Lewis Street.

I knew Dana was the most beautiful woman I knew. And I knew this before I knew how to tie my shoe. I also knew she knew something about the world that would be essential to my survival. Perhaps it was the beautiful stones from Brazil she gave me after her trip there with her husband to help establish socialist co-op housing. Or maybe it was the tiny little Bolivian dolls given after another trip to continue developing affordable housing in South America. Or maybe it was the story book with real art as illustrations that told me there were more worlds beyond the wall of sound I heard every day from Florence's Steinway.

Whatever it was, what beamed from her heart and soul was a living example of utter enjoyment of every second of every moment to love, eat, laugh, talk, touch, live.

Today, at least 45 years after learning to tie my shoe, Dana is still the most beautiful woman I know. Or at least Number One of a very short list. And today she brought forth a story she had poured into devastating poetry. She said that when she wrote that story it saved her life. Once again, so many decades later, I learned of a world beyond the horizon of my own fear, my own pain, my own disbelief.

*The fortune cookie fortune Dana reads every morning as she fixes her hazelnut coffee.

GUEST ARTIST: DANA - Encore - Bus Drivers and Me

2011-10-27T00:00:00.000-07:00

A series of Dana's writing.

Another one of Dana's short pieces. This really happened.

Note to Readers: You gotta know a little bit about the Village, the streets and the buses. If you have any questions, just drop a comment...

"Standing in a downpour on the corner of Fifth Avenue and 14th Street, I boarded a limited bus that would at least take me to a few blocks near my destination. My hope was to end up on Sixth Avenue and Third Street by dismounting at Fifth Avenue and Eighth Street. Not great. But doable.

It was 5pm and I needed to be at the movie theater by 5:20. The driver understood my anxiety and simply said, "Sit Down."

When the bus turned left on Eighth Street to Broadway, I was shocked. It had actually taken me even farther from my destination.

"Last stop!" he announced to all the passengers.

I was about to get off when again he said, "Sit Down."

Then he drove south on Broadway and turned right on Houston and right again on Sixth avenue heading north. I expected him to sail right past my movie. I stood up and again he ordered me to "Sit Down."

I gave up, wondering if maybe he was kidnapping me.

Then to my utter disbelief, he stopped illegally at Third and Sixth. He had taken me to a spot across the street from the movie theater!

"Bless you!" I said.

"Bless YOU! he replied. It was the one time he didn't say "Sit Down."

GUEST ARTIST: DANA - Encore -Wisdom of the Ages

2011-10-25T00:01:00.000-07:00

A series of Dana's writing.

Another one of Dana's short pieces. The instructor of her writing class asked them to write about their wisdom.

Wisdom, if that applies to me, comes from my mother who insisted that I always stand up for myself and never contribute to my own problems by being too compromising. From my father, I learned to be compassionate, and caring empathetically. She imposed self-discipline. He welcomed social interactions and humor.

But life (marriage, motherhood and widowhood) together with many health calamities, taught me to trust in my eventual survival at any cost. This is what I hope my children will have picked up from me.

My personal philosophy includes all of the above PLUS the notion that to defer nothing is a wise attitude. There seems to be no reality in thinking "one day I will..." Probably you will not.

****

Dana's profile and other short pieces are:

Tuesday, March 24, 2009
"If I Bring Forth What Is Inside Me, What I Bring Forth Will Save Me"

Tuesday, May 19, 2009
"One Day I Wrote A Sentence"

Thursday, June 25, 2009
GUEST ARTIST: DANA - The Sad Little Crone

SUNDAY MEMORIES: GUEST ARTIST: DANA - Encore: The Gift That Kept On Giving

2011-10-23T00:01:00.000-07:00

A series of Dana's writing.

PLEASE NOTE: A dress cost $25 in 1949.

***

An old friend sent my husband a holiday gift of two somber neckties from Sulka, the prestigious menswear store on Park Avenue. George wouldn’t wear either of them, even to a funeral, for fear of looking like the chief pall bearer.

So I decided to return them and cash them in. But Sulka, gracious to accept the return, would not give me cash. “We do not handle cash, Madame, just credit cards,” they explained. Instead, they gave me a gift certificate for $60.

I gave George the gift certificate and suggested he visit Sulka himself and choose something else.

“You choose,” he said. So I tried.

But polo shirts were $80 each and other items were equally above the value of the certificate. Then we decided to give the gift certificate to my father on his 55th birthday. He was flattered, but he in turn gave it to my brother on his 35th birthday.

When George’s birthday came around, the next September – lo and behold – my brother sent him the Sulka certificate, by now a bit ragged from age. One certificate had solved everyone’s gift problem.

So once again, I went back to Sulka’s and only had to add $20 to the certificate to buy my husband two pairs of woollen socks from Scotland. They were by far the most beautiful luxurious and warm socks he would ever own.

That is, until the moths got into them. The moths had good taste.

***

Other short works by Dana:

Wisdom of the Ages

GUEST ARTIST: DANA - Encore - The Pot Of Gold

2011-10-20T00:01:00.000-07:00

A series of Dana's writing.

Marian and I had high expectations. We were about to go to see a one-woman theatre piece calls “the Amish Project”. It referred to the tragic murder of thirteen school kids whose Amish classroom was invaded by an armed lunatic.

At first I refused to join Marian in reliving such a terror. But word came from several critics of its unique value. Travel plans were finalized, and I was nearly dressed when Marian called at the last moment to tell me that there was a long, steep flight of steps from the street entrance up to the theater.

I am too disabled to manage those damn steps.

Marian decided to go alone. This was another time I had been rebuffed by architecture. Suddenly my missed evening struck me harder than the play’s tragic subject. I moped regretfully the remainder of the afternoon.

Stepping outside on my terrace to relieve the blues, I was thrilled to see a dazzling rainbow its enormous arc embracing the sky from mid-Manhattan to north Brooklyn, I began shouting to the strollers eleven stories below to “look up, look up, a rainbow!” But no one heard me. I was the sole beneficiary of the splendor. I was Finian himself.

GUEST ARTIST: DANA - Encore: Time Flies When...

2011-10-18T00:01:00.000-07:00

A series of Dana's writing.

It was supposed to be a brief meal.

Four hours later, I was still laughing too hard to write down everything Dana said.

But she had been warned. When one encounters a better writer than oneself one can only rip off said writer in self defense.

On certain attempts of style:

"He combs his hair with a washcloth."

On the insults of aging and limited mobility:

"I could fool anything but a flight of stairs."

On the fact her doctor is moving her office right across the street from her apartment:

"I won't be late if there's no red light."

And last, but not least, on our favorite actor:

"He's a walking sex experience."

SUNDAY MEMORIES: GUEST ARTIST: DANA - My England

2011-10-16T00:01:00.000-07:00

A series of Dana's writing.

Dana (photo by T. Krever)

The massive doors of the Frick Collection on East 70th Street were my entry into viewing centuries of breathtaking paintings. This jewel-box like museum, once the home of Henry Clay Frick, opened my eyes to English landscapes and portraits of the past. One could almost breathe the country air in the 18th Century paintings of John Constable, born in Suffolk, England in 1776.

One of this great works depicted the immense Salisbury Cathedral settled like a huge, centuries-old edifice on the even larger Salisbury Plain. I was wondering how its interior would feel if I were ever fortunate enough to visit England one day. In my dreams!

Around that time, I played hostess to a delightful English couple, John and Patti, who came to New York City hoping to publish one of John's manuscripts. My contribution became bed and board, no charge. Sadly, they returned home empty handed. Some time later they invited us to stay with them while we vacationed in London. Perhaps my dream of walking into Constable's 1826 painting would come true.

And then it did. But not as any one would have hoped or expected. We were invited to a funeral.

The bereaved family were old friends of our hosts. And to signify the loss of all losses - that of their 12-year-old son - they invited hundreds of friends to Salisbury's national treasure. Showing incomparable strength, they embraced and led their 17-year-old son to the speaker's lectern where he told of the accidental death of his brother whom he had been driving to school Unable to avert a tragic collision, he expressed his tortuous grief, consoled and loved by his parents as he spoke.

I began remembering the loss of my only daughter years ago. She had died two minutes after her birth. I had never seen her face. Yet for years, I had mourned her.

During the Bishop's service I heard the hum of a bagpipe's drone. It seemed miles away in the echoing of the huge cathedral's interior. A hush fell over all the attendees as the dirge of a single piper emerged slowly and penetratingly from the near of the cathedral. He was attired in his clan's tartan and soon passed my seat. His pipes chilled my bones, and I wept.

Then the piper marched onward to the entry of the cathedral and his sad sound eventually trailed off into silence

We all were asked to proceed outside to a large tent where service staff had set out tea and plain cake.

Through the quiet murmur of conversation and little sighs, I stood apart from the others while a light rain fell. No one seemed to notice as they sipped their tea.

The magnificence of the painting had come to life and I had finally stepped within its mysterious interior. But not as any one would have hoped or expected.

GUEST ARTIST: DANA - Ghost Longings

2011-10-13T00:01:00.000-07:00

A series of Dana's writing.

There he stood.

In the doorway.

I gasped. At age 40, he was ruggedly attractive with faintly almond-shaped eyes, pea-green, and accented with dark brown eyebrows.

After rocking back and forth on his heels, he stepped forward and said, "So!" This was his way of saying "Here I am. What's happening here?"

The subliminal message was "I've been gone all day. Surely you've had time to redecorate the living room and buy a new gadget for the kitchen. Maybe you've gone gallery-hopping and put a deposit on a small watercolor. We'll take a look at it together this weekend and decide whether or not to buy it."

Of course, I had not done any of the above, but he had an appetite for constant change. He loved to make endless travel plans. This aspect of pleasing him was perfect for me. It generated enough activity in the planning stages alone to placate him. And I loved seeing new places.

Otherwise, daily routines were not kick enough to challenge him. So it was my role to be the entertainer and provider of amusement.

His homecoming every night was thrill enough for me because his physical presence was sexually provocative. I loved the intimate challenge of living with a stranger. Present, but not completely knowable.

So.

Here he was in the doorway again.

Only two weeks after his premature death.

**

Previous post in the series:

Tickets

GUEST ARTIST: DANA - Tickets

2011-10-11T00:01:00.000-07:00

A series of Dana's writing.

Dana and Polly, the cat (photo by T. Krever)

A few weeks ago as April came to a close, I watched a revived performance of "South Pacific" on Channel 13. Seeing this great Broadway musical by Rodgers and Hammerstein brought tears rolling down my cheeks as I began reliving the time in 1949 when the show first opened and I wanted to see it.

In the 1940's, I was a young opera fan. Whenever Ezio Pinza was scheduled to sing, I was on the standees line, usually for 6 to 8 hours. I was hoping to get a spot behind those with seats during a three-hour performance.

The standing room line began when the opera season opened in November, a chilling, dark month when only an opera fanatic would ignore the discomfort.

When my idol crossed over to Broadway to play the male lead in "South Pacific", I tried three times to get a ticket, but it was always sold out.

Frustration led to trying a last but not too hopeful attempt to see this popular show.

My best friend, Anita and I decided to write a letter to the great man himself! This is what we wrote:

Dear Mr. Pinza:

We have been standees attending all your performances at the Met. You brought us great joy. and now you are singing in our language, English. We tried to get tickets several times. No luck. But if you were able to assign a pair of your house seats to us, we would be forever grateful. After the performance, we would be honored to take you out to dinner.

If you find this letter to be an embarrassment, just ignore it. No reply is necessary.

Sincerely, Dana & Anita

We included my phone number and mailed it to him at the Majestic Theater, never expecting an answer.

To my utter shock, I received a phone call from his representative three days later! He said that Mr. Pinza was charmed by our letter and when did we want to go? I was almost tongue-tied. Then I said, "Any Wednesday matinee." He agreed. Then he added that Mr. Pinza regretted that he would not be free for dinner afterward.

The following Wednesday, tickets were held for us at the box office. They were for Row-AA just behind the orchestra pit.

When we sat down very grandly, minutes before the overture began, one of the musicians said to another, "Hey, look at the Tchotchkalas Pinza's got in his house seats today!"

Sunday Memories: What's In A Name? If It's Cornell Edwards Way, Quite A Bit: Part Three

2011-10-09T00:01:00.000-07:00

"... this serene spot in the hustle bustle world.
- comment left on the petition."

Bill, Cornell's partner of five decades is collecting signatures supporting the co-naming of 13th Street "Cornell Edwards Way". Stop by at 143 E. 13th Street and sign the petition!

In the meantime, settle in, get comfy and read Part Three of the story of how such a simple request to acknowledge Cornell's 43 years of contribution to New York City came about.

It's not just putting in the time here that makes you a New Yorker.

It's the nod to the counter guy who every day pushes a coffee to you before you even have to say "Light, one sugar".

It's saying "Good morning" to the bus driver when you get on and saying "Thank you" when you get off.

It's wishing the guy in the token booth "Happy New Year" or whatever holiday they are stuck working.

It's knowing this is your city and any person next to you on the IRT is your neighbor, even if you see them only once in your life.

This New York was Cornell's New York and we were lucky to be his neighbor.

Any time Fire Station #3 headed back to the fire house, Cornell waved. In the beginning, it was a thank you to them coming to his rescue when the fire broke out. But as the guys who had fought the fire retired and younger ones took their place, Cornell's greeting continued and soon it had nothing to do with what had happened. It was a neighbor being a neighbor to his neighbor.

It was Bill waking up one morning and finding Cornell's 12 year old niece, Tammy sleeping at the foot of the bed because Cornell went in the middle of the night and got her because that's what you do - you raise a child who needs raising - and then you go to every PTA meeting, even if you are the only one who shows up.

It was Cornell stepping up and becoming part of Community Board 3 because it was his neighborhood and he wanted to be part of its guardianship. It was him chairing a meeting of angry developers and angry residents at each others' throats, and Cornell getting up and through the melee letting his voice ring out, "Everybody's right!" and the room bursting into laughter and then finally settling down enough so everyone's position could be heard and considered. He didn't say much but when he did, his words were powerful.

Tanya, the cat

It was Cornell, once a week, taking care of two elderly sisters up in Harlem, both from Granada, one an Episcopalian and the other Jewish, and making sure they got the right Perdue chicken and a can of sliced peaches from Rainbow Grocery and they did because Rainbow knew what they liked. Because like Cornell, Rainbow was their neighbor too. And at the end it was making sure as they walked that journey to their resting place, they were cared for with dignity and respect. And after the Jewish sister was laid to rest by her congregation, Cornell and Bill made sure that the sister who was Episcopalian received a proper burial at St. John the Divine.

It was Cornell making sure the absentee ballot for his 90 year-old neighbor got to the polling place.

Again, for Cornell it was returning to Harlem's AME Zion Mother Church of his college days and making sure a boyscout troop was reestablished. Now a trustee of the church, he helped preserve its history, including writing a book about the church's amazing journey since 1796.

When Cornell died, nearly 1,000 neighbors showed up at the church for his funeral. In his message that day, the Reverend Gregory Robeson Smith embraced the life that Bill and Cornell shared by invoking the names of Elijah and Elisha - the prophet and his companion. Two men who walked together to create a kinder world, a better land, a real neighborhood. And after the funeral, envelopes sometimes with $20, sometimes with more, came to Bill. Neighbor taking care of neighbor.

Bill and Cornell began their walk together as an interracial gay couple in the days where such couples risked their lives to be together, and, in certain states could be and were jailed. They began their walk together in the days gay people were institutionalized, shunned, arrested, and sometimes killed. How, then, during those sadder days did this neighborhood welcome them?

"There wasn't much of a neighborhood then. When you came into it, we were here," Bill said.

There may be people who don't know their neighbors. Cornell wasn't one of those people. Neither was Florence. Neither am I.

And neither is Bill, Cornell's partner of five decades, who sits outside of his neighbors' front doors with the petition to co-name 13th Street between Third Avenue and Fourth Avenue "Cornell Edwards Way".

If you currently live on the block, Bill especially needs your signature! So stop by Cornell's shop at 143 E. 13th Street and sign the petition.

**
Thank you to Bill for his amazing generosity and help in making these stories sing the life of Our New York.

What's In A Name? If It's Cornell Edwards Way, Quite A Bit: Part Two

2011-10-06T00:01:00.000-07:00

"You helped turn this neighborhood from a war zone into a community." - Lynn (Her father was a well known African-American clarinet player, and their family lived down the street from the Flower Stall. Cornell gave her brother his first job helping out in the store.

Cornell and his Christmas windows

The beginning was like any beginning of great things - a bit bumpy. There was that garbage can that got thrown through one of the front window. A flower store could be bad for certain businesses. Like drugs, prostitution, porn theaters. "Well, it was a dicey neighborhood," Bill dryly observed. And then there was that flower refrigerator system that got built half way but never finished because the money ran out. This eliminated selling flowers.

However, somethings went well. In a neighborhood rife with crime, Cornell never got robbed.

So with some agricultural leanings from the one side of his family still farming in North Carolina, and armed with a degree in English from NYU, Cornell set about doing what he had to do, starting with the tome of all plants tomes, Exotica. "Self-taught," Bill said.

Soon the plant peddlers, mostly from New Jersey and Staten Island, who serviced plant and flower stores from their trucks found Cornell. Every week or so they'd pull up their trucks and show their wares.

But it was the Manda Brothers that changed everything. Famous horticulturalists educated in London the three brothers' New Jersey greenhouse, established in 1910, was legendary. And even better, it was accessible by public transportation, an important detail since neither Bill nor Cornell owned a car. Cornell began to do business with them which would continued for decades until the brothers retired. After his visits to pick out items for The Flower Stall, the Manda Brothers' old 1936 pick up truck, painted green with house paint, would swing by 13th Street and drop off his order.

The shop was now open and thriving, with a specialty of exotic and colorful plants. Bill remembered a day when Cornell bound up the stairs to their apartment, excited about selling a bromeliad for $4.50.

There was also a special hi-fi system from Bill's college days in the store. Those were the days of tubes and wires and sensitive dials you had to tune carefully to get your station. Digital hadn't been invented. The old system sat on the wooden counter. Because the 10 watt Bell amp ran hot it needed to be turned off every night. Well, one night, Cornell forgot to turn it off.

The next morning Fire Station #3 from down the street was on its way to another fire when they saw the smoke pouring out of the store front. They couldn't stop because they were on their way to another fire and that was the law. So they called Fire Station #5. But #3's fire turned out to be a false alarm, so they headed straight back to Cornell, shooed away #5 and took care of things.

However, everything inside the store was destroyed. Counters, equipment, fixtures. As well as every single plant.

Perhaps a week or two, later, as the store slowly got fixed up, the Manda Brothers' old 1936 pick up truck painted green with house paint pulled up to the store. Before you could say 'bromeliad' those brothers jumped out, restocked the store with every possible plant imaginable, jumped back into the truck and drove away.

And it wasn't just the neighborhood looking out for Cornell. Cornell looked out for the neighborhood. And he didn't miss a thing. Like a sudden increase in odd activity at a certain doorway. People coming and going at short intervals but too short a time for brothel business. A simple question from Cornell to the owner of the building - "What's going on?" - quickly slowed down the growing drug business. "He didn't say much, but his words had terrific power," Bill noted.

There was also that time when Lynn, then in high school, decided to cut school one day. She headed down 13th Street to illicit teenage freedom. Catching Cornell at the doorway of the store she ducked down behind the cars and made a dash to the corner. Just as she got to the end of the block, there waiting was .... Cornell.

The teenager Lynn was not happy at all. But the adult Lynn knew the precious value of a neighbor looking out for the kids in the neighborhood. Like many of us who were running a bit too wild on the streets, those moments reminded us caring eyes who knew our mothers and fathers were keeping us in line and keeping us safe.

Cornell wasn't just a neighbor to the people on his block. Cornell was a neighbor to his neighborhood.

Part Three: New York was Cornell's neighborhood.

What's In A Name? If It's Cornell Edwards Way, Quite A Bit: Part One

2011-10-04T00:01:00.000-07:00

Bill, Cornell's partner of five decades is collecting signatures supporting the co-naming of 13th Street "Cornell Edwards Way". Stop by at 143 E. 13th Street and sign the petition!

In the meantime, settle in, get comfy and read Part One of the story of how such a simple request to acknowledge Cornell's 43 years of contribution to New York City came about.

Once upon a time...
...maybe in the 60's if not before...

... Second and Third Avenue around 13th Street and 12th Streets and perhaps other streets in our little neighborhood were peppered with SROs and "hotels" with names like Dover, the Village East, the Regina, and the Sahara. Even Schneller's had SROs.

The neighborhood was filled with businesses and families that had been there for years and years and generations and generations. Hudsons Army and Navy took up most of Third Avenue between 12th and 13th and the 97 year old founder still worked the cash register. (I remember this place well, the sagging floors, the floor to ceiling shelves piled high with jeans and the couple of times a then-friend shoplifted there). The barber shop school was there too, a wide expanse of many chairs and many beginner scissors and buzzers.

Across the street was Harry's Haberdashery where you could get two suits for $29. The rest of Harry's was uninhabited but in his building on 13th Street, Harry rented a room it an old man, maybe 100 years old. Once a week the old man would appear and take fifteen minutes to cross the street. Cars had wait until he got far across for them to scoot around him.

Manufacturers lined 13th street which is why the American Felt building is called the American Felt building. There were felt manufacturers there. (Now it's just famous for luxury lofts and Tom Cruise.)

Bill and Cornell lost their apartment on Second Avenue, and were exiled to Yorkville. But they wanted to come home. They looked around the neighborhood and found 143 E. 13th Street.

At the time, it was SROs and perhaps a "hotel" that was rented by the hour. A older gentleman was entering his third decade of leasing the building when he had an unfortunate meeting with a gun from someone who might have been visiting one of his rooms. Well, the older gentleman's son put his foot down. That building and its business was too dangerous.

Bill stepped forward with an offer to buy out the rest of the lease for $2000 and take over the monthly rent of $225. This rent was not for one apartment. This was the rent for the entire building. He and Cornell moved in. As Cornell worked in the boy's department at Abraham and Strauss, Bill replaced the broken coal boiler, the water lines, patched up the apartments and every week would put another piece of rooming board furniture in the empty storefront with a sign "Furniture of the Week". The sales covered some expenses.

And then one day in 1966, Cornell quit the boy's department and said to Bill, "I want to open a flower store. It's going to be called The Flower Stall." And with a name but no store, the adventure began.

***
Part Two: The neighborhood

Sunday Memories: The Outrageous Life and Times of Florence Deutsch Moed

2011-10-02T00:01:00.000-07:00

On Saturday, December 20, 2008 at the Henry Street Settlement in New York City's Lower East Side over 60 people braved bitter cold and ice to celebrate Florence Deutsch Moed's life.

The stories were as outrageous, funny, poignant, riveting and thrilling as any letter from or visit with Florence herself.

My sister and I are forever grateful for all the incredible stories shared and the love so freely given.

Claire Olivia Moed
Louise Althea Moed

***
video by E.M. Smith and Adrian Garcia Gomez
video edited by Lola Kalman

A New Year Encore: In Lieu of Flowers...

2011-09-29T00:01:00.000-07:00

In Lieu of Flowers... was originally posted on October 1, 2008 as an obituary for Florence who had died the previous morning. Since Rosh Hoshanah appears in the English calendar differently each year, she in death has become as unpredictable as she was in life. Wouldn't have it any other way.

In Lieu of Flowers...

Tell the truth.

Tell yourself the truth.

Don't let your bullshit compromise either of the above.

Don't lie. Unless you're drunk. Then really don't lie.

Don't steal.

Accept hand-me-downs.

Look fabulous in your own clothes. They may have started out as hand-me-downs but they're yours now. Proudly recount their lineage. Never feel ashamed about that.

Never take a taxi.

Walk everywhere.

Don't wear a coat in winter.

Carry your own weight to the point of pathology. Better to err on independence than not.

Refuse to lose at the hands of cowardliness, mediocrity, stupidity, and the need to blend in.

Suffer aloneness at the risk of fitting in with any of the above.

Refuse to feel fear. If you do, ignore it and keep going. Just like Florence did that night during a World War II blackout under the Manhattan Bridge by the movie theater (now a Chinese market).

Always put your work first.
Always do your work.
Always put your work first.
Always do your work.

Rage against the Machine. Even when it looks like it's related to you.

Risk being laughed at by morons when you do something no one else is doing. Just like when Florence put on those roller skates in 1972 and skated up and down Grand Street and all those people laughed at her and then a couple of years every one had disco skates.

Start your entire life over at 60 like you were a 14 year old. Because on some level, you still are.

Fight back just like Florence did all the times someone mugged her or tried to mug her during the 1970's.

Don't EVER quit.

Know that that beer, that sandwich, those shoes, that jacket, those pants, that avenue, that movie house, that proper grammar, that street, that bar, that woman, that dance, that etude, that sonata, that scale, that subway, that bus, that hotdog, that boardwalk, that beach, that ocean is Your New York.

It Was Hers.

Sometimes You Get To Go Back To Your New York

2011-09-27T00:01:00.000-07:00

The minute I saw him taking a picture of the front door, I knew this was His New York.

The gate of 217 hasn't changed he told me. It was just like that when he was a young man of 18, fresh from Brazil, right after the war, working for the United States Consulate.

Of course, pointing up to the second or third floor, he had just a small room, enough space for a bed. The toilet and anything else he might desire was outside his tiny habitat.

It had taken him 18 days on a ship to arrive in a city so different then. After a very brief stay on Ellis Island - a letter from the Commanding Officer on the U.S. Base in Brazil made sure it was brief - he got a lift into the heart of the city.

"Where should I drop you?" asked the driver.

"At a square," he replied.

There, smack in the middle of the sidewalk, filled with the milling crowd of New Yorkers on the run to someplace else, was the sergeant from the very U.S. base in Brazil where his journey had begun. In a city of millions, what were the chances of him, all of 18, fresh off the boat, finding a familiar face at rush hour?

"I'm writing a book about my life," he told me.

"I can't wait to read it," I replied.

In the meantime, I quietly gave thanks that, while rushing to someplace else, late as always, blasting music, I too got a million-in-one chance to do something I rarely do. I stopped and asked a complete stranger about their own New York.

Sunday Memories: For My Sister's Birthday

2011-09-25T00:01:00.000-07:00

Somewhere there's a pictures of my sister, Louise, then twelve years old, sitting at an upright piano in this bandshell. She won third prize in a city-wide competition of all the kids in public school taking music lessons and dance lessons. At least that's how I remember it.

That bandshell was part of all our lives when, the arts were in the public school system along with the three 'R's. So Louise being up there was normal. And because she loved playing so much it was normal she'd get a ribbon or a little statue or something heralding her accomplishments.

On a recent day of fading summer, while a ragtime band played nearby and babies and dogs bounced along to the swing, the chiseled inscription on the lip of the stage stood strong and unwavering. It was written in stone.

Presented to the City of New York and its music lovers by Elkan Naumburg

And just as it had welcomed my sister then, it welcomes now any and all the kids and parents and neighbors and passerbyers and anyone and everyone who graces its presence.

Welcome To His New York. Got Kidney?

2011-09-22T00:01:00.000-07:00

This is Juan.

And he needs a kidney.

He's New York Mitchell Lama houses on 95th and Amsterdam. When he was growing up there, you still could see New Jersey from Amsterdam. Never lived anywhere else but New York (and you can't count those 8 months in Kansas City). His high school job was opening-the- doors-closing-the-doors at the Planetarium. TWA flight attendants, then glamorous heroes of the sky, in full length fur coats taught him the difference between a silly drink of vodka and orange juice and the sophistication of a kir royale. Christmas finery in those days was skinny jeans and a shirt unbuttoned down to there. Well, after all it was the 70's.

Then Tom met him.

Tom is not from New York. He's from Missouri. He moved to New York and went to a Buddhist gathering. Took one look at Juan and that was that. And that was 26 years ago. Tom is the only reason Juan lived in Kansas City for eight months.

I ask Juan, "What about you is New York?"

"I experienced everything. We didn't grow up with money, but I experienced everything."

This is my friend, Juan. And what I want him to experience is something he hasn't before - a new kidney.

So if you are B+ or maybe even O or O+ or 0- and you got a kidney, my friend needs your help.

And if you are not any of those things, would you help and pass this post forward? Post it to your blog, post it to your facebook, send it out with your pigeons, let your friends know.

Spread the word. And welcome to His New York.

The Lights of Autumn

2011-09-20T00:01:00.000-07:00

Sunday Memories: The Last Days Of Summer

2011-09-18T00:01:00.000-07:00

Coney, on a Friday morning

Before Google there were these guys.

Straight out of one of my adventure books, I'd watch mesmerized as they use mysterious rays to penetrate the earth's surface seeking, in waning days and emptying beaches, a buried treasure.

A Day On 23rd Street

2011-09-15T00:01:00.000-07:00

It was the fifth thrift store and like most of the other places, dogs were allowed.

Several of us recognized each other from previous shopping stops where collaborative efforts and group participation was part of the process in making wise fashion decisions. We were all on the ferocious hunt for something under $10 that made us look like a million bucks, only five to ten pounds thinner.

But finally after patient waiting by full racks, like many two-legged male companions, including the very tolerant one with me that day, Louie stopped for a break.

Save The Books!!! A New York City Kickstarter Project That Isn't A Film!!!!

2011-09-13T00:01:00.000-07:00

The Quartchyard

Somehow, despite all, Clayton Patterson has given the history and the events of the Lower East Sides haven in his work, photos, films, videos and archives.

Somehow, despite all, he and Dr. Mareleyn Schneider have completed a three volume anthology, JEWS, A PEOPLE’S HISTORY OF THE LOWER EAST SIDE.

And somehow, despite all, including the distributing publisher not having the funds to print, only to distribute, they are determined to get this important collection published.

Clayton was kind enough to include the story I wrote about Cindy and home, The Land Of The Quartchyard in this magnificent collection.

Other pieces include:

Emma Goldman – First Slum Goddess of the Lower East Side
Jewish Boxing in the Lower East Side
Public Baths on the Lower East Side
Tuli Kupferberg: The Meaning of the Jew in the Dictionary of Anarchism

Irresistible!! So please join me in supporting this project by joining in and kick starting it!

Every bit helps!

Thank you so much!

Sunday Memories and Encore: Brief Peace in Late Night

2011-09-11T00:01:00.000-07:00

A Tibetan Monk had been tortured for years by the Chinese authorities. When released the Dali Lama met with the Monk. His Holiness asked the Monk if he was ever afraid during those horrific years.

"Yes," the Monk answered. "I was afraid I would stop feeling compassion for my torturers."

Peace, where ever, whenever and however we can welcome it into our hearts and our world, should never become a memory.

November 18, 2010

It was past the world's bedtime. No one was really there.

Still, the remaining countries who had waited days to speak stepped up to the podium, and in the formal shoes of a tired man or the polite heels of a fatigued woman, addressed the empty seats.

World, they said, let's give peace a chance our country is hurting your country is hurting we are all hurting there is no need for this...

If the seats could have nodded they would have and they would have made sure something was done to make it better. But instead, each word bounced and banged against walls and ceilings.

We, the scribes, though, we made sure the words didn't shatter against hard surfaces.

We, the scribes, noted stressed stated said and urged.

We, the scribes, made sure even in empty spaces peace was recorded and thus given a chance.

You Could Even Hear The Food

2011-09-08T00:01:00.000-07:00

Neither of us had realized what was different until the guy next to us at the bar said "Do you hear any loud rock music?"

There was none.

Which is why we had been able to eavesdrop on his fascinating conversations with his friend on his left about the 32 years at the Daily News working delivery...

...his neighbor on his right about the 1950's magazines he found in the trash right next door...

...and then finally turning to us about how the neighborhood had gone downhill it wasn't a neighborhood anymore and all these expensive restaurants how the hell can you eat with all that noise...

...and then his neighbor on his right joined in...

...and soon we were all talking, complaining, comparing, and one-upping...

"I got my mother's old New Yorkers."
"My mother IS an old New Yorker."

...Because that's what New Yorkers do. Talk to anyone anywhere we are. Like here at this old West Village establishment where it is quiet enough to taste to hear to connect.

Autumn In New York

2011-09-06T00:01:00.000-07:00

St. James Place, near where Gramma lived, Jonathan, Raymond, and Stephen grew up, right by where Dad took us for pork buns, always on the way home from the ferry.

Sunday Memories: Luxury Is In The Eye That Beholds It

2011-09-04T00:01:00.000-07:00

A new chocolate shop beckoned. Delicious plans were afoot. "Gourmet chocolate vending machines!" the handsome young owner shared.

Oh, but we had those too. Sprinkled across subway platforms, for a nickel, then a dime and then for a precious quarter, a small delight of luxurious heaven awaited.

Avant Et Après Le Déluge

2011-08-30T00:01:00.000-07:00

Sunday Memories Encore: "Let the rain kiss you... Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops..." Langston Hughes

2011-08-28T00:01:00.000-07:00

Even the homeless man wheeled his hand truck under the awning. But I threw myself forward hoping the clouds growing dark were lying or at least not telling me the truth for a few more blocks.

and then it rained and the two old ladies cared tenderly for one another as they prepared to step into the storm.

their love I cried later after the storm had finished.

Love Letters From The Most Beautiful Harbor In The World

2011-08-25T00:01:00.001-07:00

Until I got on the Ferry I had forgotten how the smells and sounds were as intimate with me as Florence's music.

Lucy Is In And Giving Advice On Staten Island

2011-08-23T00:01:00.000-07:00

It started with the ladies at the pool who needed swim tips and some goggles...

And then someone said something maybe it was Karen and someone else said something else maybe it was Lori and before you could say "Ask Anything - Free Advice" tee shirts were made and you know when you make a tee shirt that's it. You're committed.

So one afternoon in between the comings and going of the Ferry, the sea rising and falling, the storm warning it was growing and the skyline wooing anyone willing to stop and look, Lori and Karen set up shop and, from expertise hard-earned-hard-won because they know their borough their city their own lives, answered for free any question asked...

What do I do first to start over after prison?
How do I make peace with my adult daughter?
Would God forgive me?

And of course the only question always there...

love and love and love and... a marriage betrayed, a boyfriend loved, a girlfriend desired, a couple's confusion, a hope for union... and love and love and love and...*

*Earth Wind And Fire-That's The Way Of The World

Encore - Sunday Memories: THE LOOK OF LOVE

2011-08-21T00:01:00.001-07:00

Today is Judith's birthday. She is 90. The elegance and spirit from which she has built her life continues to emerge each day, paving the way for the rest of us to rise and become just as extraordinary.

Judith

She escaped from Hungary to England as the Nazis began to round up the Jews. In 1950, she sailed on the Queen Elizabeth into the New York Harbor.

It was morning and the crescent moon glimmered on the water.

The Lady beckoned.

The boat horns blew welcome.

Then the city unfolded before her eyes.

It was love at first sight.

It Was Also Her City College. It Was Always Her New York

2011-08-18T00:01:00.000-07:00

Mimi breaking the rules by not knowing they're there.

We saw each other around City College enough to recognize each other on the plane to China. It was 1986 so not many people were going there. There was a dormitory just for foreigners and I know there must have been other exchange students with curly hair just like her and me but no one immediately comes to mind.

There was maybe one western style hotel and a couple of discos if at all. One night we went to that disco. The club closed except for us westerners and the one memory I can really remember was watching Mimi and Jaffe danced to the song everyone had played from every Brooklyn stoop that past summer.

She was intrepid as much as I was timid so I went home after the semester exchange ended and she traveled to the ends of the earth when not many people were going there.

It Was Her City College. It Was Her New York

2011-08-16T00:01:00.000-07:00

I would study all night and sometimes even the day before all night for the geology class we both had to take as part of our science requirement and she would show up at the Greeks - the only diner near campus - and plying us both with hot caffeine that might have been coffee, I would tell her everything that was supposed to be on the test and then she'd get a B while I barely squeaked by with a C.

Misha is New York and the subway and the street and Puerto Rican and Jewish and the Mitchell Lamas on Amsterdam when nobody lived nowhere and sushi was one place downtown and she is embedded in my home DNA there are words and dances and story-telling-on-you and lemme tell you when a New York Grrl tells a story it is not a quiet event so go some place else for soft elegance because when we laugh we laugh everything and our whole bodies burst.

A Special Sunday's Vows: First In The Eyes Of God And Now In The Eyes Of New York

2011-08-14T00:01:00.000-07:00

Doug and Shawn got married.

Friends asked if they could play music for the party.

We all couldn't stop hugging them...

and hugging them...

...and hugging them...

It was a celebration of what America was and could be.

For where else, Rev. Sparks asked us, could a Baptist preacher marry two Jewish men in a bar on the Lower East Side of New York.

And after they cut the cake....

...all that remained at the end of the night was love, honored by friends and family and now, finally, protected by the laws of the land. At least in New York State.

Altar photo: Celeste McClain

The Playground

2011-08-11T00:01:00.000-07:00

Me and Rags hang out at the benches both watching all the other dogs play. I get extra big friendly with the other dog owners so that maybe their dogs will play with Rags or maybe they'll make their dogs play with Rags. Which I don't think works with dogs. (It also doesn't work with kids but nobody really wants to cop to that.)

Eventually Rags barks at the gate and we leave and I remind myself repeatedly it's not my childhood, it's just a dog park.

Special Announcement: ITCH #13-THE MAGIC RABBIT Includes The Writing On The Wall

2011-08-09T00:01:00.000-07:00

itch, an evolving artist forum cum journal/zine included The Writing On The Wall in their issue, #13-THE MAGIC RABBIT.

One of the few hard-copy journals surviving in these challenging times, itch servces the community of dancers and other artists in Los Angeles and beyond. Check out their website and take them up on their invitation to grow with them!

Sunday Memories: Mamalochen

2011-08-07T00:01:00.000-07:00

"I'm goin' ta Coney," I tell Dana.

"Why?" she asks.

"'cause this Master's student is doing a documentary on home and New York and nostalgia and stuff and she asked if we could go to Coney to shoot some video."

"Oh. You're going to your Mamalochen."

And when I see these three after their morning-beach-sit I remember my mother tongue and the heart that goes with it.

This Is Pat and Rags' New York

2011-08-04T00:01:00.000-07:00

Pat and I have lived next door to one another since 1976. Rags moved in much later. She was Stephen's.

Pat's the real thing.

Grew up in the Bronx, worked the newspapers when newspapers were still newspapers and journalists were still journalists. Knows everybody who's anybody who made New York reporting the kind of reporting they make movies about, including all those tough guys that actors imitate when they have to play a "real" reporter.

Jupiter is still in love with Rags but completely confused about it ever since Rags stopped ignoring him and started visiting us. So now Rags runs into the apartment, Jupiter runs away, Rags sniffs all the rooms, Jupiter runs after him, Rags eats all Jupiter's food, Jupiter watches, Rags runs out, Jupiter follows and then after Rags goes home or to the park, Jupiter sits at her door and sniffs for about an hour.

This is home and this is our New York.

Home Home Home On The Range

2011-08-02T00:01:00.000-07:00

At Queensboro Plaza getting the N or the Q because the 7 isn't going into Manhattan on the weekend

The same MTA guy there when I got on the 7 to Main Street three hours earlier, still there on my way back still shouting into the megaphone "I'm just delivering the information they can receive it or not" but admitting 9 hours of this well he was just going to have to pray and give it to God when he sang in church the next day...

...and the gaggle of boys, speaking something I thought at first Korean but one gets sassy with me thought I'd be too nervous to tell him yes his hair cut was very attractive and when I tell him I had the same cut in the 1980s including the shade in the back he figures out I was born in the 60's "I'm good at math, I'm Asian" they're headed to a party they're from Tibet they're arguing about which stop to get off there will be girls there and they keep asking me which of them I thought was cute "he seems like a good looking kid" and the kid going "I'm 19!" and I go "I'm old enough to be your grandmother, you're a kid" and them all laughing and pushing and fixing their many different hair cuts trying not to look too fussy I say to the sassy kid "you want to know how to get a girl interested in you? Listen to her" and him nodding but hoping he doesn't have to do much more to get her to kiss him...

...and then after the boys rush out to somewhere in Queens finally on the home stretch a family - the mom, the older sister who looked just like the mom, the fierce little brother, and the middle sister who had asked the screaming MTA guy for directions because her mother didn't speak enough English - they sit down and I knit another pair of socks and the girl asks me what I'm doing and who I'm giving them for and the older sister takes out their new pet, a beta fish they got at the 99 cent store but it cost $7 they named her Vanessa and that little girl smiles and I tell her about my fishes Esmerelda Harold and Skuzy and her fierce little brother comes over because he wants to listen and they all get off at 34th waving good-byes and I miss them already...

It's all home as I go home.

Sunday Memories: The Last Time We Met We Used Pen And Paper

2011-07-31T00:01:00.000-07:00

Twenty-five years ago, we were all in China together. We wrote on thin pieces of paper mailed in pretty envelopes with rarely seen stamps to friends and family who got our news maybe two weeks later and by that time the homesick may have past, a heart may have been broken after notes of hope read, and new adventures had in a foreign language.

The Aftermath Dedicated To Florence

2011-07-28T00:01:00.000-07:00

Florence always said "sitting down is half the battle."

I never really thought she was sharing, just instructing. Giving me another piece of artist theory like the sight singing she drilled me in or the ear training we did every day until I was a teenager with too much fury to cooperate.

But she wasn't just talking to me. She was talking to herself, cooing at her own terrors and reminding them that once that butt hit the chair the rest would show up. All she had to do was sit down.

"Half the battle is sitting down," I'd murmur to myself as I ran through the city day after day, too frightened to face packed pages while there were friends still awake and meals to eat and second-hand furniture to consider.

Sitting down then came deep in the night when the air was cooler, the streets were quieter and the desperation to not go a day without writing stronger than the desperation to run away. And once the butt hit the chair the rest showed up pouring out of moving fingers while piles of life were discarded or pushed away for other times when sitting was not such a joy.

Sitting and sitting and sitting and one night, deep and late, something was finally finished.

Special Announcement and Alert from Chelsea Hotel Blog

2011-07-26T00:01:00.000-07:00

Living with Legends: The Hotel Chelsea Blog, one of the most important blogs in New York City, contacted me this morning and asked for help in spreading the word on their recent posting.

The Hotel Chelsea, during its years as a true haven for artists and their friends, would often accept art work in lieu of rent. The recent looting speaks of something much deeper than paintings being taken off walls by new management. How a society responds to looting is significant of how civilized it is. Just as how "the greatness of a society and its moral progress can be judged by the way it treats its animals" (Mahatma Gandhi). Both are expressions of our hearts and souls and our respect for expression and life.

Thieves and butchers only work well in darkness and secrecy. So please help spread this post. To friends, neighbors, fellow artists, family, blogs and bloggers.

*photo by Hotel Chelsea Blog

Sunday Memories: Nina

2011-07-24T00:01:00.000-07:00

Baby Nina

Oh it was exciting when Nina arrived.

The announcement didn't leave the refrigerator until she was deep into grade school and the stains threatened to eat up Bob and Carola's faces.

During toddler years, her finding the volume control on the remote meant any minute we'd hear a blast of 'Talking Heads' or some TV show. "YOU MAY FIND YOURSELF..." always reminds me of her. Just those words. At full volume.

Sax lessons were sweet to listen to. She had some swing. Then she switched to piano. Her recital at Third Street Music I kvelled the whole piece through.

Woman Nina

Now, while her folks are at a wedding, we hang out and watch PARENTHOOD, drink beer, eat Chinese food and talk about Lautrec and biology and having kids and gossip about the actors and the transferring of credit and all the while cliches whirled in my head and occasionally leaked out making me sound like every old lady on the lower east side.

I remember you when you were just this big

You have time you're young.

Oy.

There Is So Little Here That Didn't Travel Through Time And Space...

2011-07-21T00:01:00.000-07:00

...to come together and make a home.

The chairs from Florence the table Dad made the lamp a gift from someone moving the sofa offered up for free the shower curtains from a now-closed store the plants from neighbors the Buddha from hope

In The Dog Days Of Summer...

2011-07-19T00:01:00.000-07:00

...the Cat stays cooooooool. Just like a cooooooool cat does.

Sunday Memories: Otis's Ladder

2011-07-17T00:01:00.000-07:00

It was left in the apartment early on, I think in the 70's. Otis brought it up to fix something or maybe I borrowed it. But it remained after he left.

A hulking presence - like a six year old boy who didn't understand why he was 6'8" when all the other kids in kindergarten were kids size - this ladder moved from corner to corner in the odd shaped hall, never quite blending into the wall, but still becoming part of the scenary.

However, its height was necessary in an old apartment of ceilings beyond reach and so it hulked about. At some point its rungs held the excessive number of shopping bags I felt were too pretty to throw away, but too pretty to use.

It was used maybe a couple of times a year when a bulb had to be replaced or the even rarer event of changing a light fixture. It didn't matter what you were using it for. The minute you stepped on it it wobbled and swayed, even if you were on the lowest rung. Only Joni had the presence of balance to meander about on the very top.

As space within and without opened and an old home cleared for new welcomes, this ladder, covered with history from before I moved in 35 years ago, was quietly taken to a storage closet, my name now taped to it. No one, but me, would remember it had once been Otis's.

They Don't Have Real Food Where She Lives

2011-07-14T00:01:00.000-07:00

Cuz Patty needed deli and she only had a few days in New York.

Deli is in her blood. She comes from the same grandparents I come from, the ones on the Lower East Side surviving diaspora and poverty, domestic violence and disease.

Where she lives now, pastrami comes in plastic and is served with mayo on white bread. And the only blintzes in a ten mile radius is frozen and made of tofu.

So in 100 degree weather, we trekked to the Second Avenue Deli which used to be on 10th and 2nd but the landlord raised the rent and now it's on 33rd and 3rd and the minute we walked in we smelled the smells of food we knew like we knew the names of our ancestors.

2:17 pm

2:23 pm

The Journey Of A Thousand Miles....

2011-07-12T00:01:00.000-07:00

...sometimes begins with a couple of words.

Other times it begins with a couple of feet and some really cute shoes.

My team who have walked with me into all our new lands.

Sunday Memories Encore aka it is too hot to write: How We Spent Our Summer Vacations

2011-07-10T00:01:00.000-07:00

Saturday, July 5, 2008

Florence, Atlantic City, 196something

There was no guarantee we'd ever go away. Vacations were for other people. And summer was a stand-off between our need to have something to do during the day and their need to not have to think about it. Everything really worked much better when we were at school, he was at work and she was at the piano. Time stops for no man and neither did the seasons. Summer came. Repeatedly.

I am not sure what started it, how long it lasted and when it ended but Atlantic City became our Riviera for a couple of years. And with the recent purchase of a car needed to get my father to his job out on Long Island, it was accessible.

A giddiness would fill me at the exotic motel we stayed in with an ice machine nearby and a real swimming pool that was small enough paddle across, not like the huge ocean of Pitt Street Pool. The four of us in one room, two beds, no memory of how my sister and I negotiated sudden close space. I just remember all the old boarding houses and cheap motels pushing the boardwalk into the sea and the salt-water taffy stands, magic peelers that made radishes into flowers, and unspoken fear and desire holding me back from swimming to China.

GUEST NEW BLOG: EN-LIGHTEN UP!

2011-07-07T00:01:00.000-07:00

FROM OUR NEW BLOGGER, MIMI

What drives people to examine their society and question the status quo?

As events in France brought the French Revolution to its climax, many people, particularly members of the Church, the Monarchy and the Aristocracy, blamed the ideas of the Enlightenment on the turbulent events.

But our very own Republic, the United States of America, emerged in the last quarter of the 18th century because of Enlightenment ideas.

So what were these “powerful” ideas that coalesced over a century of trans-national discussions and debates? When Thomas Jefferson wrote, “We hold these truths to be self-evident that all men are created equal,” the fact was nothing could have been less evident. This idea would have been as foreign to the man standing behind the plow as to the man who called himself a lord or duke.

Jefferson was sending up a test balloon within his 18th century society. Given the current events in the United States, the hostility, the polarization and anger… I wonder whether Jefferson’s test balloon would have survived long. Today American policy often seems confused. So let’s review some of the key ideas from which modern European and American society emerged. It’s time for Americans to En-lighten-up!

And what better place to start than with a 17th century Dutch masterpiece, painted in 1650, by Emanuel de Witte. As the title indicates “Interior of the Oude Kerk, Delft,” it portrays the interior of an old church, shortly after the signing of the Treaty of Westphalia. The scene celebrates Holland’s new-found freedom from Spain and Catholic rule. The bigger picture reveals that the Dutch had begun to define society in terms of the individual, and human achievement on earth. The emphasis was placed on science and commerce. It was now incumbent on each citizen to educate him or her self, and to participate in local politic. The Dutch participated in their society as equals.

Three separate scenes in this painting celebrate this spirit. First, this is a church yet there seems to be no opulent ceremonies. The space has been transformed into a town square. Two boys scribble graffiti on a column. Two men are engrossed in conversation, while a woman with a small child, holding a straw baskets, stops to greet a man. All the while, a dog is running and barking while the other dog stops, raises his leg near a column base and pees.

How does this scene encapsulate Enlightenment principles? Because, first and foremost, the focus is on the individual, individuals (men and woman) who were meeting together as equals, to discuss earthly matters. Information and education were now essential. Following these principles, the Dutch championed the free exchange of ideas within a State that was separate from the Church and became known for their freedom of speech and press. This, for the United Provinces and the first Republic on the continent was a golden time.

And so followed such a time for the United States of America and for France... and perhaps now for all countries throughout the world.

***
WHO IS MIMI?

My parents were swept up in the events during the 1950's that led to Algerian independence from France. I was born in Paris in the late 1960’s.

My childhood was spent in Algiers during a time of great optimism when the country played host to all major third-world independence movements, including the Black Panthers from Oakland, California, and when there was faith that colonialism would end, poverty and racism would end, and that peoples all over the world would hold their destinies in their own hands.

A Brooklyn girl since teenagehood, I have a Master’s in Art History and a Master's in Modern European History with a special focus on understanding the ideas that brought about the French Revolution, the mother of all Revolutions.

A CAROL BURNETT FUN AND JOY BIRTHDAY PARTY FOR DOUG!!!

2011-07-05T00:01:00.000-07:00

DOUG RAISED $146 FOR THE SALK INSTITUTE FOR CANCER RESEARCH!!!!!

From Doug:

Dear Friends at The Salk Institute,

Last night, I hosted a party for my birthday and, in lieu of presents, we asked for donations to The Salk Institute in memory of Carrie Hamilton. We love Carol Burnett, whose humor has helped us through the best and most challenging parts of our lives. We're choosing to show our gratitude to her by sending this contribution to your institute, which took such good care of her daughter. Thank you for all you do.

Have a well-lived day,

Doug

***
Happy Birthday, Doug!!! And thank you so so so much for joining the world-wide movement to say thank you to Carol Burnett, raise money for organizations Ms. Burnett supports and have fun and joy at a party!!!!!!

Click on any highlighted word and learn more about Doug and about the Fun and Joy Movement!

***

Doug's Official Website

Sunday Memories: A CowGrrl Grows In Brooklyn

2011-07-03T00:01:00.000-07:00

She is the rare bright moment in a long, bad memory.

Florence had just gotten sick and days and weeks were scrambled into bloody battles of panic and fear that felt like driving down a treacherous mountain road in a hurricane with your eyes closed.

Somehow in the midst of our lives shattering, I got out for a free evening. I remembered I wore something pretty and even took a pretty handbag. I was determined to reclaim some part of something called 'hope' or 'I do have a life' or anything but what I did day in and day out.

There was a barbecue/fundraiser for some radical literary magazine in the backyard of some one's 20-something street studio apartment. The old school of writers were there and many were old. I knew no one except one person and she was busy either panicking about the reading or honing in potential sources of nourishment both living and dead.

In my rush to wear different clothes than the ones I wore taking care of Florence, I had forgotten how much I hated parties and how painfully inept I was at speaking to strangers.

I grabbed a soda and out of the corner of my eye saw a woman so open and self-confident, she seriously had it going on. I thought "she's the coolest person here." But couldn't ever imagine getting to know her. She was, in friends-ville, out of my league.

I decided to be zen-like in the hell I suddenly found myself in. I sat down on a rock in the tiny backyard and pretended to just be. How or why she sat down next to me I don't know but sometimes the universe is kind.

It wasn't just the flattery that she knew my work or even liked it. It wasn't just the delight in finding a writer who could carry on a conversation about writing with enthusiasm and clarity. It wasn't just the surprise of hearing interesting ideas about cowboys and westerns and all that American stuff I was clueless about. It was the delight and joy of finding unexpected connection in a time nothing connected.

Years later, she had a barbecue in her own backyard. All the worst things that could have happened since that day have happened. But one or two really wonderful things have happened as well.

Meet Bucko.

His Ten Year Love Affair With A Keyboard

2011-06-30T00:01:00.000-07:00

Tom

Even though we all knew Tom worked for the telephone company, he was a writer like the rest of the tenants in the building. Mostly rock and political criticism.

Then he retired from his day job. Dreams of writing all day instead of working all day floated before his eyes. "I had this plan," he said. "But things came up."

Like any writer facing any clock that counts seconds, hours, days and years, the desperation to finish something, anything was stronger than any interruptions.

Somehow, over ten years in between...

*family demands
*political upheaval
*political action
*the ebb and flow of laundry and shopping
*maybe in the evening
*sometimes in the morning
*when one of the kids moved back in
*when the kid moved back out
*with a few secretive trips to Ohio and Pittsburgh thrown in
*and skillful deflections of investigations from children and spouse concerned that a reenactment of The Shining was occurring in the little room off the kitchen,

....fingers found the keyboards to one of those big bulky computers and then to a laptop. And then a book got written.

But that's how it is in this building filled with writers, some with day jobs, some without, but all with fingers demanding keyboards no matter what the interruption. Like Tom said, "Here, you feel you're doing the norm by sitting and writing."

Tom's book, An Inconvenient Amish Zombie Left Behind The Da Vinci Diet Code Truth is now in the world. And in this building, a book is up there with a kitten being adopted and a baby being born.

***

An Inconvenient Amish Zombie Left Behind The Da Vinci Diet Code Truth

Goya? Bad Diets? Mud Hens? The Rapture? The War of 1812? Global Warming? Political Conspiracy? Violence on our borders? The lost history of Soft Rock?

Follow the non-stop action from the museums and cafes of Paris to the fast food rest stops and motels of swing state Ohio, as past and future collide to creat an apocalyptical present where people from all walks of life are pulled into a conflict that will determine the fate of the planet.

An Inconvenient Amish Zombie Left Behind The Da Vinci Diet Code Truth is a full length novel mash-up social justice response to the Left Behind series and pop culture critique of The Da Vinci Code with one eye on global warming and the other eye on every social trend and best seller in the last twenty years.

Amazon Kindle ($4.34)

Barnes and Noble Nook ($4.34)

iTunes for the iPad etc ($4.99)

McNally Jackson Bookstore ($16)

Amazon paperback ($16)

***

Tom Smucker is a retired telephone Central Office Technician who has written for over four decades about pop culture and politics. See www.tomsmucker.net for a sampling. He served for many years on the board of Deacons and Elders of his church, and remains active in his union. This is his first novel.

His collection of poetry, Story Poems and Polemics, will be published in the fall.

When One Door Closes And You're Headed Toward The Next Door Opening...

2011-06-28T00:01:00.000-07:00

... sometimes the hallway in between isn't that bad.

SPECIAL ENCORE FOR A SPECIAL PRIDE DAY: The Lionesses Rule The Pride

2011-06-26T09:51:00.000-07:00

Posted while Florence was declining, I was in touch with the woman she had been in love with, involved with and in war with since they were teenagers. Today, with gay marriage now legalized, I wonder what their life would have been like if only the world had loved their love as they had.

**

1982
All the other gay seniors rode. In the convertible, on the bus, in wheelchairs.

But not Florence.

She walked.

She was in her 60s. She had waited her entire life to walk down a street as who she really was. And she wasn't going to give up that walk for anybody or anything.

Sunday Memories: Reading, Writing and Arithmatic

2011-06-26T00:01:00.000-07:00

Middle row, third from the left.

Yvon went to some school in Queens. I went to PS 110. We both can read and write, but I can't spell. Sometimes I can add. Subtraction, a bit more iffy.

Hanging out one windy afternoon on the benches by St. Marks Church, him sick of everyone on the MTA, me sick of my writing block, and both of us sick of his smoking, we started chatting with the occupant on the next bench over.

She went from school to school, teaching teachers to teach which meant kids were being taught. When did learning become fun?, I wondered. How come they didn't teach us that way? Why couldn't I go back in time and learn to learn all over again? All I remember was dread and well, more dread.

Except one time.

Mrs. Fass, who lived in the neighborhood, was my first grade teacher. I was out sick the day the first-graders got the first grade readers. Everyone started reading that day. When I came back to school, unable to decipher the words in this new book, I dove straight into misery and got more and more lost. Finally, Mrs. Fass sat with me and, other than the word 'squirrel', unlocked the mystery of reading to me.

For the next week, every day after school ended, I would walk up to Mrs. Fass's desk and thank her for teaching me to read.

Following In Florence's Footsteps

2011-06-23T00:01:00.000-07:00

It's rarely a thrill to notice you have become just like your parents.

Usually it's during one of those not-so-flattering moments when you hear yourself say something or watch yourself do something and remember once upon a time you swore, swore, swore you'd never be like them but here you are be-ing just like them...

But how about those other moments when you notice you have become just like your parents?

I remember one day years and years and years ago during a visit to Florence - she was in her late sixties - watching her, as she held a little notebook filled with instructive notes, mesmerize me with tapping I didn't know lived in her feet. Growing up in Fred and Ginger movies, she had always wanted to tap. She alluded that it was a challenge to go to that class - maybe because she was older than everyone, maybe because she was reclaiming a dream too late. But she went until she couldn't anymore.

Facing the rest of my fifties, I decided to do what I had always wanted to do. It wasn't Fred and Ginger I wanted in my feet, but salsa music, what I heard all my life drifting onto Broome Street from the tenements, filling the neighborhood's bodegas, or blasting out of big cars zipping under the Williamsburg Bridge.

So I started taking a weekly free salsa lesson in the neighborhood. I may be old enough to be the other students' mother, and yeah sometimes sitting and watching the guys ask elegant, beautiful, young women to dance feels like I'm back in a junior high school nightmare.

But I am like my mother. Gotta dance.

Some Like It Hot. Others Not So Much.

2011-06-21T00:01:00.000-07:00

It isn't even that hot but the cat has already left to summer in his favorite spot.

Sunday Memories: New Appassionata

2011-06-19T04:22:00.000-07:00

Ludwig comes to life! in Nancy's living room

The thing about growing up under a Steinway is that the music is as intimate as the air you breathe or the punches you exchange with any given sibling. It's just life.

But I didn't like that life that much and took much delight as a young adult corrupting any beloved piece of either parents by inverting its key. This meant a sober, sad sounding piece would at the turn of a single note become a happy beer-drinking polka, and the trolloping joy of a sonata or symphony would just as easy become a funeral dirge. This elicited rage and reprimands from both parents who revered the great works and the great composers. Such responses of course only elicited more delight from me.

However, at some point it's just not nice to piss off an old person, especially one you are related to. So I stopped messing with their music, and other than an occasional indulgence of PDQ Bach's play by play of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony I moved on to disco, funk, salsa and rock.

If only I had known there were others like me. Luckily, like almost all things in life, it is never too late to find kindred souls. One perfect sunny, windy, beautiful day, friends and strangers crowded into the small theater of Nancy's living room for a dress rehearsal and went on a wild ride with Ludwig van Beethoven as he attempted to right wrongs, settle the score with Mozart and terrorize a stage manager into being a cast of thousands.

LUDWIG LIVE!
June 30 to August 30

at the Seven Hills Inn in Lenox, Massachusetts