The New York Daily News has this story, first reported in OTBKB last week, about the plaque in honor of David Fontana that was stolen; the headline reads: COWARDS INSULT A HERO!

Twisted pranksters ripped off a memorial plaque
for fallen 9/11 Firefighter Dave Fontana from outside his old Brooklyn
home – on the day after the fourth anniversary of his death.

"They took Daddy’s plaque?" a heartbroken Aidan Fontana, 9, asked his mother, Marian, at their new home in Staten Island. "Why?"

The 9-inch-by-12-inch bronze plaque – dedicated Dec. 22, 2002, to the
Squad 1 hero – had lain alongside the base of a tree in front of his
former Park Slope brownstone.

The simple message read, "In memory of Firefighter Dave Fontana,
1-0/17/63 – 9/11/01. Beloved husband, father, neighbor, artist, hero."

Its only anchor was a foot-long metal spike, as no one imagined it
would be a target for thieves in the generally crime-free neighborhood,
which is also home to Fontana’s firehouse.

But sometime between 1:15 p.m. and 3:15 p.m. on Sept. 12, the well-tended memorial disappeared.

"I’d like to believe that people aren’t that cruel, and that it was
just a stupid prank," said Marian Fontana, who got the troubling news
while speaking about her new book, "A Widow’s Walk," at the New York
Academy of Sciences.

"Why anyone would want to take something like that is beyond my comprehension," she said yesterday.

Fontana added that she had just visited the plaque on the solemn anniversary of the terror attacks.

After attending Mass with other widows and firefighters at her late
husband’s firehouse, Fontana went to the spot where he proposed to her
in Prospect Park and to their former home to pause at the plaque.

Fontana said she was disturbed by the theft – and urged whoever stole the plaque to "just put it back where it belongs."

Dave Fontana was an avid sculptor who originally signed up for the Fire Department to make time for his art.

He had even worked a 24-hour shift into the morning of Sept. 11, 2001,
sohe could meet Marian for aprivate viewing of the Whitney Museum’s
sculpture garden on their eighth wedding anniversary.

The friends who designed and created the plaque – former neighbor Sarah
Greene and former landlords Sally and Kevin O’Connell – have plastered
the area with flyers offering a $100 reward for its safe return.

But if necessary, they are already prepared to buy another one at a cost of nearly $1,000.

"It just makes us feel that all the goodwill that we all felt after
9/11 gets tossed out in a bucket," Greene said of the theft. "We’re
just incredulous that anyone could be so selfish or so uncaring."

With Rivka Bukowsky

The teen scene on Seventh Avenue has a different vibe, a different cast of characters, this fall. Last year’s high school freshmen (now sophmores) are still hanging out in front of the PS 321 playground but they no longer seem to be crowding outside the Mojo patio. They seem a little less hyper, a little less out to prove that they’re cool. I think they’ve  settled into their teenage selves and are a little more calm.

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This year’s freshmen are just beginning to flex their high school muscles. Many have claimed the Mojo patio as a hang-out for themselves. I’ve noticed some of them next to Rite Aid, others on the north/east corner of Third Street, and on the corner of 2nd Street. I also know that Longs Meadow in Prospect Park has become something of a meeting place. (I used to hang out in Central Park when I was in high school but somehow this is a little bit scarier. Everything is when it’s your kid and not you.)

Dispersed to public and private high schools all over the city, this year’s freshman are reconnecting with their old friends in locations all over the Slope. There’s so much to adjust to the first few weeks of high school. So there must be comfort in being with the old familiar. But it’s the good-old-days with a difference. Some of them have a bit more independence – they’ve got Metrocards, money, more mobility – and they’re pushing the envelope whenever they can.

So far,  I am not sensing a hyperness in them like last year’s teens but they are re-inventing themselves and actively declaring new identities.

There’s something about the other Slope kids that brings comfort and confidence. Maybe it reminds them of when they were the oldest kids at their old schools, when they ruled the roost of their little universe. They come back together as if to say, "I know I’m moving on, but I’m not ready to let go of what’s here. Not yet anyway."

Yesterday, I walked up and down Seventh Avenue from 3rd to 9th Streets taping BROOKLYN READING WORKS flyers onto lamp posts, mailboxes and bulletin boards. And now I am just crossing my fingers that no one has torn them down. Yet.

My husband said that Magic Tape isn’t the right kind of tape to use. "Just look at the other flyers on the Avenue." I did and I saw that most people use a very thick and sticky kind of tape. I guess I have a lot to learn about papering the Avenue.

But I’ll hope for the best. Even if the flyers only stay up for a few hours, a lot of people will see them. A woman who saw me taping a flyer up asked for one of the flyers to give to a friend who is a writer. Just walking down the street with a flyer can be an effective form of advertising. Maybe I should wear a sandwich board or something.

I know it’s probably just a matter of hours before someone tapes over my flyers or tears them down. My husband thinks I should ask shopkeepers to put the flyer in their windows. I did go into stores that have community bulletin boards and put my flyers there. I put one in Seventh Avenue Books, Barnes and Noble, the Chocolate Bar, Starbucks and other shops. I also gave one to Catherine at Community Books and hopefully she’ll put it in her window.

It’ll be interesting to see how many people turn up for the show. Needless to say, I am hoping for a big turnout on Thursday for the first BROOKLYN READING WORKS of the year with novelist Sheila Kohler and poet Matthew Zapruder. It should be a wonderful evening.

Sheila Kohler has published five novels, including Crossways, and three
collections of short stories. Her novel Cracks was chosen by New York
Newsday and Library Journal as one of the best books of 1999. A native
of South Africa, she makes her home in New York City and teaches at
Bennington College.

Poet Matthew Zapruder is the author of American Linden, winner of the
Tupelo Press Editors’ Prize. His poems have appeared in many literary
magazines and journals, including The Boston Review, Fence, Crowd,
Jubilat, Both, Harvard Review, The New Republic and The New Yorker.

I know there are people in Park Slope who think that the lamp posts of Park Slope should be flyerless. They actually tear flyers off of lamp posts.

I saw one of these "activists" once. He had an angry look in his eyes as he ripped flyers off of of lamp posts and threw the offending flyers into trash bins. I didn’t speak with him, but I’ve heard that these anti-flyer people think that flyers make the Avenue look messy; that they take away from the landmark quality of the neighborhood.

It can be quite frustrating when you’ve papered the Avenue with, say, stoop sale posters and hours later your flyers are gone.

Personally, I think lamp posts full of flyers communicate a vital community with an abundance of activities. I certainly don’t think it diminishes the historic style of the neighborhood. One of the fun things about living around here is reading the various flyers that people put up. Stoop sales, writing groups, babysitters, readings, political gatherings, etc. It’s all part of life in the Slope.

Today my son and his friends will be papering the neighborhood with TEENS FOR NEW ORLEANS flyers with information about their benefit concert next Saturday, September 24 from 6-9 p.m. at the Old Stone House. All proceeds from the concert goes to the Jazz Foundation of America, which is helping musicians in New Orleans.

BROOKLYN READING WORKS and TEENS FOR NEW ORLEANS are both at The Old Stone House in JJ Byrne Park on Fifth Avenue between 3rd and 4th Streets.

Residents of Fourth Street between Sixth and Seventh Avenues in Park Slope still can’t figure out why a memorial plaque in honor of Lt. David Fontana, one of eleven
firefighters from Squad 1 who died on 9/11 at the World
Trade Center, was stolen.

In 2002, the plaque was placed on a tree in front of the Fourth Street brownstone where David, Marian, and Aidan
Fontana used to live. There was a small dedication ceremony around
Christmas of that year. "We invited Squad 1 over for a little
dedication. Some kids from my son’s chorus at MS 51 stood on the stoop
and sang a couple of song," writes Sarah Greene in an e-mail to
OTBKB. "My husband, Bill, talked about how we planted that tree a few
years before, and when he watered it some mornings, Dave would come out
and they’d chat. So we thought of it as ‘Dave’s tree’."

This weekend there are plans to hang flyers all over the Slope. A reward of $100 is being offered for the plaque’s return.

The plaque, which reads, "In Memory of Firefighter Dave Fontana –
Beloved Husband, Father, Neighbor, Artist, Hero," was discovered
missing on the afternoon of Wednesday, September 13th. "It was there in
the morning because my husband watered the tree around 10 a.m," writes
Greene.  "But Liz O’Connell noticed it was missing in the afternoon."

Anther Fourth Street resident wrote e-mails to MS 51, as well as to Larry Woodbridge, the administrator for the John Jay building. "I spoke with the evening custodian at John Jay, someone from the Grecian Coffee Shop, and mentioned it at the Bagel Shop this morning. I also spoke with someone from the management company across the street from the tree –she said they will certainly keep their eyes and ears open and said they would be glad to make a donation for a replacement," she wrote in an e-mail to Ms. Greene. "The mood on the block is sad."

No one can quite figure out why someone would steal the plaque in honorlocal Park Slope hero. Perhaps someone wanted a 9/11 souvenir.
The theft could possibly be connected to the publicity surrounding the
recent publication of Marian Fontana’s book" A WIDOW’S WALK: A MEMOIR OF 9/11. Or it might have been a school prank – there are two
schools within blocks of the plaque.

If you have any information about the missing plaque, contact: Sarah Greene at
sarahgreene@nyc.rr.com or louise_crawford@yahoo.com

"Why do hurricanes always have girl names?" My daughter asks while watching the President on TV.

I try to explain that they alternate names – boy, girl, boy, girl. But it does seem like some of the worst have been women’s names: Camille, Betsy, Gloria, and now Katrina.

Today my daughter came home with a raging fever. At dismissal, she said she had a headache and promptly took a nap when we got home (a very unusual thing, I might add). She woke up feeling like a furnace and the electronic ear thermometer revealed that her temperature was 102.8.

Immediately, we launched into "sick child mode."  I gave her 2 teaspoons of Motrin, heated up Progresso Chicken Noodle Soup, and served it to her on a tray in bed.

After a little while, her fever went down and I let her lie on the living room couch and watch a show called The O.C, which I think is a very popular show on Fox. It’s a pretty awful Southern California soap opera, but it’s also kind of fun in its awfulness.

That’s over now and she seems to be getting her energy back. She keeps asking if she’s going to school tomorrow and I keep telling her that she will be staying home and that she might even be going to see her doctor if her symptoms persist.

Reassured, she goes back to watching a Simpsons Video on DVD (she got bored of W and turned him off). I go into the kitchen to listen to the President speak from New Orleans. Seventeen days after Katrina, he’s trying to win back the nation after the debacle of Katrina and convince people that he’s firmly in charge. While not exactly contrite, he did say that "four years after 9/11, Americans do have the right to expect more."

I know that the Motrin is responsible for lowering my daughters fever so I expect her high temperature to return later this evening. Like most moms, I have a good deal of experience with high temperatures and other childhood sickness. I am not looking forward to seeing her all droopy and hot. But it comes with the territory. Of being a mother, that is. We take care of our own in the best of times and the worst. That’s all part of the job.

I came across this list of books, mostly fiction with some non-fiction and poetry sprinkled in, that was compiled by the Brooklyn Public Library on the web. It’s hardly comprehensive but there’s some great stuff here. Please add your own and send them to me.

Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, Michael Chabon
Farming of Bones, Edwidge Danticat
Snow in August: a novel , Pete Hamill
Disappearing Acts, Terry McMillan
My Name is Asher Lev, Chaim Potok
Push: a novel, Sapphire
John Henry Days: a novel, Colson Whitehead
Complete Poems of Marianne Moore
Leaves of Grass, Walt Whitman
Fires in the Mirror, Anna Deavere Smith
When Brooklyn Was the World, Elliott Willensky

Young Adults:
Life Is Funny, E.R. Frank
Annie on the Mind, Nancy Garden
Spellbound, Janet McDonald
Fresh Girl, Jaira Placide
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, Betty Smith
When I Was Puerto Rican, Esmeralda Santiago

Juvenile:
Big Jimmy

My son’s band, COOL AND UNUSUAL PUNISHMENT, has decided to do something very cool and unusual. They are organizing a benefit concert to raise money for the Jazz Foundation of America, a group that is providing aid to th musicians of New Orleans.

The concert will be on SEPTEMBER 24, from 6-9 pm at THE OLD STONE HOUSE in Park Slope. Admission is $10 for adults and $5 for anyone under 18 and seniors.  There will be refreshments, t-shirts, and plenty of other opportunities at the show to contribute money.

The concert line-up is still being developed but it looks like COOL AND UNUSUAL PUNISHMENT will be joined by Mod Rocket and the Foundation Quintet. Comedian Jacb Guilford will be he MC. More details as soon as I know them.

Mark your calendars and tell everyone you know about the show. The benefit concert is in The Old Stone House in JJ Byrne Park. Fifth Avenue between 3rd and 4th Streets.

For directions to The Old  Stone House go here. All other inquiries can be directed to me at louise_crawford@yahoo.com until further notice.

A memorial plaque in honor of Lt. David Fontana, one of the firefighters from Squad 1 in Park Slope who died on 9/11 at the World Trade Center, has been stolen. 

It was placed there in 2002 by friends and neighbors on the tree in front of the Fourth Street brownstone where David, Marian, and Aidan Fontana used to live. There was a small dedication ceremony around Christmas of that year. "We invited Squad 1 over for a little dedication. Some kids from my son’s chorus at MS51 stood on the stoop and sang a couple of song. songs," writes Sarah Greene in an e-mail to OTBKB. "My husband, Bill,  talked about how we planted that tree a few years before, and when he watered it some mornings, Dave would come out and they’d chat. So we thought of it as ‘Dave’s tree’."

The plaque, which reads, "In Memory of Firefighter Dave Fontana – Beloved Husband, Father, Neighbor, Artist, Hero," was discovered missing on the afternoon of Wednesday, September 13th. "It was there in the morning because my husband watered the tree around 10 a.m," writes Greene.  "But Liz O’Connell noticed it was missing in the afternoon."

The missing plaque has been reported to the police. "But somehow I doubt they will put a detective on the case," writes Sarah. She and her neighbors are putting up signs this weekend offering a $100 reward for its return. The value was placed at $800.00 but Greene thinks that it will cost close to $1000. to replace it.

No one can quite figure out why someone would steal the plaque which honors a local Park Slope hero. Perhaps someone wanted a 9/11 souvenir. The theft could be connected to the publicity surrounding the publication of Marian Fontana’s just-published memoir: "A Widow’s Walk: A Memoir of 9/11." Or it might have been a school prank – there are two schools near the location of the plaque. The principals of both schools were notified of the missing plaque.

If you have any information about the missing plaque, contact: Sarah Greene at
sarahgreene@nyc.rr.com or louise_crawford@yahoo.com

Remember, you heard it here first. So here’s the deal. A new film called THE SQUID AND THE WHALE, described by New York Magazine as the Park Slopiest of movies, opens in October. But there’s a sneak preview of it at the BAM ROSE CINEMA on September 29th.

The film, which I haven’t seen yet, has been described as a moving autobiographical account of growing up in 1986 Park Slope. It stars Jeff Daniels as a writer in what’s been described as a career defining role. His marriage to Laura Linney dissolves, disrupting the lives of their two sons. Apparently the film is full of authentic Brooklyn details and locations. I remember seing film trucks with this movie’s wierd name on it and thinking: WTF?

This Sundance Award

As One Strip Goes Stodgy, Another One Goes Hip
by Lisa Selin Davis

Thirty years ago, as the arrival of affluent professionals in search of good schools, gorgeous brownstones and a sense of community began transforming working-class Park Slope, the businesses sprouting along Seventh Avenue seemed a perfect reflection of the tastes and passions of the new residents.

Fifth Avenue is growing as edgy as Seventh once was.

"My experience with retail and Park Slope in the 1970’s was that a person owned a shop because they were selling something they loved," said Fonda Sara, who opened Zuzu’s Petals, a flower shop and nursery, on Seventh Avenue near Berkeley Place in 1971.

In 1974, Ms. Sara moved across the street from her original location, but after a fire last summer wiped out her home of 30 years, she could not find an affordable storefront on Seventh Avenue. In November, she moved to Fifth Avenue near Fifth Street, joining small shops like Under the Pig Antiques and Galaxy Comics in making the leap from Seventh Avenue to Fifth.

As chain stores continue to replace small businesses along Seventh Avenue, its hip, younger sibling, Fifth Avenue, is becoming what its older brother once was: a home for entrepreneurial adventurers, many of whom, forced out by rising rents, have set up shop two blocks west and a world away.

According to Kenneth Adams, president of the Brooklyn Chamber of Commerce, rents on Fifth Avenue are roughly $30 to $40 per square foot, half the rate along Seventh Avenue, which, with Montague Street in Brooklyn Heights, commands the highest commercial rents in the borough. As a result, few retailers can afford a Seventh Avenue address.

"You’re not going to get more indigenous, unique neighborhood retail when asking rents are in the $100-per-square-foot range," Mr. Adams said. "That’s going to lock out most neighborhood enterprises, and lock in regional chains like banks and real estate offices."

Of course, some old-school Park Slope businesses endure along Seventh Avenue, among them Tarzian hardware, an 80-year resident whose proprietors own their building. And southern Seventh Avenue, below Ninth Street, is home to small, hip businesses like the boutique Bird that would feel just as at home in Williamsburg.

Chain stores began arriving on Seventh Avenue in 1997, when Rite Aid and Barnes & Noble established beachheads, and continued with the arrival of cellphone shops and chain restaurants like Subway, which could pay many times the rent that a small business could. (Small businesses like botanicas and bodegas, which have survived for years on Fifth Avenue, may fall to a similar fate, as chains like Dunkin’ Donuts make their way along the street, and rents there begin to rise.)

Some shoppers have adjusted their ways accordingly. "I never go to Seventh Avenue," said Lisa Bowstead, who with Bob Ipcar runs the Web site smalltownbrooklyn.com, which tracks businesses along the borough’s main streets. "There’s just nothing there for me." Ms. Sara added: "Part of the culture of Park Slope was Seventh Avenue. Going downtown to a small store, kibitzing with the owner – you were connected to them."

Meanwhile, Fifth Avenue is welcoming Seventh Avenue refugees, people like Troy Files, owner of Under the Pig, who moved last summer to a 300-square-foot storefront near Fifth Street that is half the size of his former location. Though he acknowledges that Fifth Avenue has much less foot traffic, he says he is glad he made the move. "Fifth Avenue still has a little bit of edginess, a little bit more of a fun crowd," he explained. And he understands why his former landlord raised his rent. "If you could get $2,000 to rent to a mom-and-pop or $4,000 for a chain store," he said, "what would you choose?"

Still, business continues to boom along Seventh Avenue. "You can grouch about how the old neighborhood has changed," Mr. Ipcar said. "But basically the community is still very much alive."

Copyright 2005 The New York Times Company

Lisa Selin Davis will be reading at Brooklyn Reading Works at The Old Stone House on Thursday, December 15, 2005 at 8 p.m. For more information go here.

It was just a matter of time. The other shoe has dropped and it doesn’t feel very good: the reality of Sonya is settling in and my daughter is having some difficulty adjusting to this sea change in her life.

My daughter has spent much of the past year looking forward to Sonya’s arrival. Even before my sister got the referral from the orphanage in Perm, Russia, my daughter has been looking forward to her new cousin.

Once we got the photos, though, my daughter really attached to her. Big time. She lovingly named her Ducky because the receiving blanket she was photographed in had little ducks pictured on it.

After my sister’s first trip to Russia, we had pictures of Sonya in the orphanage and that’s when the longing for Sonya began. From May through the end of August, my daughter  couldn’t pass a clothing or toy shop without wanting to buy something for Sonya.

When my sister, her husband and Sonya returned to Brooklyn from Russia on August 28thit was almost unbearable to remain on vacation in California until August 30th so desperate were we all to meet Sonya. Particularly my daughter, who was chanting: "I want to see Ducky. I want to see Ducky." the whole time.

And it was love at first sight. From the moment they laid eyes on one another, Sonya and my daughter really hit it off. That very first night they met, my daughter was in Sonya’s crib, snuggling up with her and kissing her big cheeks. My daughter delighted in feeding her, pushing her in her stroller, giving Sonya her sippy-cup. They’ve already spent countless hours in the Third Street Playground and on the streets of Seventh Avenue.

I asked my  sister yesterday, "So how do you like having two kids?"

Well, the other shoe has dropped: My daughter has discovered the flip side of a new baby in the family. It sucks the attention right out of a room. "Oh she’s so cute!" "She’s adorable!" "She looks like she’s been here forever." "Look at those cheeks."

You get the idea.

But the worst part is this: my daughter feels like she’s been replaced. Her beloved aunt now has her own child and for my daughter it feels like hell. Granted, my sister probably spoiled the be-jesus out of my daughter. And she continues to shower her with attention and compliments on her being such a great cousin. But for a sensitive young 8-year old, it feels like she’s out and the new kid is in.

It hit hard today. The baby scratched my daughter’s eyelid by accident. Very, very lightly. Apparently nobody noticed. "And you were staring right at me," my daughter cried. But we sure did notice when my daughter punched Sonya’s little foot. "What are you doing?" my sister shouted with barely concealed anger.

My daughter walked away in a huff and it took hours for her to calm down.  "Nobody cared that the baby scratched me. Nobody cares about me anymore!" She’s very angry right now and full of pain. She told my sister, "I had to blow my nose twelve times because I was crying so much."

I remember when my daughter was born in 1997. On the third or fourth day of her life, my son, who was then five and a half, called me on the phone (from another room in the apartment) and shouted "I hate you!" and hung up. He called again a moment later: "I love you!" slam. These alternating cries of love and hate  continued for about twenty calls. It was hugely painful but also deeply understandable.

It’s an earth shattering event when a new baby comes into a family and it brings about a complete realignment of relationships. I know my daughter will adjust to her new cousin and adjust to the fact that she’s not the youngest person in the family anymore. She will eventually learn that there’s more than enough love to go around.

More than enough. But for now, her pain is real. And we can all relate to that jealousy and that hurt; that sense that we’ve been pushed away in favor of someone new. It may not be rational but boy is it real.

For fun, I went through New York Magazine’s FALL PREVIEW issue and circled everything Brooklyn in it.

On a first, quick read, it seemed that the borough (let alone any borough other than Manhattan) didn’t come up very much.  So I thought, hey, let’s see how many times the County of Kings is mentioned.

Out of well over 100 listings throughout the magazine including an Event-a-Day calendar, movie, theater, music, art, and restaurant sections, Brooklyn (groovy, hipper-than-hip Brooklyn),  come up exactly thirteen times. And that includes two mentions of THE SQUID AND THE WHALE. So let’s call it twelve.

Well, that pissed me off a little, though it is NEW YORK’S perogative to write about all the Manhattan events that they want to. But I spent my $3.99 hoping to hear about the fall in Brooklyn, too. Silly me. It’s called New York Magazine.  And everyone knows New York means Manhattan.

So here are the big thirteen and in order:

1. On October 2: Across the Narrows Concert on Staten and Coney Islands with Oasis, Jet, and the Doves as headliners.

2. On October 5: THE SQUID AND THE WHALE with Jeff Daniels opens, described by New York as the Park Slopiest movie of the year.

3. On October 11: The BAM Next Wave Festival mounts a ballet version of RAISE THE RED LANTERN.

4. October 15: Art Under the Bridge Festival in Dumbo

Okay, that’s it – IT – for the Day-by-Day Event calendar (for September through November).

5. Opening September 16: EVERYTHING IS ILLUMINATED opens. The film, based on the book, by Park Sloper Jonathan Safran Foer, stars Elijah Wood and was directed by Liev Schreiber.

6. STAY, Marc Foster’s drama in which a Brooklyn Bridge car crash bonds Naomi Watts, Ewan McGregor, and Ryan Gosling opens in October,.

7. THE SQUID AND THE WHALE with Jeff Daniels as a bad novelist and even worse father is mentioned twice in the movie section.

8. PROTOCOLS OF ZION, a documentary aout the resurgance of anti-semitism was directed by Brooklyn native, Marc Levin. Opens October 21 – not sure where.

9. In the book section, only Myla Goldberg’s new WICKETT’S REMEDY (Doubleday) made the list.  In that article, the Brooklyn band the Decemberists is mentioned for recording a song called "Song for Myla Goldberg."

10. Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, a Brooklyn band turned overnight sensation plays at the Bowery Bar on September,  9th.

11. Williamsburg’s Stellastarr comes out with a new album called HARMONIES FOR THE HAUNTED.

12. Another Brooklyn band, The Mendoza Line releases their new disc: FULL OF LIGHT AND FULL OF FIRE.

13. And in the restauarant section, there was exactly 1 mention of a Brooklyn restaurant and it’s called: Anthony’s at 462A Seventh Avenue in Park Slope. According to New York Magazine: "The Nick’s Pizza crew and a bona fide Neapolitan pizzaiolo plant a thin crust flag in the South Slope. C’est Tout!

There’s gotta be more going on in Brooklyn than this.  Stay tuned for OTBKB’s Fall PREVIEW.

Like that day four years ago, I woke up this morning and went directly to the kitchen and switched on the radio.

The Names. The siblings of those who perished are reading the names. They are reading the names and saying so much more.

A woman just read the name of her twin sister. Her twin. As a twin, this makes me cry. The  voices are beautiful. Some read clearly with no obvious grief in their voices. Others can barely get the names out. Slowly, haltingly, with emotion in their voices, many break down when they get to the their siblings name. Some mispronounce a name. They apologize or say "Excuse me" and I cringe for the family of that person – listening in the stands at Ground Zero or at home watching the TV.

Each reader ends with the name of his/or her sibling. Some add words like: "See you, bro." "We can see your smile and hear your laughter." "I would give up tomorrow for one more yesterday with you." "We love you and we miss you. " "Shake it easy, Sal." "Your spirit is in me each and every day."  I know you always look over me." "We will see you in heaven." "We know you are watching over us."  "We miss you and your contagious chuckle." "My son kisses your picture every day." "I see your face every day in the mirror." We cannot wait to be with you again."

I know from my work with the FDNY that the siblings were deeply grateful to be asked to read the names of their brothers and sisters. Many feel that their grief went  unacknowledged.  Few recognized the unrelenting grief that a sibling feels. One sibling told me: "I still have pain everyday. People look at me and say, ‘Still?’" I just heard this woman read her brother’s name. And she added: "This world was never meant for one as beautiful as you."

It is 9:45 and they are at the end of the D’s: Duarte. Duda. Duffy. Dukas. Because of my work with the FDNY, I recognize many names and I cherish the names I have typed out on my keyboard, the names of those whose family members I have talked to on the phone, the names of those whose life stories I have researched and written.

I am waiting for the names of those I know who died that day, whose wives I see at PS 321, at Starbucks, at the nail salon, and on the streets of Seventh Avenue. I observe them, monitor their moods, their haircuts, watch their children grow, wonder how they are doing, and know that I can barely fathom what they have been through

Last year on the night of September 11th, I saw the wife of a man who died that day, creating a beautiful mosaic outside of her brownstone. It was midnight and the Tribute of Lights was visible in the sky above her.   

The F’s are being read now. Fredo, Flannery, Fagin…I am waiting to hear David Fontana’s name…I just heard it. It went by so quickly. Too quickly. I don’t want to get beyond the F’s.  I want to hear his name again.

The third moment of silence begins to mark when the south tower fell. A bell rings three times. On the radio, the sound of wind, the noisy sound of silence: "Hello Darkness my old friend, I come to talk with you again…"

And then back to the simple incantation of the names. So powerful, so beautiful, so moving. And the heartfelt words added by the siblings. Simple sentiments of grief. 

There are so many ways to say the same thing: I miss you. I love you. Nothing is the same without you.

As one brother just said, "Thanks for the memory, kiddo."

The last couple of nights the Tribute in Lights has been my reminder that the fourth  anniversary is upon us.

Those bright white twin lights shooting up in the night sky: a reminder to remember what we never can forget.

The last couple of days, the sky has been as bright blue as it was on that Tuesday.
And here it is four  years later and our lives are the same and not the same.

That morning, as always, I ws listening to WNYC on the radio. Brian Leherer reported that a small plane had crashed into the south tower of the World Trade Center. I, along with many others, imagined a Cessna or something. Not a jet or a terrorist attack.

Strange to say, I didn’t think much of it. But then it happened again. Another plane — "What is going on with Air Traffic Control?" I thought to myself. "We’re being attacked," someone said.

Attacked? A feeling of utter dread ran through me – that thing I’d always feared was happening. Where were my children? My daughter, only 5 years old, was in the kitchen. My son was at school…

I wasn’t thinking straight. I couldn’t fathom what was going on. What was happening to all those people in the building, on the plane. Were they going to be okay?

Listening to the radio, I put nail polish on my daughter’s toes. Anything to maintain a sense of normalcy. Anything to keep her from knowing that I was afraid, that there was something very scary going on.

Unthinkable. I heard a siren in the distance and thought of my friend, Firefighter Dave Fontana, who was probably on his way downtown. Squad One would be among the first to be called in the event of an emergency like this. Somehow I knew that though I knew nothing at all.

I ran to PS 321. Many parents were there, hovering in the lobby, talking to the principal who was figuring out what to do…Some parents were pulling their children out of classrooms. I decided to keep my son there. He was safe, afterall. Unless something else happens. That’s what we were afraid of. Something else might happen and what would it be. Still, at school he was safe from the television set. Safe from the panic of his parents, of the grown ups in our apartment building.

I ran over to my friend Marian’s  apartment. She knew though she didn’t know for sure that her husband Dave was gone. She knew it in her heart. It was tragic to see. I told her that of course he’d be coming back. Of course he would. He always did. But she knew. Strangely, she knew. I left her smoking a cigarette in her garden.

Running back to the school, I did a quick accounting of everyone I knew. My father, omigod, he and my stepmother are in their Brooklyn Heights apartment with its view of New York Harbor and the World Trade Center…

My mother was with my sister who was in Manhattan having her first insemmination. She must get pregnant, I thought. On this day when so many people are dying, she will create a new life. Of course she will. On this sad, sad day, a new life will begin.

It didn’t work out that way. The procedure didn’t work and she didn’t get pregnant that day. She had many more medical prodedures – insemmination, in Vitro, ovum donation. She did finally get pregnant but miscarried soon after; her fallopian tube was removed due to an ectopic pregnancy.

This evening my sister and I sat in the back garden of The Chocolate Bar, drinking white wine, and watching one-year-old Sonya fall asleep in her stroller. Adopted from Perm, Russia nearly three weeks ago, she is a treasure.

Sonya wasn’t alive four years ago, untainted is she from the memory of the 11th. She may have been put up for adoption at birth, but now she is beloved beyond compare. Wanted. Cherished. Adored.

Walking home I saw the Tribute of Lights above the storefronts on Seventh Avenue. A reminder to remember that which we never can forget. 3000 mothers, fathers, daughters, sons, sisters, brothers, husbands, wives, girlfriends, boyfriends and friends.

Gone but not forgotten.

This year we go about our lives, even the day before the day, It’s almost like  we’re back to norma; — I ride the subway without fear, don’t jump everytime I hear a helicopter fly above, have stopped worrying about bridges and tunnels.

But I am not the same. And never can we be. I’m really not back to normal at all.

I was in the kind of Fifth Avenue apartment last night that I imagine Jackie Onassis lived in. In fact, it may have actually been the building she lived in. It was the kind of place Woody Allen used to call home back when he was with Mia – with the most splendid view of Central Park and Central Park West I have ever seen. At twilight, it was like a framed picture in the living room. Except real.

I knew I was in the right place when I saw a Secret Service man in the lobby. The guy looked like a nut job talking into the collar of his jacket. Senator Hillary Clinton was expected and he seemed to be on high-alert.

They had one of the last of the old man-operated elevator cars. Like the one in the  apartment building I grew up in on Riverside Drive, the elevator was wood paneled with a copper gate. Unlike the one on Riverside Drive, it had a bench in the back to sit on. Most of these old elevators have been replaced by automatic elevators. However, I believe that those old Otis elevators were the best elevators ever made – they ran for years and years without breaking down. At least ours never did. Once they got the new automatic one – Out of Service was a regular occurrence.

When the elevator neared the 8th floor, we could hear the buzz of a lively party. Senator Hillary hadn’t arrived yet, but the guest of honor, Marian Fontana, author of the just published "A WIDOW’S WALK: A MEMOIR OF 9/11",  was standing at the door looking ravishing in a black blouse and a sparkly purple skirt.

What a book party! Waiters passed around really interesting hor d’oeuvres including small crispy shells with goat cheese topped with raspberry and kiwi. I asked if it was whipped cream because it looked so desserty but he said: "No, it’s Chevre cheese." 

There was white wine and non-fizzy bottled water in the elegant dining room. Throughout the apartment there were museum-quality paintings – but there were so many people I could barely pay attention to the art.

Senator Hillary has a very calm, dignified aura, excellent posture and beautiful hair and skin. Standing by the picture window, she made a short, heartfelt speech in honor of Marian and her book – extemporaneously with an easy cadence.

Calling it an incredible love story, Senator Hillary said that she thinks Marian’s book is an important book about loss and recovery – a subject all the more pertinent now in the aftermath of Katrina. She also said that it was a book about two great American families. "Dave and Marian met in college, fell in love, and they took their families along with them for the ride."

She could almost have been talking about herself and Bill.

Marian and Senator Hillary have known one another since the State of the Union address in 2002.  Marian says that, like many of the activist 9/11 survivors who were "adopted" by politicians, she was adopted by Senator Hillary and Rudy Giuliani.

They’ve spent a good deal of time together lobbying on behalf of the survivors and the firefighters. Marian, in her short speech, called Senator Hillary one of the very, very, very few politicians who are trustworthy. "We need her and she needs our support," Marian said.

Marian was in tears as she thanked Dave’s family for being there. "May I say something Marian?" Her mother-in-law, Toni Fontana, said quietly from the crowd. "I just want to thank you for loving Dave so much."

Not a dry eye in the house after that one. Marian continued to thank her hosts, her publisher, Simon and Schuster, and the other  fire widows "without whom I would never have survived a single day."  Then with the instincts of the performer that she is, Marian added, "and I have come up with an ass stamp that I am going to use when signing my books."

Many in the room laughed through their tears at this point. The crowd was a bewildering mix of wealthy Fifth Avenue friends of the hosts, the Simon and Schuster crowd, fire widows, Park Slope and Staten Island friends and family.  Leslie Crocker Snyder, the woman who is running for District Attorney in Manhattan against Robert Morgenthaul, breezed through the room, introducing herself and shaking everyone’s hand.

You can learn a lot from the rich. If you want a party to end at 8 p.m., you disappear the wine: at 7:45, there was only non-bubbly water left at the bar. The last of the delicious hor d’oeuvres got passed around and the waiters grabbed up all the wine glasses, napkins and platters of crudite.

"I guess we should be going," some of the Park Slope friends were saying. The hostess, Beth Dannhauser, a  lovely woman who does "touch therapy" with critically ill patients at Cabrini  Hospital, stood by the door with her more business-like husband, and thanked everyone – really sincerely – for coming.

We hailed a cab in front of the building and joined Marian, friends and family at Fetch, a low-key restaurant on Third Avenue, where we took up much of the place. A lively group of revelers happy to celebrate their friend.

The new high school freshmen seemed to have survived their first day of school. My son’s friends have scattered to public high schools all over the city: LaGuardia, Brooklyn Tech, Murrow, Beacon, Bard. Last night there was a flurry of Instant Messaging; friends reconnecting after of day of change.

Some found their new schools completely boring. One friend, a somewhat flamboyant girl with a flair for the dramatic and a penchant for punky/goth clothes, is now attending a high school in the suburbs  She instant messaged my son: "The kids are pretty preppy here. If I’m going to have any friends I am going to have to be preppy."

She’s a survivor. Or a chameleon. Skills that are useful in high school, I suppose.

They’re all just processing what they’re going through and communicating with their peers about it via computer.

My son was mezzo mezzo about his new school, a small, private prep school. The jury is still out, as it were. We’re hoping today makes a better impression on the young man.

In contrast, my daughter’s first day of third grade went exceedingly well. She ironed her khakis and polo shirt the night before and had her pink backpack packed and ready. Her teachers are great and there are a handful of old friends in her class. She’s even sitting next to her good friend, Emma. Last night, she set up her special homework desk and got right to work on her homework.

Park Slope was abuzz with all the energy that the first day of school brings. Anxiety, terror, excitement, anticipation, and hope.

At 3 p.m. there was a line outside of Mojo of parents and kids waiting to buy ice cream. We went to Save on Fifth, which was also crowded with parents buying supplies for public school classrooms: paper towels, Fisko scissors, Kleenex, markers, Ticonderorga #2 Pencils, Post-Its, etc.  Buying supplies for the school is a ritual of the first day of public school like a new outfit, backpack and lunchbox.

We all slept well last night and the alarm went off too early. At least it felt like that. Coffee. Toast. The radio. We’re getting back into the swing of things whether we’re ready to or not.

I find myself spending time in the Third Street Playground again. It’s been years since either of my children were regulars there. But now that Ducky, my niece,  is here, it looks like we’ll be regulars again.

When we first moved to Park Slope in 1991 after my son was born, the playground was under renovation. It took a year, but it was finally transformed from one of those old style New York city playgrounds – prison gray metal equipment – into a child-safe and colorful one.

Once the construction was complete, my son spent many playful hours there. I was working in the city then so much of our playground time was on the weekends. Weekdays he was with our babysitter, who  loved to push him on the swings and watch him play in the sand.

I became a "stay-at-home-mom" when my daughter was born in 1997 and I was able to spend ungodly amounts of time at the playground. By the time she was 1, my daughter was completely fearless and loved to run out of my sight and climb on everything. She rarely hurt herself but gave me a good scare lots of times.

I would meet "mommy friends" at the playground and together we’d push our little toddlers on the swings or watch them run in and out of the sprinkler. Conversations started  easily at the sandbox with questions like "How old is your baby?" and "Where does she go to pre-school?"

My "mommy friends" and I would sit on the benches as our children napped. We’d eat their  Zweibacks and pretzel sticks while discussing attachment parenting (pro or con, discuss) and unhelpful husbands.

The playground is really the town square of Park Slope baby life; a great place to observe local child-rearing customs. An anthropologist could have a field day there listening to the language of discipline and love: "Use your words!" or "You’ve had enough sugar today."

The natives are obsessed with what their children are eating. They slather them with SPF 15 and insist on sun hats. Breastfeeding is de rigeur. Peeing in the sprinkler drains is strictly verboten.

Sleep-deprived parents trail active children from one end of the playground to the other with Zip-lock bags full of carrots or whole grain cheerios. Caribbean nannies sit together a small distance from the stay-at-home-moms who sit a small distance from the working moms, home for the day.  There’s a sprinkling of stay-at-home dads, older parents, and even grandparents running about.

Benches in the shady areas are the most desirable place to sit  – except for the shady spot near the smelly diaper-filled garbage. That spot is the last to be filled for obvious reasons.

Times have changed since 1991 and 1997, there are now many more spiffy strollers and helpful new baby products that weren’t around when my kids were younger. Pirate Booty wasn’t even invented yet and the idea of spending $800 dollars on a stroller was insane.

Yes, times have changed: Even McClaren strollers now come equipped with coffee cup holders and special weights so that the stroller doesn’t tip over when the baby gets out.

But the kids: the kids are the same. Not much has changed in that department. Adorable as ever, they cry and get into tussles over toys. Nap. Cruise about with small baby strollers. Slide down slides and swing vigorously on tire swings. There’s even the occasional kid who runs right into the swinging tire swing. Ouch.

I expect that Ducky will have a great time at the Third Street Playground as will I with her.  It’s where she might take her first steps and will surely give her mother a scare when she runs out of sight. Already she loves to swing and swing and swing, her smile illuminating the playground, brighter than the sun.