June 20, 2005:

Ran into our friends who moved to Nyack almost a year ago at the Rickie Lee Jones concert in Prospect Park.

I didn’t see them until the concert was over. Big Rickie Lee fans,
they’d left the kids in their Victorian house with a babysitter and
were spending a relaxing evening with Brooklyn friends, picnic-ing on
the grass at Celebrate Brooklyn.

After the show, we walked back to Third Street together, where they’d parked their car.

I told them how much the neighborhood had changed since last summer.
And it’s really true. It feels like so much has gone on since, say,
September. Brooklyn is it: the development capital of New
York City. Condos, Whole Foods, Ikea, Cruise ships, a Richard Meier
building, a controversial stadium for a basketball team and more.

What a long, strange year it’s been. And The Deserters weren’t here to
see it with us. They were in Nyack, spreading out in their spacious new
digs. But it was a year of adjustment for them: Nyack Weed Killer (AKA Mrs. Deserter) overcame her fear of
driving. Mr. Deserter learned how to be a commuter.  Their son had to make new
friends at a new school and find new activities to be part of.

Back in Brooklyn, we watched the borough undergo tremednous change.
It seemed sudden, but maybe we weren’t paying enough attention before.

Mr. Deserter joked: "Now that us schleppers have moved out, someone
decided it’s really time to go upscale around here." As if on cue, a
bright yellow Porsche appeared on Prospect Park West.

"Look at that. That’s a real upscale car," he yelled.

Approaching Sette on Third Street and Seventh Avenue, they looked
stunned: obviously no-one had told them about Third Street’s new
eatery.  They were fascinated by the restaurant’s sidewalk patio.

"Wow, the old Christmas tree spot. An outdoor cafe is actually the perfect use of this corner," Mr. Deserter said.

Then they looked across the street and saw the new Miracle Grill. I
thought they might faint. "There really are a lot of changes since last
year," Mr. Deserter said and added something wistful and poetic like: "When you move away from a place,
they should leave everything exactly the same. Frozen. So that it’s
always there for you."

I asked them if they wanted to walk in front of their old building
and
see the window boxes they’d left behind for the people who bought their coop. Nyack Weed Killer seemed a little aprehensive at first as if seeing the
old place might get in the way of her sucessful adjustment to life in
that small town on the Hudson.  But she braced herself and walked
bravely down Third Street.

When they got to the building, they were very still for a moment. I
could see that L. was quietly taking it all in: her window boxes, the
other window boxes, the stone planter, a new location for the benches.
There were even silk flowers on the gate down to the basement. There
was so much to see.

"The boxes are doing well. And I like where they put the benches. Right in the middle of the yard…"

She stared up at her old window probably reliving the days (less
than a year ago) when her family of four was still living in such
cramped quarters. At least, that’s what I think she was thinking. I
really don’t know.

They came upstairs to our apartment to say hello to Hepcat to
have some tea. It was rushed as they had to get back to Nyack: the
babysitter had to be relieved.

"If you lived across the street, you’d be home by now," my husband joked. And they looked only mildly amused.