I finally looked, really looked, at the fancy, fixed-up yard on Third Street. It wasn’t so bad. I mean, for me, to see it. I think I handled it well. By that I mean I didn’t start sobbing or throw rocks at their elegant trees.

Every time I look over there the people who live there are laughing and enjoying themselves. They look so… house-proud.

I feel like I’m in that Woody Allen movie – Stardust Memories – when he’s sitting in a very quiet, glum train car and looks out at passing train where everyone seems to be having such a jovial time.

Some description is probably in order: The new yard on Third Street has a lovely flagstone sidewalk; a soft and attractive flooring. Two small, rectangular patches of grass look, well, a little funny. Sort of like grass carpets. They’ve planted trees against the metal gate, creating a bit of privacy, and there are two large trees in planters next to the stoop – very East Side. Upper, that is. And then, of course, there are the very tasteful Smith Hawken benches, which I am totally and completely and madly jealous of.

When I walked by last night taking mental notes on the garden (hey, I’m the "eyes and ears of Park Slope" it’s my job), I saw the lovely old lady who lives there coming through the door about to take her early evening walk.

She and I have been saying a friendly "hi" to each other for years. We usually add something about the weather but we never stop walking. It’s a moving conversation.

I happen to know that at one time she owned that building. She sold it to the  "sponsors" who turned it into a coop back in the mid-1980’s. In other words, she sold it for a song. She’s lived in this neighborhood all her life.

I wanted to say, "You’ve got yourself a really nice garden!"  But I didn’t. I did, however feel so much better about the whole thing. She deserves a lovely garden, a place to sit with friends and chat. What a nice thing.

*I really, really lilke all the people who live in that building. I’m just a little jealous of their garden.