Cathy Hannan

Another hot day in Tracy and we decided to see if the Days Inn would let us use their pool. Yesterday as we were driving away from the pool at the Phoenix Lodge (pictured to the left), we spotted a big pool with nice patio furniture and pristine white umbrellas at the nearby Days Inn. The clear blue water looked delicious; not a soul was swimming there.

I brought my daughter into the hotel lobby figuring that when they saw her – in her swimsuit and towel – they would be unable to resist.

Wrong. "We only let guests use the pool," the lady at the desk assured me.

When we got back in the car, my daughter said: "Let’s  go to the pool from yesterday." And that’s exactly what we did.

On the short drive over, I was just hoping that the guy from yesterday would be there and he’d let us swim again. I decided in the car that if he said no for any reason I’d offer to rent a room – the rooms were $49 dollars a night my husband noticed. That way, we’d have access to the pool until check-out time tomorrow.

But that wasn’t necessary. I walked into the office underneath the neon vacancy sign:  "Hi, we’re back. Can we please use your pool again?" I asked feeling like I was talking to an old friend. The man smiled and said, "Sure. Just don’t swim too long."

Bingo. I’m in love with this guy. The nicest guy in all of Tracy, California. He may be the front desk person at a slightly down-at-the-heels motel just off the freeway, but he’s my kind of guy: generous, easy going, and willing to let my little mermaid swim.

The Phoenix’s kidney shaped pool looked more beautiful than ever. The water glistened and glowed in the sun. The fake Mexican tiles on the edge looked positively tasteful. Even the dirty white plastic chairs were inviting.

My daughter jumped in – her own private pool right by the freeway. I cooled off in the pool too. And would you know it – I was able to put my right heel down for the first time since my calf injury two days ago. This pool has magic powers is what I was thinking.

When we left, I jotted down the address of the Phoenix Lodge down in my noteboo: 3511 North Tracy Boulevard, 95376 ((209) 835-1335).  I intend to write that man a note thanking him for sharing his underused pool on two hot August days. What’s more,  I plan to spread the word about the Phoenix Lodge: A nice inexpensive motel next to the freeway with an awesome little pool. But more importantly, the guy at the front desk is cool. He might even let you have a free swim.

by Louise G. Crawford

August is hot in the Central Valley of California. Daily temperatures reach 95 or more. Unlike Brooklyn, though, it’s not very humid. Still it’s quite steamy outside in the middle of the day.

Unfortunately, the pool that we used to swim in on the farm is no longer ours to use. My mother-in-law is in the process of having a new one built — it should be done in time for next summer. Which means that my kids have nowhere to cool off in the mid-day sun.

So today we decided to take a trip to the town pool in Tracy because my daughter was desperate to go swimming. Desperate. She was ready to go in her striped tankini and flip flops just minutes after we announced the expedition.

Vroom, vroom, we zoomed into town. But sadly, the town pool was closed; open only on weekends now that California schools are in session.

Disappointment all around. But not for long. Determined New Yorkers, we decided to try to find a local motel or hotel that would allow us to use their pool. We frequently use the pool at the Mariott Hotel in downtown Brooklyn for summer dips. They’re happy to oblige for a small fee.

Easier said than done in Tracy, California. First we went to the old Tracy downtown where there used to be lots of 1960’s style motels with neon signs and kidney-shaped pools.  As a college kid, my husband used to take lonely color photographs of those motels – his stab at William Eggelston-style Americana.

Only one of those motels is still standing in Tracy and the pool was…dry.

Then we ventured to find the local Holiday Inn, Best Western, or Motel 6.  At the Holiday Inn, the woman at the desk suggested that I rent a room for $98 dollars. "It comes with a continental breakfast," she said enthusiastically. "But it’s against hotel policy to let non-guests use the pool."

Finally we spotted a tiny pool behind a chain-link fence near the freeway. I went into the office of the Phoenix Lodge and asked the man at the desk if it would be okay for my daughter to use the pool. "For a fee of course," I added. He thought for a moment and said "You can use it for free. Just keep an eye on your girl. There’s no life guard."

Woo hoo. We had our pool.

My husband and I sat at a white plastic table on white plastic chairs as my daughter swam and splashed in the small (occupancy 12) kidney-shaped pool with a view of the nearby freeway, a gas station, a tall palm tree, and an In and Out Burger across the street.

No problem for my daughter, who swam joyously for over an hour. I even took a dip, which was very therapeutic for my strained calf muscle. My husband didn’t go in. He thought it too funny, too strange to be using a motel pool next to a freeway exit in his hometown.

Too strange.

by Cathy Hannan
OTBKB Guest Writer

I keep wondering if the Park Slope Armory renovation at Eighth Avenue between 14th  and 15th Streets is having any impact on housing prices nearby. I’ve looked at some places close to it (one even right across 8th Avenue from the armory), and no brokers have mentioned it.

Is it just too soon? I hope that Ratner’s Sportsplex construction hasn’t changed anything regarding the Armory.  Same goes
fo NYC not getting the Olympics.

After an announcement almost 14 months ago, very little renovation work seems to be going on.  Borough Prez Marty Markovitz made a big deal at the beginning of July 2004 about the $16 million, two year renovation that would turn the nearly empty Armory into a "world class sports center".

Today all the progress that seems to have been made is that the scaffolding is gone and some roof drainage is in place. I’ve heard that work is being done on the interior but it looks pretty quiet, and peeking in the windows on 15th street doesn’t reveal anything other than a big
open empty space.

According to Ann Schaeltzel, legislative aide for Assemblyman Jim Brennan, Take the Field, the organization in charge of the project, expects to begin work in October 2005. The reason for the delay is that before permits are issued, Take the Field must submit an environmental
assessment, which includes a traffic study. The City requires that the traffic be
study to be conducted when school is in session, so it’s expected that the traffic study will done the second week in September and the Environmental Assessment  will likely be completed by late September.

Once work plans are in place,  Assemblymember Brennan plans to host,
along with Councilmember Bill de Blasio, an informational community meeting so neighbors can be up-to-date on the progress and plans for the sports facility at the Armory. Nothing is scheduled as of today, but hopefully by early fall they’ll be able to tell us if completion in 2006 is realistic.

I hope so. How great to be able to take yoga classes, play some hoops and maybe volunteer right in the neighborhood!

Armory photo by Cathy Hannan

Cathy Hannan has a blog called Lost and Frowned where you can find out about her Found Slide Foundation and watch a 24-hour webcam of her cat. Her slides will be part of the Howl Festival on Saturday August 27th at the Bowery Poetry Club.

by Louise G. Crawford

San Francisco will always be my second favorite city, after Brooklyn of course. We spent the weekend at the Nob Hill Hotel, a small, boutique hotel on Hyde Street near downtown. Decked out in French boudoir style – the hotel is a lot more modest than the name suggests. But it was clean, the friendly staff was helpful, and the guests were a nice bunch of European travelers. Continental breakfast in the small restaurant downstairs was a convivial affair with Costco muffins, weird bagels, and decent coffee.

My mother flew in from New York to spend the weekend with me and my kids. My husband was off at the Monterey Historics, an annual race of historic cars at Laguna Seca Race Track. So it was up to me, Brooklyn-girl,  to show my mother San Francisco. And I must say I’ve become a pretty good tour guide.

After years of visiting San Francisco, I know all the cool spots to take tourists. And I deserve a medal for finding activities to satisfy an 8-year-old, a 14-year-old, and an 78-year old.  Not the easiest task.

First and foremost I wanted to give her views: Nob Hill, Lombard Street, and Coit Tower. Art: The Museum of Modern Art. Sights: Fisherman’s Wharf, the Tall Ship Balcutha, the Museum Mechanique, the Metreon. History: the Palace Hotel and the Ferry Building.  Fun: A cable car ride up California Street.

We didn’t do Pacific Heights, North Beach (City Lights Bookstore), or Haight Ashbury. But I think she had fun. And we did find some tasty food and California wine at Maxfields in the Palace Hotel, the Hyde Street Bistro, Tai Chi (my sister-in-law’s favorite nabe Chinese place on Polk Street), Dungeness Crab and Corn Chowder at the Mermaid Grill, and Asian noodle soup in the great food court in the Metreon.

For me, the fun of San Francisco is walking the hilly streets, the light, the views, the architecture, observing the locals, poking into fun shops, plugging in at Internet cafes and browsing in bookshops. I didn’t get to do too much of that this time around – busy tour guide me – but I did find a perfect little cafe on Sutter Street for eavesdropping and e-mailing.

Back on the farm, I am invalid girl with a strained calf muscle. We’re off to the town pool for a swim and a therapeutic soak. It’s so gorgeous out here – I am staring at a voluptuous rose bush, walnut trees, a big blue sky and Mount Osso in the distance. Couldn’t be farther from the Nob Hill Hotel (or Park Slope for that matter) – but California is full of wonderful contrasts.

by Louise G. Crawford

Funny thing. I often get a toothache or some other kind of physical ailment when I am in California. I’m not sure why. Maybe being on an airplane does something to my teeth or my ailments are stress-related (not that being out here is stressful or anything). 

Sometimes I arrive with the pain. Other times, it develops while I’m here.

In 2001, I arrived just days after my first root canal. My mouth was throbbing and I was downing pain killers like chewing gum. After a week or so the pain went away, and I was much more fun to be around.

In 2003, we were driving around Oakland, California when I began to feel pain in my mouth. The next morning I woke up with a raging toothache. The pain was so excruciating that I went to see my mother-in-law’s dentist in Tracy. He couldn’t find anything wrong but he agreed to prescribe painkillers and suggested I see an endontist in Modesto.

The next afternoon, we took the freeway to Modesto, home of Chandra Levy and Laci Perterson, and arrived at the endontist’s office just as a blackout was descending on the Mid-West and the East.  "You may want to see what’s going on in the New York," the nurse said when she found out we were New Yorkers. She sat me in the dentist’s chair and turned on the television.

It was frightening to see images of New Yorkers trapped in subways and walking across the Brooklyn Bridge, images eerily reminiscent of 9/11. I had simultaneous feelings of relief and regret that I wasn’t in my city during this latest crisis.

Then the endontist, who was planning a trip to New York, took a look inside my mouth. He banged around with a wooden stick and did an ice test to determine what was wrong with my tooth.

"Root Canal. You’re going to need one," he said confirming my worst fears.  "I can’t start on it on until Monday. Do you think you can make it through the weekend?"

"Uh uh,"  I mumbled while he continued to look inside mouth. I figured I had enough painkillers to get me through the weekend if the pain got really bad. "You can call me anytime," the endontist promised. "I or one of my partners can perform an emergency root canal if necessary."

On the ride home I tried to reach relatives in friends in New York to see how they were doing. Our neighbors on Third Street were having a big potluck BBQ, emptying their refrigerators so the food wouldn’t spoil. My sister and brother-in-law were hunting around for a battery operated radio, my mother was safe Manhattan, and my father and stepmother were coping near Saratoga. Everyone was fine.

I, on the other hand, had a throbbing tooth, the endontist’s telephone number, and hopefully enough painkillers to get me through.

During the weekend, I went with the kids to San Francisco. We did museums, some shopping, cable cars, and other sights. On Saturday I felt fine. But on Sunday I woke up looking like a chipmunk because my cheek was so swollen. I was the classic cartoon version of a person with a toothache. I was popping painkilers every two hours and sipping iced drinks all day feeling relief only when ice was on the tooth. I kept calling the Modesto endontist’s service but no-one got back to me.

I wanted to cry the pain was so bad. Eventually, we returned to Tracy and I took to my bed, writhing and waiting for the morning to arrive.

When I woke up the next morning my cheek was so swollen I couldn’t feel a thing – swelling is nature’s way of saying I’m sorry. I wore sunglasses and a wide brimmed hat tilted so that my cheek wasn’t exposed. My husband took a picture of me when we arrived at the dentist’s in Modesto. Believe it or not, I wanted a picture of this.

The endontist and the nurse talked about their golf game throughout the root canal. But I could care less. The procedure was painless and quick – there wasn’t much feeling left in the tooth.

When they were done, I returned the hat to my head, covered my eyes with dark glasses:  "the movie star from New York look"  and paid the bill (much cheaper than a root canal in Manhattan I noted).

On the way home, my husband and I jokingly decided to do all our dental work in California. "Hey, it’s cheaper to fly out here and go to Modesto for dental work than to do it on West 57th Street."

On subsequent trips to California there have been other toothaches, and last winter an earache had me feeling so dizzy I felt like I was on a sailboat in a stormy sea everytime I walked from one room to another.

And this morning, I heard the phone ring and started to skip toward the kitchen when I felt a spasm in my calf. When it was over, it was too painful to put my right heel down. My muscles was either torn or strained. In either case, it meant pain and difficult walking.

I limped into the bedroom and called my personal trainer in New York who knows a great deal about these sorts of things. "R.I.C.E. Rest, ice, compress, elevate," she said with certainty after I told her about my injury. "And don’t walk on it for a while." She later sent me pictures of ligaments by email.

I lay in bed or on a lawn chair most of the day with my leg propped up on pillows. My husband made a make-shift Ace bandage and kept me in ice packs all day. I can only walk wearing high heeled sandals.

It wasn’t such a bad day afterall. My husband waitied on me hand and foot. I finally finished "Bel Canto" by Anne Patchett, a fabulous book, and I went for a ride in the orange Porsche at twilight, a nice little break from the invalid’s life.

by L. Tucker
OTBKB Guest Writer

When I was a kid, I wrote a story for school called

by Cathy Hannan
OTBKB Guest Blogger

Everyone hates parades: they screw up traffic, they leave a huge mess, and really, they’re just not that fun. I think the same thing goes for block parties. What is it about Brooklynites loving their block parties? Is it really that exciting to be able to stand in the middle of your street and drink a beer and grill a hotdog?

My Park Slope (vicinity) block had one last weekend. They put up signs, which said that the police would be towing cars…wha-huh? Can they do that? I don’t have a car, but let’s say I did and I didn

by Steve, b61 Productions

Last month I received this email from my parents:

"Check out Wisconsin news. . . The old tire recycling plant is on fire. . . It looked just like the pictures from Iraq with an oil line fire. . . The drought is a concern. Another concern is ground water contamination. . . So far we are fine and have some real excitement."

The story made international news the first day. But the 400,000 tires–piled 35 feet high–burned for six days. If not for a space-age cooling agent shipped in from Georgia it would have likely burned for another week at least. More than 100 fire departments responded with 14 million gallons of water before the fire was extinguished.

Watertown Tire Recycling LLC had been reduced to a thick, black plume of smoke that choked a town of 20,000. For years neighbors had complained that the pile of tires was not only a blight on the rural area, but also a tinder box. The State Department of Natural Resources had been unsuccessful in persuading the owner, Thomas Springer, to comply with his permit for only 200,000 tires.

There are tremendous amounts of used tires that need to be recycled. And the State feared steep fines would bankrupt an especially prodigious gatherer of used tires–Springer continued to collect tires even while the fire raged.

Many of the pre-fire complaints were submitted to the Watertown Daily Times’ "Voice of the People." The aftermath was also discussed there. Predictably, most letters took the form of "We told you so." To which the following is an unedited response:

To the Editor, Daily Times:

First of all I would wish all the criticism would stop. My fianc