Walking by Jennifer Connelly’s house on Prospect Park West I was pleased to see that she is fixing up the front and side garden of that corner house on Prospect Park West.

A elderly woman from a nearby apartment building was walking her dog. She went up to one of the gardeners and said: “Thank you so much for fixing up this garden.” He looked at her with a WTF kind of expression and continued working.

“Did you see the garden before?” The woman asked. “I saw it a few months ago,” the gardener said. “No, I mean before. Before.” the woman said emphatically. “It used to be a beautiful garden.”

“Well, it’s going to be better than ever now,” he said getting back to uprooting some dirt. The woman asked him for his card. “I don’t have any cards. You’ll have to ask the lady in charge.

The lady in charge is garden designer, Jane Gil, and she was there working alongside the others. She’s probably a big name in Slope garden design but I don’t know much about that sort of thing.

An adorable little boy with a big forehead and dark hair was watching from the front window. I wonder if that was the son of Jennifer and Paul Bettany? Recently I watched “The House of Sand and Fog” and was blown away by Jennifer C’s performance in that. And I don’t think I’ll ever forget Ben Kingsley’s final act in that movie either.

I didn’t wait around to hear the conversation between the dog walker and Ms. Gil. Everyone’s a busy body in this neighborhood but there are limits to how busy a body I want to be.

Saturday night’s benefit concert at the Old Stone House, Teens for New Orleans, was an unqualified sucess. At $5 and $10 dollars a head, the event raised over $1,600 dollars for the Jazz Foundation of America, an organization that is coming to the aid of New Orleans’ musicians.

The show went off without a hitch. The Foundation, ModRocket, Cool and Unusual Punishment, Capsacin, and Caliber played their hearts out and the crowd, a mixed group of over 200 teenagers, parents, grandparents and miscellaneous adults was extremely enthusiastic.

Thanks to Mark Zappasodi,  a rocker, a sound technician, and a father of a band-member, the sound was excellent. Acting as stage manager with his wife Caroline Zappasodi, he made sure the show ran smoothly. And it did. There were short breaks between sets so that people could buy refreshments downstairs. Jake Gilford, grandson of the great Jack Gilford (A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum, those unforgettable Cracker Jack commercials from the 1960’s), entertained the crowd with his comedy.

The adults enjoyed the show as much as the kids. There was a great feeling of teens and parents working together. The parents were not there as chaperones or organizers (though they did do a bit of that). It was a real collaboration built on trust and support. It’s a rare evening teens and parents can enjoy together and this was one of them. There is talk of doing more benefit rock concerts at the Old Stone House, which, I think, is a teriffic idea.

On behalf of the Teens for New Orleans organizing group, I would like to thank the following
people and shops who helped make this event a reality: All the bands and their parents, Jake Gilford, everyone who came to the show, Kim Maier, The Old Stone House, Allan Bealy for designing and printing the flyer, Mark and Caroline Zappasodi, Carolyn Kearney and Bruce Cory, Theresa McElwee, Hugh Crawford, Greg Duggins, Caroline Ghertler, Beth Halper and the other parents who brought homemade goodies, all the friends of the band who carried equipment up and down the stairs, Pizza on the Park, Connecticut Muffin, Mojo Cafe, La Bagel, Russos.

Photographs of all the bands at the show by Hugh Crawford are available for purchase at:

http://www.smugmug.com/gallery/840284

Another crime of passion in Brooklyn.

In a tiny beauty shop on 11th Street between Fifth and Fourth Avenue, a man killed his ex-wife (or girlfriend) and then killed himself.

It was a crime of jealousy. Of revenge. He was angry because she was dating another man.

The woman, one of the owners of Delores’ Beauty Shop, was rushed to Methodist Hospital. But she died enroute. The man was dead immediately.

The shootings occurred at 11 a.m. Soon after, the street was closed off as a crime scene. Police and news helicpopters were seen flying over Park Slope.

The beauty shop is right next door to the tiny Cafe Regular, a favorite local spot.  `

At 4:30 when I came by on my way to see my therapist, the block was closed to traffic. A big crowd of onlookers stood in the rain. But I wasn’t sure what was going on. A commercial, maybe a movie. Then I realized that there was a crime scene  on my therapist’s block.

I was determined to get to my appointment so I walked under the police line and walked toward Fourth Avenue. Then I was stopped by a group of four policemen with the words "Crime Scene" monogrammed on their blue uniforms.

I told them that I had an appointment on the block. They looked at me like I was crazy. "This is a crime scene. Get off the block. Didn’t you notice the police tape?" One of the cops rolled her eyes.

They advised me to walk down 10th Street to Fourth Avenue and come around the other way. I arrived a little late for my appointment. My therapist had heard about the shooting from an earlier client. He hadn’t had a chance to go outside.

When the session was over, I was able to walk up to Fifth Avenue from his building. Locals standing under umbrellas crowded across the street from the beauty salon were waiting for the body to come out. There were news cameras and a sprinkling of reporters with notepads and press passes. A man asked me if the woman killed was named Delores. "She used to cut my hair." A reporter asked if she was from the Dominican Republic and he nodded yes, looking sad. 

There were rumors that the woman’s boyfriend had been murdered, as well. "That depends what side of the block you’re on."

Another woman heard that the woman’s boyfriend had also been sent to Methodist. "My friend works there and that’s what she told me."

One of the reporters had the police report. He held it in his hand and said there was just one man killed, a suicide.

Crime scene policemen worked for hours marking up the small beauty shop with chalk and police tape and taking photographs. I saw a policeman wearing blue rubber gloves. I left before the body was removed from the beauty shop.

Later my daughter said that she and her classmates had noticed the helicopters flying above them in the school playground. They stared up at the sky, she said. "It hurt my eyes."

It’s official. About a week ago, the Mojo Cafe on Third Street and Seventh Avenue was sold to a new owner. Small changes are already afoot. The new owner moved some of the furniture and refrigerator cases around. The shop is already noticibly more roomy. As far as I can tell, there are no changes in personnel.

So far, it’s been a fairly seamless transition from one owner to the other. Michael, the old owner posted this gracious comment on OTBKB yesterday:

To all my friends and customers at Mojo Cafe thank-you for allowing me to serve you and be a part of the community for 6 wonderful years.  Remember Corey, Park Slope’s finest barista, is still there. I’ll see you on the Avenue.

I’ll be the first one to admit that I was dubious when the Mojo/Carvel opened six years ago. The corner storefront had been empty for a long time. It had once been a Ben’s of Soho Pizza. After that, a completely inept operation called the Rendezvous Cafe opened after months of renovation. They had pages of musical notation wallpapered to the wall, as well as maps and things. There was very little food or beverage as far as I could tell.
The place closed within a month. A true mystery. What the hell was it? I always wonder if it was a front for something.

When the Mojo opened I knew it would be sucessful as a Carvel but I wondered who in their right mind would want to spend cafe-time there.

Boy, was I wrong. The Mojo is practically the Town Square of Third Street. I for one go in there many times a day. I meet friends and have PTA committee meetings there. It’s my conference room-away-from-home.

For god’s sake, my daughter has her breakfast there practically every day. Of course,  it’s a sprinkled Krispy Kreme donut – not the most nutritious breakfast. Whatever.

The Mojo has many moods. Early in the morning it’s a quiet breakfast spot for locals.

In the half-hour before the start of school at PS 321 and the schools in the John Jay building, it becomes a hectic stop for last minute breakfasts and lunch supplies.

After drop-off, the Mojo becomes a meeting place for parents and caregivers. The women I’ve dubbed, The Women Who Rule Park Slope, meet there on a regular basis This coffee clatch is like a Park Slope (left wing) version of ABC’s  "The View." On the patio or inside, the talk is lively, topical and intelligent.

By 10 a.m. or so the parents with school-age  children have moved on to home or city offices, and the Mojo becomes a friendly hangout for caregivers and stroller-aged kids.

Lunchtime brings the mad rush of the PS 321 lunch scene, the 4th and 5th graders who are allowed to go out for lunch. Barista Cory expertly watches over the scene and makes sure that there is some semblance of order and that the kids remember to throw away their trash.

In the hour or so before PS 321 pick-up, things are fairly quiet: the calm before the storm.

At 3 p.m. all hell breaks lose. Parents and kids converge on the Mojo for hot dogs, ice cream, coffee, various and sundry after school snacks. The shop rocks with the energy of children just released from school classrooms.

<>

Last year around 4 p.m. or so, the patio of the Mojo became a huge gathering place for the teenagers of Park Slope. Things were known to get a bit rowdy. Their presence was, understanably, annoying to the owner and I believe that he put the kibosh on it. Those kids m

oved on to the playground at PS 321 – and that’s another story.

What a vital place the Mojo has become in the six years of its existence. As a resident of Third Street and a parent, I wish to thank him for making the Mojo a place I never thought it could be: a really cool Carvel. It sounds like a contradiction in terms but it isn’t. The Mojo is a place the people of Park Slope hold near and dear.

Best of luck to Michael who has decided to move on and do something new. And welcome to the new owner (whose name I don’t yet know).

Thanks for giving us a place to be – in the many phases of our day.

Leave it to Jet Blue, OTBKB’s favorite airline, to get famous for a near-miss crash landing. They just seem to do everything right and they’ve changed my attitude toward flying since I started flying with them in early 2002.

Jet Blue was the first airline with locked cockpit doors. Their on-line reservation system is excellent as are their automatic check-in kiosks. Television screens for every seat. Snacks but no yucky airline meals. Great staff Informative pilots: Jet Blue is one cool airline. 

And yesterday’s big story about the the calm heroics of the pilot and crew made the cover of all the  major dailies, including the New York Post, whose headline read: JET PHEW!

An article in the San Jose Mercury News mentions that one of the passengers was Brooklyn- bound. 27-year-old, Zacharay Mostoon, a multi-instrumentalist and producer. He along with the rest of the passengers watched their frightening landing on the television screen in front of his seat.

Zachary Mastoon, 27, a professional musician who was taking the flight from Burbank back home to Brooklyn, said the broadcasts were “a little surreal.”

“I thought how it must have been like on Sept. 11 watching on television and seeing the planes come toward the building,” he said.

The in-flight broadcasts, however, were turned off before the final moments of the drama. For 15 tense seconds, as passengers braced themselves and prayed, the plane careened down the runway as pilot Scott Burke balanced it on its rear landing gear, holding the nose high to reduce pressure on the malfunctioning front wheel.

The aircraft then settled forward onto the nose wheel. Within moments, the front landing gear began smoking as the rubber tire burned to the rim. The wheel then exploded into a fiery display that burned until the aircraft slowed to a halt.

No injuries

As the plane came to rest, scores of fire and rescue vehicles sped toward it across the tarmac. But the passengers and crew emerged unhurt, some walking down the stairs waving to cameras and giving one another high-fives.

Burke had delivered what experts said was a “perfect” touchdown of a crippled aircraft.

Los Angeles Mayor Antonio Villaraigosa, who spoke to the pilot at the airport, praised him.

“He walked off the plane with a big smile on his face, just cool as a cucumber. He joked that he was sorry he put the plane down 6 inches off the center line,” Villaraigosa said.

A JetBlue representative declined to provide any information about Burke.

A recording by a camera for Los Angeles television station KCAL of the pilot’s conversation with a ground crew member reveals a calm man who even had time to joke about his predicament.

“Do you want to trade places with me?” Burke asked a mechanic on the ground.

Aboard the plane, passengers first learned of the problem 10 to 15 minutes into the flight when Burke announced that the plane had a problem with its landing gear, said Mastoon. The pilot said he was in contact with ground crews at Long Beach Airport, where JetBlue has its regional hub, and in New York to try to determine what the problem was.

At that point, some people on the plane started to cry, but most stayed calm, Mastoon said. The crew tried to calm people by telling jokes.

Prepared for worst

Before the plane landed, passengers were told to put their heads down toward their laps and brace for landing. Passengers were shouting, “Brace, brace, brace.”

But the landing turned out to be incredibly smooth, Mastoon said.

“Everyone applauded,” Mastoon said. “There were tears of joy. Couples were hugging. There were pats on the back.”

The drama also generated strong emotions on the ground. Some people curious about the plane’s fate parked along the frontage roads of the LAX runway, hoping to witness the landing.

At the Tom Bradley International Terminal, about 50 people watched the landing transfixed at the Gordon Biersch Brewing Co. restaurant, many of their own flights delayed by the problem. They erupted in applause when the plane landed safely.

Flight 292 lifted off from Bob Hope Airport in Burbank just after 3 p.m., bound for New York’s Kennedy International Airport. Within minutes, however, pilots noticed a problem. A landing gear indicator light remained on after takeoff.

Burke then flew south toward Long Beach Airport and contacted the tower for help.

“I heard the pilot asking for emergency equipment,” said Stew Sawyer, who lives by Long Beach Airport and was monitoring the control tower radio.

“The pilot asked for a flyby so the tower could check his landing gear. He flew by real low, and the tower said, `Your landing gear is 90 degrees the wrong way.’ ”

Burke was told to pull back up and to burn off all excess fuel before attempting an emergency landing. Some aircraft are capable of dumping fuel reserves over the ocean, but the Airbus A320 cannot do that. So, for the next few hours, the plane flew back and forth over the coast as the crew contacted JetBlue headquarters and formulated a plan.

At the same time, the severity of the situation began to grow on passengers, some of whom had settled into sleep after takeoff.

To shift as much weight as possible to the rear of the plane — helping to keep the nose of the plane high during the emergency landing — crew members asked passengers to move to different seats. Flight attendants instructed passengers on how to brace themselves by bending forward.

-From the San Jose Mercury News.

What a fantasy: to wake up one morning out of the blue to a phone call telling you that you’ve been awarded a $500,000 "Genuis Grant" just because you’re you.

The MacArthur Fellows Program does just that. The five-year, unrestricted fellowships are awarded to individuals across all ages and fields who show exceptional merit and promise of continued creative work.

Brooklyn writer Jonathan Lethem, author of "Motherless Brooklyn" and "Fortress of Solitude"  had that kind of morning just a few days ago. He is one of group of talented individuals all over the country who got the news this week.

I’ve heard that many fellows get the call and think it’s a joke, a friend pulling a prank or something. The foundation is so used to this they direct the recipient to a special web site, where they can check on the veracity of the call. The recipients then have to stay mum for a few days, telling only family and close friends, until the public announcement.

It must be hard to keep silent on the news that you’ve just won enough money to wipe away all your money worries so that you can continue your creative pursuit.

Lethem, who was born and raised in Brooklyn’s Boerum Hill neighborhood, is the only creative writer on this year’s list. My first reaction was: isn’t he already rich and famous? Surely there’ are other great writers who could use the monetary support of the foundation. I thought the awards were for genuises of the unsung variety.

But then I realized that an award like this might encourage Lethem to continue writing his brilliantly rendered narratives of Brooklyn characters. Sentence to sentence, he’s one of the best writing fiction today. And now he will be free to write what he wants, not what sells.

Besides, Lethem’s books, especially "Motherless Brooklyn" and "Fortress of Solitude" are  absolutely teriffic.

At a time when redevelopment and gentrification are hot button issues in New York City, Lethem’s work has special resonance. In "Fortress," he writes about growing up in the Boerum Hill section of Brooklyn during the 1970s, a time when the neighborhood was in the process of gentrification and full of race and class tensions. He vividly renders the physical and social worlds his characters inhabit, in the schoolyards, on the stoops of Brooklyn.

As a literary stylist, he is also much lauded for his ability to mix and match genres like comics, noir, and literary fiction "He weaves the conventions of noir mysteries, westerns, science fiction, and comic books into narratives that explore the relationship between high art and popular culture," writes his MacArthur Foundation bio.

This year’s list includes many scientists, a fisherman, a violinmaker, a vehicle emmissions specialist, a rare book preservationist, a painter, sculptor, and a conductor. It also includes the photographer, Fazal Sheikh, who uses "the personalizing power of portraiture to bring the faces of the world

Tonight, Brooklyn Reading Works is pleased to present novelist Sheila Kohler and poet Matthew Zapruder. Below is an excerpt from Kohler’s 1999 novel,  CRACKS. And below that, a poem called Park Slope from AMERICAN LINDEN, Zapruder’s debut collection. Tonight’s reading is at 8 p.m. at the Old Stone House in JJ Byrne Park on Fifth Avenue between 3rd and 4th Streets.

From Cracks by Sheila Kohler

Fiamma fainted in chapel this morning. The teachers do not know we make ourselves do it, though they suspect we do. They even had a doctor brought in to examine us, but he said there was nothing wrong with us. He said he had never seen such a healthy group of growing girls. We do look healthy. Our skins are gold with all the sunshine, and our hair and teeth look very white in contrast. Weekdays we wear short-sleeved white blouses and green tunics with their big R’s embroidered on our chests and our short green socks. Our tunics are worn four inches from the ground, measured kneeling, so you can see our knobby knees.

Perhaps Fiamma did not make herself faint. Perhaps she just fainted. The girls on the swimming team take turns fainting in chapel. We all know how to do it. Before communion while you are on your knees and have not had any breakfast, you breathe hard a few times, and then you hold your breath and close your eyes. You sweat and start to see diamonds in the dark. You feel yourself rush out of yourself, out and out. Then you come back to the squelch of Miss G’s crepe shoes, as she strides along the blue-carpeted aisle to rescue you. She makes you put your head down between your knees, and then she lifts you up and squeezes your arm. Miss G is our swimming teacher, and she is super-strong.

You lean against her as you go down the aisle and feel her breath on your cheek, and the soft swell of her boosie. Your heart flutters, and you see the light streaming in aslant through the narrow, stained-glass windows: red and blue and yellow like a rainbow. Miss G leads you out into the cool of the garden. You sit on the white-washed wall under the loquat tree in your white Sunday dress and undo the mother-of-pearl button at your neck. Miss G sits on the wall beside you and smokes a cigarette, holding it under her hand, so Miss Nieven, our headmistress, who has an M. A. from Oxford, will not notice if she comes upon her suddenly. When Miss G tells you to, you take off your panama hat and set it down on the wall. Then you lean your head against her shoulder. You get to sit there under the cool dark leaves of the loquat tree and feel the breeze lift the hem of your tunic very gently and watch Miss G blow smoke rings until she asks if you feel all right now. Her voice is deep and a little hoarse, like a man’s.r:

Park Slope by Matthew Zapruder

Where far into evening
speculation is
without further instruction
a staircase one kneels,
an always continuing upwards.
Where I inspect myself
for a black and white cat
who hides my sluggishness from inspectors.
His name is Joselito.
Where sometimes a word can fill the sails.
Where I grow smaller
like a view of a harbor.
Where hydrants are painted
hyacinths arguing
point with pleasure in every direction!
glitter slowly
through conversation with windows!
Where into the bitter dust of my mouth
I bring my face,
to stare back at tacit approval,
wearing huge red feverish hands
rubbing my beard
like a saint.
Where one logician
with half an eyeglass proposes
o perpetual attitudes of summer!
light grey sky
constitutes interference
and is proof of a wariness high above clouds.
Where his neighbor
pissing on the low wall contends
it was merely stolen
from thousands of silvery windows
by an amnesiac painter
a jump rope and naked laughter.
Where a silent chorus of blinking sirens
asks if so who forgot us
stretching it onto his scaffold?
Where down at the corner
of afternoon and 4th
children have been invented again.
Mischievous mothers
paroled from daytime
bend among the lounging bodegas,
filling their starry
implications of sundresses,
climbing a few rungs
of spanish without me.

Excerpted from CRACKS

A 12-year-old boy in my building is taking sitar lessons. Lately, he’s been practicing on the stoop. It’s quite a sight to see him out there sitting crossed leg like Ravi Shankar; his big, ornate  instrument that has  something like 40 strings. I asked him if he knows how to tune it and he said, "No." But his teacher can do that when necessary.  The first song he learned was "Paint it Black," the Rolling Stones song with that unmistakable sitar lick at the beginning.

Our budding sitarist can also pick out other tunes: Ode to Joy from Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony and Amazing Grace, for example. This evening, at dusk, he was playing duets with a girl from the building next door who plays the flute. It was an unexpected mingling of sounds: the sitar and the flute. But it really sounded quite nice.

When I went downstairs, I got a better look at their make-shift concert. He was sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk in front of our building with his instrument collecting money for Hurricane Katrina relief.

Two children next door were sitting on chairs in front of their buildings; a brother/sister guitar and flute duo.

It looked like both musical acts had raised quite a bit of money – there were lots of  dollar bills in their baskets. A street of music: in my 11 years on Third Street I’ve never seen a concert by children on the street.

I’ve known the sitar player since he was two. He used to play the violin. I think he even took clarinet lessons, too. A few years back he was really into top-40 radio to his parent’s chagrin. He’s traveled quite a bit with his parents and grandmother – to China and Europe, even Korea where he spent a summer with other kids from around the world. It’s amazing to watch kids grow up and see how they evolve. It really is.

An amazing thing.

This morning I heard the daughter of legendary sitarist Ravi Shankar, Anoushka Shankar, on National Public Radio. She’s just released a new album of world music and it sounds really interesting. It’s called Rise, and it was composed, produced, and arranged by Anoushka – with a group of virtuoso Eastern and Western musicians on a variety of both acoustic and electronic instruments.

I wanted to mention it to my neighbor, the budding sitarist, but I forgot. I’ll have to remember to do that one day.

September is the most exhausting month. The transition from the sluggish pace of summer  to the rah rah rah pace of fall is always draining. And this year it’s taking me longer than ever to get into the swing of things. Could be the humid, doggy weather we’ve been having. Or the intense allergy season that has me popping Claritin like candy and sneezing and itching all the time.

Worst of all, is the new morning schedule we’re on. Or should I say, my son is on. But of, course it means the whole family has to follow along, too. In order to arrive at his high school by 8:30 a.m. sharp, my son has to be out the door at 7:30. That means my husband’s cell phone alarm goes off at 6 a.m. He’s got it set to something called "Chinese Dance" and the sound of it really gets one of us out of bed fast to turn off the loud, annoying sound.

Once the alarm is off, we sometimes drift back to sleep, which can be very dangerous. On Monday, no one woke up until 7:30. Then we go into emergency mode -showerdressglassesbreakfastbookbagout – my husband has to drive my son to his school in Bay Ridge.

My husband usually goes into my son’s room, which is right next door to ours, to wake him up. "The weasels are coming," my husband says. That is code for: ‘I’m going to start tickling you.’  "The weasels are here. You better wake up," he says. This is a wake up game the two of them have been playing for years. Then the tickling begins and the yelping, the screaming. the "Stop it, dads. Stop it!" I’m not sure if he loves it or hates it. But I think some sort of male bonding is going on.

The tie is another key component of the new morning ritual. My husband has instructed my son not to tie his tie until he’s brushed his teeth or had breakfast – it’ll get dirty that way. This is how manly information is passed from generation to generation. Just before he leaves the apartment, my son stands in wait while my husband ties his tie.

Soon my son may learn how to tie it himself. But for now, he’s learning by watching his father engage in this ancient rite.

He’s still wearing that silver tie with the diagonal black stripes he wore the first day of school. Guess it’s his signature tie. Do you have to wash ties?  Better ask my husband about that.
Once he’s out the door, we take a short break until it’s time to wake my daughter up. Her commute is a bit shorter – PS 321 is right around the corner. But she hates to wake up…

September is the most exhausting month.

.

Teens for New Orleans, a benefit concert on September 24, at the Old Stone House from 6-9 p.m., is really gathering steam. All proceeds from the event are going to the Jazz Foundation of America, which has set up an emergency fund for New Orleans musicians.

Cool and Unusual and their parents met last night for a major production meeting. A large group, we sat at the dining room table and went over all the production details: equipment, lights, load-in, line-up, food, security, clean up. There was a lot to go over and we managed to do it in a fairly efficient manner. The band is taking this rather ambitious endeavor quite seriously.

The line-up was determined early on: The Foundation Quintet, a jazz group, will open the show. Then Jake Gilford, comedian and M.C. will entertain the crowd followed by Modrocket, a grrrrl band  made up of students from NEST+M high school in Manhattan. Cool and Unusual is third up followed by Capsacicin (three members of StunGun). The show will end with Calibre, a band from Chappaqua, New York.

We also discussed signs, safety, ticket takers, hand stampers, trucking of equipment, and food set up and delivery. As one of the mom’s said, "It would have been so much easier to write a check. But this is really a great experience for all of us." 

That particular mom has been dubbed "momager" by her son in appreciation for her help in organizing this event.

If you are an individual or a business and are interested in donating baked goods, beverages, or other food items to the event please e-mail me: louise_crawford@yahoo.com Your help would be much appreciated.

Yesterday, I noticed that the flyers about the missing plaque honoring David Fontana are the only flyers on Seventh Avenue that haven’t been removed by the ‘committee to rid Park Slope of flyers.’

I papered Seventh Avenue last Friday with flyers about the  Brooklyn Reading Works reading this Thursday September 22 — few of those flyers are still up. My son also put flyers up around the nabe about the Teens for New Orleans Benefit on Saturday, September 24. He says that most of those were taken down, too.

But the blue flyers offering a reward for the return of the plaque, no questions asked, were stilll up. I saw quite a few of them this afternoon. And while I’m annoyed that my flyers are gone, I am relieved that the flyers about Dave’s plaque are still there.

On Tuesday, there was a front page article in the New York Daily News about the stolen plaque — a story that appeared in OTBKB last Thursday and Friday. It was weird to see that familiar picture of Dave on the cover of the News; it’s the image on his wake card – a wallet-sized, laminated card Marian Fontana had made for those who attended Dave’s wake at The Montauk Club – something I truly treasure.

There it was on the front page of the News with the story of the plaque, which said simply said: "In memory of Firefighter Dave Fontana,
1-0/17/63 – 9/11/01. Beloved husband, father, neighbor, artist, hero."

According to the Daily News, sometime between 1:15 p.m. and 3:15 p.m. on Sept. 12, the plaque disappeared from its spot under the tree.

"I’d like to believe that people aren’t that cruel, and that it was
just a stupid prank," Marian Fontana told the News. "Why anyone would want to take something like that is beyond my comprehension."

I couldn’t agree more. The story has really gathered momentum in the last few days. I received a polite e-mail from a reporter for the City Section of the New York Times. It was a little confusing but nice just the same:

"I’m e-mailing mostly to reverse (and apologize for the disturbance of) an earlier call. I’d been going to do something for the Times’s City Section about the missing plaque–but this was before my editors and I realized there was already some press coverage.  (The City Section, being a weekly, tends to steer clear of things covered in the dailies, esp. early in the week).  So my earlier messages, left at the two numbers listed on the flyer, are unfortunately moot.  (Though I would still like to have done a story.)  I wanted to apologize, and to say I really hope you get hold of the plaque.

 
The News reported that Marian visited the plaque on the fourth anniversary of 9/11 just over a week ago. She went to a ceremony with the families at Squad 1 and then went to the meadow in Prospect Park where Dave proposed to her. Afterwards, she went over to Fourth Street to check on their old apartment and see the tree with the plaque.

"Just put it back where it belongs," Marian said.

It really is the strangest thing that someone would steal a memorial plaque. I just can’t figure out why anyone would do it. But I agree with Marian: put it back where it belongs.

I hope those blue flyers with their offer of a reward for the safe return of the plaque stay where they are. Enough has been ripped off lately – let those flyers fly. And maybe they’ll help to restore the plaque to its rightful place. For Dave and Marian. For her neighbors on Fourth Street. For people of Park Slope.

Put it back where it belongs!

From Curbed.com

Behold! The new and improved Coney Island of the future, maybe. As we’ve said
before, shopping mall developer Thor Equities has been buying up land
along the Boardwalk like it’s going out of style (which it did, about
30 years ago), to much speculation as to what they’re up to and how it
will fit in with the city’s own redevelopment plans. New York magazine went to the source

At my 14-year-old son’s last check-up, his pediatrician, Dr. Edna Pytlak, delievered one of the best anti-drug and alcohol speeches I’ve ever heard.

It was the casualness of her delivery that was so disarming and my son really listened. "Be careful of teen parties in Park Slope," she said moments after asking him to jump up and down 30 times. "Kids are consuming toxic levels of alcohol," she added as she went about his 14-year check-up. "Some of my patients wound up in the hospital last year after drinking much too much. They nearly died."

She talked about the tragic drug overdose of a boy who’d just graduated from Brooklyn Friends in June and the kids who got alcohol poisoning in the PS 321 playground last Spring. She talked, my son listened. She has an easy authority and my son’s well-earned trust.

Dr. Pytlak appears, on first meeting, to be a cross between Mary Poppins and Miss Frizzle from the Magic School Bus books. But she is really so much more: a whip-smart physician, a great diagnostician, a common sense healer, and an always reliable partner in the event of an emergency.

"With all this IM-ing, kids who weren’t invited to the parties are showing up," Dr. Pytlak, the mother of two grown children, continued knowingly. "At one party, some kids came with heroin (that’s a felony, you know). Heroin is very, very dangerous. It’s very easy to overdose."

I think it was her matter-of-fact, non-judgemental manner that really got the message across. You could say that she used scare tactics but it wasn’t an outdated "Reefer Madness" message which is so easy for kids to discount. She speaks from experience using specific examples from the community we live in. She’s got the facts and she’s not afraid to use them. It doesn’t sound like platitudes or "Just Say No." She seems to understand where the kids are coming from. Like she’s one of the kids herself. But with authority and experience.

With her pretty floral aprons and her sing-songy voice, Dr. Pytlak is beloved by legions of Brooklyn children and parents. When we joined her practice in 1991, she was already a legend in these parts and it was close to impossible to get in. But Dr. Pytlak had just partnered with another great doctor (Brianne O’Connor) and she had room for families with newborns. I guess we got lucky and she has seen us through a host of medical emergencies.

Dr. Pytlak works hard to establish an easy relationship with her young patients and check- ups are fun; the kids actually look forward to them. On the walls of her office are the framed collages she makes of all the holiday photos she receives each year. The kids trust her and really listen to what she has to say. "Your mother and I, we might have had beer, maybe pot at parties," she said while looking in my son’s ears. "But we weren’t drinking alcohol the way these kids are. It’s really quite different."

Dr. Pytlak is a great partner to have during this scary teenage phase.  Somehow she makes it all feel so much less frightening. With her help, maybe we’ll all make it through.

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.