Category Archives: Postcard from the Slope

I READ IT IN THE TIMES AND BROWNSTONER

awakening
I agree with Brownstoner that’s there’s much to digest from yesterday’s special Brooklyn section of
the NY Times. Thanks Brownstoner for doing the footwork and for posting these interesting facts
that came out of the lead article:

# Millions of dollars generated by the Costco in Sunset Park: 150
# Brooklyn’s current population in millions: 2.5
# Brooklyn’s peak population in the 1950’s in millions: 2.74
# Percentage by which car theft fell between 1990 to 2000: 75
# Percentage by which robbery fell between 1990 to 2000: 67
# Percentage by which homicides fell between 1990 to 2000: 69
# Percentage of Brooklynites who are foreign-born: 38
# 2000 Median household income in Brooklyn Heights: $112,414
# 2000 Median household income in Coney Island: $7,863

The Great Awakening [NY Times]

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_The Deserters Return

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_Seventh Avenue Fair

2cbw1272Sometimes I think of the Seventh Heaven Street Fair as the seventh gate of hell, but this year, the booths were better than ever and it wasn’t quite as chaotic as usual.

Maybe it was my mood.

My sister and I traversed from one end to the other and found quite a few things to oogle over.

There was a small table of inpractical but elegant 100% linen clothing for children and toys from a company called sia linens. And great children’s clothing bargains to be had, including Petit Bateau t-shirts and pants at Baby Bird’s $5 bin right out on the Avenue.

 

New3Near Union Street, we spoke with artist Josh Goldstein, who was selling his bodega art. Mounted on wood, they are bold and graphic with a wallop of color. Josh writes on his web site:

These signs are part of the unmistakable landscape of New York, a
burst of tropical warmth that spread from Latin neighborhoods to create
a comfort zone on nearly every corner. But one by one, bodegueros – as
the store owners call themselves in Spanish — are tearing down these
iconic relics in favor of cheaper, impermanent vinyl awnings…soon,
the classic metal bodega sign may be nothing more than a Goya-tinged
memor
y.

Josh’s T-shirts of Yiddish expressions in hilarious contexts are
hilarious. I almost bought his Mensh T-shirt for a menshy friend of
mine. And the men’s underwear that says: "I found the Afekomen" is also
great fun.

We discovered a wonderful new wine bar called Toast between 14th and 15th Streets. A lovely rose wine was the perfect refreshment. And a tomato and mozzarella panini for me and a very fresh arugula salad with beets and walnuts for my sister, were also tasty.
Very.

I spoke with the owner, who was tending the bar. He said that he’d been a chef at Belleville and formerly owned a restaurant on Avenue A, called 85 Down. And years and years ago, he was chef at the much loved East Village Miracle Grill, which now has an outer-borough outpost on Seventh Avenue.

Open just three weeks, I can tell that the very attractive Toast is a real winner.

We were surprised to see women lined up to shop at a Kielh’s booth, the upscale, natural skin care products company right there on Seventh Avenue. Is a Kiehl’s Brooklyn in the works? hmmmm.

Marty Markowitz was out and about. Of course. He gave advice to some friends who are pining for a puppy in a "No Pets Allowed" building. He counseled them to petition their neighbors.

Mayoral candidate Anthony Weiner was shaking hands with Park Slopers. And a wide array of local groups were out in force: Develop Don’t Destroy, the Park Slope Food Coop, Congregation Beth Elohim, Stop Walmart, were some of the one’s I saw.

Jonathan Blum, with his 1-year-old son, was posted near Union Street selling his paintings of dogs, ducks, birds and bridges. His sister was also selling her lovely paintings of nude women, clothes lines and city scapes.

Amid the fruit shake booths, the Mexican corn stands, and Italian sausage trucks, there were musicians tucked away on every other corner. This year, it seemed, there were more solo performers on guitar. In front of the former John Jay High School, there was a big stage with various funky and loud bands.

A ’70s-cover band garnered quite a crowd outside of the sports bar on the corner of 8th Street and Seventh Avenue.

For those of you who’ve never made it to the top of the fair (just above 16th Street) : that’s where they put the kiddie rides. Good to know for the future if you’ve got a daughter like mine who just loves to go on those things.

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_Father’s Day

Ds019328_stdThe window of The Clay Pot is tastefully decorated with gift items for Father’s Day. It’s full of the kind of stuff that men are supposed to like or need: money clips, wallets, watches, cuff links. There are also well-designed radios, a chess timer, a poker set, and a  miniature game of roulette.

The dad in our house doesn’t wear cuff links or a money clip. And he certainly doesn’t want a miniature roulette wheel. It’s amazing how these cliches about men persist. Cuff links seem so old fashioned. My grandfather wore cuff links and used a money clips. He was exquistely groomed and smelled of fine colgne.

But not the man I’m married to.

He grew up on a farm and his idea of dressing up is wearing a clean black t-shirt from Target.

My husband is hard to buy gifts for. Most of the things he wants he gets for himself like photography and computer equipment. I’m pretty good at picking out the kind of books he like’s to read: a history of science or technology, or a book about the history of something really mundane like the pencil or salt.  A book of photography by one of his heroes is also a good bet. Unfortunately I can’t afford to buy him a vintage John Deere tractor, which is what he’s really pining for.

Ds019319_stdSometimes I wonder why I even bother. My husband hates  "Hallmark holildays." As previously discussed here, he
seems constitutionally unable to buy me a Mother’s Day gift or send a Mother’s Day card. Every now and then, he succumbs to pressure from me and picks something up. But I know he hates to do it.

Part of me thinks that I should just "poo poo" Father’s Day, too. But because I make such a fuss about Mother’s Day, I figure I should model good "Hallmark holiday" behavior. By giving him a gift, I am, in a strange, emotional circumnavigation, showing him how to do what I would like him to do for me. Yup, it’s that crazy: I want him to recognize me on Mother’s Day so I get him a gift on Father’s Day.

Marriage is one strange institution.

So off I went with my daughter to Razor, the new men’s shop on Fifth Avenue, and pcked out a shirt for my husband. I took a risk trying to pick out an item of clothing. But it’s a gorgeous…

I better not say. He’s going to read this before tomorrow and I want it to be a surprise.

* Items pictured are available at Shangri-La on Seventh Avenue between 13th and 14th Streets.

Continue reading POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_Father’s Day

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_Day Off From the Jury

Even though I didn’t have jury duty yesterday (we’re only in court on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday), I couldn’t get it out of my mind.

And I’m not even referring to the trial because I barely thought about that at all.

I just kept thinking about my new family of jurors in the jury room of that massive,  hideous courthouse on Adams Street.

Not that I wanted to be there. Running in Prospect Park at 1:30 p.m. with my personal trainer (and doing push ups, ab exercises and other exertions), I felt blessed to be outside on such a gorgeous day. While running, I did think of the judge, the clerks, the court officers, lawyers, plaintiffs, etc. who were working in the courtroom taking care of all kinds of legal business. 

Continue reading POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_Day Off From the Jury

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_Rickie Lee Jones Celebrates Brooklyn

AnthologyTransfixed. At least I was by Rickie Lee Jones’ performance Thursday night at Celebrate Brooklyn. The girl at the grand volcano played solo for 45 minutes or more singing her syncopated, wordy-poetic, beatnik jazz.

Even though it’s been nearly thirty years since she won the grammy for best new artist and had a mega hit with "Chuck E’s in Love," there was nothing in the least bit nostalgic about RLJ’s performance. Her voice is in great form and songs like "Last Chance Texaco," "We Belong Together," "So Long Lonely Avenue," "Living it Up" and others from her first few albums sounded better than ever…continued…

Continue reading POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_Rickie Lee Jones Celebrates Brooklyn

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_Ulysses Without Fear

Ds016966_stdTonight, the Community Bookstore will celebrate that fictional day of days portrayed in James Joyce’s 783 page modern masterpiece, ULYSEES.

The novel recounts the hour by hour passage of a time in Dublin, June 16th, 1904. It is the odyssey of Leopold Bloom, an ordinary Dubliner — a modern-day Ulysees.

For ULYSEES fanatics and novices alike, here’s what the folks at the bookstore have planned.

–The literary largesse begins at 6:00 p.m: Gather and comingle.  Uncork the Guinness.

–At 7:00 p.m., David Damrosch, a Professor of English and Comparative Literature at Columbia University and President of the American Comparative Literature Association will give a talk called:  "Ulysses Without Fear," on how to have a really pleasurable first reading of the novel.

At 7:30 or so, the read-aloud begins. Catherine, the owner of the Community Bookstore says: "We’re not entirely sure what we’re reading, yet, so any suggestions are welcome, or just show up on the night with your copy marked."

Catherine promises to read Molly Blooms’s soliloquy:

"…I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes."

Yes, it should be fun.

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_Jury Duty

I received my first jury summons in the mail about a month ago. I’d always wondered when they’d catch up with me. I figured one day I’d be called upon to perform my civc duty in a court of law.

In the summons, Wilbur A Levin, the Kings County Clerk wrote, "I recognize jury service can be burdensome, as it may interrupt your personal business lives. Please be assured that we will work within the limits of the law to accomodate varying needs. Our goal is to make your service as a juror a rewarding and memorable experience."

Part of me was curious, the other part extremely nervous that I’d be picked for a trail, forced to spend days away from work and family.

On Tuesday morning, surely one of the most humid days of the year, I arrived at the Supreme Court Building at 360 Adams Street, feeling sweaty and rumpled, fully expecting to be discharged. Everyone I know gets discharged.

I sat in a large well air-conditioned room and watched a video narrated by Diane Sawyer about the Jury process.

After the video, there was a certain element of comedy as officials, in three languages (English, Chinese and Spanish), explained selection procedures over and over, and called out names on the loudspeaker.  One official sounded like Tony Soprano, another had great difficulty pronouncing many of the names. I hoped I’d recognize my own name. There was a trickle of laughter when someone named Keith Richards was called.

Is the Rolling Stone here for jury duty, I wondered?

Finally I was called to the impaneling area with a large group of prospective jurors. We were seated in a courtroom where a judge explained the nature of the trial and the fact that it would probably take up to three weeks to complete. He then asked if anyone would have difficulty making that kind of commitment. A large line formed.

I told the judge that I was self-employed:

"If I don’t work, I didn’t get paid. I am supporting a family of four. It will be very hard for me to take time away…" I said.

"All very Dickensy, I know," he said. "But if I dismiss you, you might be put on another jury and in this court, we only meet three days a week. Do you think you can commit to that?" His eyes got very big.

"I guess I can," I said.

17 of us were then seated in the jury box and interviewed by the judge and the lawyers. The judge was interested to know which Brooklyn neighborhood we lived in. Some people simply offered a street address but the judge pressed further, "What neighborhood?" Some people didn’t actually know the name of their neighborhood and the Judge would help them figure it out.

It was interesting to hear where people were born, what they did for a living, their level of education, whether they had ever been witness to or victim of a crime. A mix of white, black, Caribbean, Chinese and Hispanic, most were middle-aged, some were retired, a few were in their twenties. The group was made up of hospital workers, a math teacher, a Girl Scout administrator, a lawyer, two college students, sales representatives, and secretaries. A few were unemployed.  We really were a true representation of Brooklyn’s so-called diversity.

To my surprise, I was selected for the jury and told to report to room 527 to meet with the other members of my jury. In the small, badly air conditioned jury room, the other jurors, who had been waiting since 11 a.m. the previous day for the jury selection to be complete, looked hot and bothered. The table was littered with spread out pages of a New The York Times, a Daily News’, The Post, a Christian novel, a Vanity Fair Magaine, and copy of Phillip Roth’s "American Pastorale."

The trial was set to begin after lunch. I took off for an old favorite falaffel place on Montague Street, ready to begin by first experience in a court of law.

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_Mothers vs. Mothers

BabyThe story of the woman on the airplane resonates with me because I have flown cross-country many, many times with my children when they were mere babes in arms.

It’s hard enough flying with children let alone having to worry that someone might be offended if you breastfeed.

Yet,  I do  feel that Barbara Walters has every right to complain about her discomfort. Watching other people breastfeed is not for everyone. Some find it beautiful. Others find it distasteful or titillating. Some just think it’s a private act that should go on behind closed doors.

Barbara Walters has every right not to want to sit near a baby on an airplane (breastfeeding or no). There is nothing more stressful than listening to a baby cry on a flight. I’m a nervous flyer to begin with and a crying baby can put me over the edge.

Still, I believe that breastfeeding mothers should be able to breastfeed their babies in public: on airplanes, in train stations, on the subways. Wherever. It is up to the mother where she wants and needs to do it.

By expressing her discomfort with breastfeeding on "The View," Barbara Walters has ignited a full-fledged debate about a woman’s right to breastfeed.

Yet, something else has come up in the process. While breastfeeding may be a right, it should not be a standard by which mothers are judged.  In some of the comments I received, I detected the implication that breastfeeding is superior to other approaches.

While there are many health and emotional reasons why "breast is best," it is very important that it does not become an issue that  pits one style of mothering against another, or one mother against another.

Women can be very  judgemental when it comes to mothering styles. And they are very hard on each other probably because they are so hard on themselves. The quest to be the perfect mom (and overcome the difficulties of being a mother in American society) sometimes results in mothers taking on a "Holier than Thou" view of things.

Women judge one another about breastfeeding, the food they feed their kids, cloth diapers vs. paper, how they put their kids to bed, when they put their kids to bed, where their children sleep (in the parent’s bed or not) and so on.

It’s almost like we’re judging each other when we should be coming together to raise awareness of how difficult it is to juggle motherhood with everything else that’s expected of us with so little support from the government and the culture.

One commenter wrote:
Barbara Wa Wa has never even breastfed!!! Her daughter is adopted. I
think she should keep her mouth shut about things she obviously knows
nothing about!!!

That one gave me pause. I am very sensitive to the ways that some kinds oif motherhood are held above others. And I find this apalling. I don’t think you are any less of a mother because you don’t breastfeed, or if  your child is adopted, or if you have to work full time, etc.

ABSOLUTELY NOT. 

A woman named Suzanne wrote this in response to the previous commenter.

""Her daughter is adopted"

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_LIFE COACH

MesmlIt’s been quite a week. The whole thing took me by surprise. When I wrote "Breastfeeding Brouhaha" I figured it would be a quick little story. Little did I know that thousands of readers from around the country would log on.

Here I wish to thank the person who really made this happen. Deborah Ager, my Life Coach, sent me an e-mail last Thursday that turned my world around. In it she said:

After reading your post about breastfeeding and Barbara Walters, I saw this post on my local DC moms

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_Meredith Viera

Isn’t it interesting that Meredith Viera, co-host of The View (with Barbara Walters, Starr Jones and others) was hired and then fired from "60-Minutes" years ago because of work/family issues?

In a book called: Divided Lives: The Public and Private Struggles of Three Accomplished Women published by Simon & Schuster (New York) in 1995, the author, Elsa Walsh writes about Meredith Viera’s struggle to hang on to her high profile, highly paid job as a 60-minute correspondent while struggling through a high risk pregnancy.

"The measures established to prevent previous miscarriages and accommodate her medical needs eventually lead to friction and discord among co-workers and staff. As the following anecdote demonstrates, Meredith refuses to separate her roles as journalist and mother. When the baby is born and salary negotiations begin, Meredith brings her infant son to the Tavern on the Green lunch meeting so that she can nurse the baby on demand. The executives are flabbergasted by her behavior and by her announcement that she intends to become pregnant again," writes  Literature, Medicine and Arts Database.

I’m sure Meredith Viera can relate to R.’s need to breastfeed her 2-month old baby on the New York/DC shuttle (after an 18-hour flight from South Africa). Meredith V. can probably also relate to R, a hardworking woman with a high profile job at the World Bank, who is intent on balancing a career with motherhood.

It sounds like the World Bank is far more tolerant of a working mother’s need to pump breast milk at the office. As R. said in the OTBKB interview, her husband brings the baby  to the office for a feeding.

It’s quite heroic the lengths women go to provide their children with the nutrition and emotional sustenance that breastfeeding provides.

I’m sure Meredith Viera can relate to that.

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_BIRTHDAY BOY

Ds019937_stdToday is my son’s 14th birthday. I will, of course, never forget his
birth by C-Section at Lenox Hill Hospital all those years. ago. When he
came out the nurse shouted: "He’s cute," and I figured that meant he
had all his fingers and toes.

My husband held him for the forty-five minutes or so while the
doctor sewed me up.They stared into each other’s eyes; it was the most
blissful thing in the world. That night, I remember singing to him: "Yes sir that’s my baby, No sir, I don’t mean maybe,  Yes sir, that’s my baby now."

It had been a difficult pregnancy. I spent five months in bed,
including one month in the pre-natal unit at Lenox Hill, with a case of
pre-term labor, a condition best treated with bed rest and a medication
called Tributilin.

I was under doctor’s orders to stay calm in an effort to  prevent
contractions from causing an early delivery. "Don’t laugh, don’t cry,"
my doctor said. And it worked: my son was born on his due date.

Needless to say, the staying calm part was pretty hard but I did
have an interesting time in bed. We moved into my mother’s Riverside
Drive apartment because our duplex in the East Village had a spiral
staircase and one bathroom on a separate floor from the bedroom. I was
taken care of by a steady stream of family and friends who brought
food, books, magazines, and news of the outside world.

I vowed not to waste my time in bed watching television although I
did become slightly addicted to the Sally Jessie Raphael Show and
eating Mallomars. My reading list was a veritable syllabus of books I
had always meant to read but had never gotten around to including
selections from: Balzac, Jane Austen, Henry James, The Brontes,
Virginia Woolf,  Flaubert, Joyce, E.M. Forster, Milan Kundera and a
wonderful biography of Simone Du Beauvoir. It was a pretty wonderful
way to spend five months and I proudly stacked the books on a shelf in
the room I’d grown up in. Painted blue, it had a gorgeous view of the
Hudson.

Maybe all that reading is the reason my son loves to read so much.
For his birthday, we bought him a bass amp, which we already gave him
for his gig last week with Cool and Unusual Punishment. But yesterday I
also went to Community Books and Barnes and Noble to pick out some
presents: "The New Smithsonian Book of Comic Book Stories From Crumb to
Clowes," "Beyond Good and Evil" by Frederick Nietzsche, "All the
Presidents Men" by Woodward and Bernstein, and "Kiss Like a Stranger,"
an autobiography by Gene Wilder.

We were the first of our friends to have a baby and we didn’t know
what to do. But we figured it out as we went along and we wrote a song
about it which we sang constantly:

"It’s hard work being a baby just ask H____ he knows, It takes a
lot of concentration to grow, and it shows. First they feed you, then
they burp you, then they put you to bed in your room. Then they wake
you and want you looking good so all the relatives will swoon…."

The now disparaged "What to Expect When You’re Expecting" was our
bible and the book I was holding in one hand, while I figured out how
to diaper him with the other. The breastfeeding was a trial and it took
days and days for him to latch on. I still have the breastfeeding
journal I kept at the time to keep track of which breast I used at each
feeding. It’s a weird list that goes on for pages and pages: Left.
Right. Right. Left. Left. Left.

It’s hard to believe that was 14 years ago. He spent yesterday in
Coney Island with friends. And tomorrow he’s taking his friends to the
Museum of Comic and Cartoon Art in Soho. He’s very much his own person
now: utterly handsome, interesting, full of humor and smarts.

Yes sir, that’s my baby.


Check out the OTBKB STORE for "Only the Blog Knows Brooklyn" and "It’s Only Natural"  T-shirts.  More designs to come…

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_Barbara Walters on Jimmy Kimmel Show

I missed seeing Barbara Walters on the Jimmy Kimmel show but here’s a report from Ashley Clark, one of the founders of  NurseOut

As seen on Tuesday (07 June 2005) night’s episode of "Jimmy Kimmel Live" (also an ABC show), Barbara Walters clearly says "It made us uncomfortable" referring to a woman breastfeeding her infant on an airplane. This flies directly in the face of her statement and a phone call she made live to "The View" yesterday, where she claimed it was only the man sitting in the seat next to her who was uncomfortable, as she claims, many men are.

Barbara Walters and the other ladies on "The View" are in the middle of a larger debate now regarding attitudes towards breastfeeding and nursing in public because of recent statements they have made that have angered and hurt a lot of nursing mothers in the larger public.

In fact, so many mothers are upset by the general anti

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_Naparstek Was There

Brooklyn Neighborhood Cyclist Killed

Thanks to Aaron Naparstek, we have this personal report of what happened yesterday on Fifth Avenue. He wrote it soon after the incident. Since then, more information about the incident, the name of the victim, etc. has become available.

I
just got back from a horrific scene down on 5th Avenue and Warren
Street. A woman cyclist was killed at the intersection about an hour
ago. She was riding northbound on 5th towards Flatbush. Apparently, she
got pinned between a PC Richardson appliance truck parked curbside and
an Edy’s ice cream truck coming up on her left. A witness told me that
the ice cream truck on her left didn’t make enough room for her as she
passed by the parked truck. The cops are saying that the driver of the
PC Richardson truck opened his door, causing her to veer to the left.
She got jostled off her bike, fell under the moving truck — a very big
10-wheeler — and her head was crushed under the right rear wheels. She
died instantly.

The cops have not released her name. She was
wearing bike shoes and was riding what looked to be a rather high-end
looking bike. Another witness, a passenger in a U-Haul truck riding
directly behind the ice cream truck who was very shaken up, said that
she was not doored by the driver of the PC Richardson truck. The
witness also said that the light on 5th Ave was green when the incident
took place and all the vehicles were moving. The cops, however, are
saying that the cyclist "cut between" the two trucks. Typically, when
these things happen, the cops and the media, consciously or not, slant
towards blaming the cyclist.

Several years ago, the advocacy
group Right Of Way documented that aggressive passing is the driving
maneuver most responsible for killing cyclists in NYC. (Click here to see the report. Warning: It’s a PDF document.)

The
driver of the Edy’s ice cream truck, a young Hispanic guy, drove off
after running over the woman. He was chased and stopped about two
blocks down the road by onlookers. He told the guys who chased him down
that he had no idea he hit anyone.

I am somewhat ambivalent
about posting these photographs on the site. But I think it is
important to see this. At least three cyclists have been killed in New
York City since the end of April. Two weekends ago I myself was cut off
and knocked down by a cab about two blocks from the site of today’s
crash. My bike is still all bent up.

Dying like this seems to me
to be just an incredible, massive injustice, particularly because it
would take so little effort and money to create safer cycling routes in
New York City. And the benefits of making New York City more safely
bikeable extend so far beyond just cyclists themselves. So, I’m posting
these photos not to be ghoulish, but to let people see the injustice
that I witnessed this morning. It is one thing to read about it. But
viewing the scene I couldn’t help but think: This could easily be me,
my wife, or my friend. In fact, for all I know it is one of my friends.

Ride as safely as you can, folks.


Looking northbound on 5th Avenue towards Flatbush


NYPD detectives examining the truck that ran over the cyclist.


Police photograph the crime scene.

 

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_The Rosa Parks of Breastfeeding

Blogland is waiting to hear from R, "the woman on the airplane," who
breastfed her 2-month old baby on the shuttle from Kennedy to
Washington, DC., two seats away from Barbara Walters.

R., who has a very high profile government/finance job in
Johannesberg, South Africa, was unable to respond to my questions
because she has a deadline to meet for the new president of the World
Bank.

This is a woman of consequence.

Understandably, things are a bit hectic for R., She just got back
from a grueling trip to Washington to visit family. 36 hours plus hours
on airplanes with a 2-month old. And now work deadlines AND a baby at
home (and still breastfeeding).

This is what it means to be a working mother in the 21st century. I must say, I am a little bit awed by this woman.

R. promises to get back to me when she has a moment. Does a woman in R.’s situation ever have a moment.

R., has the respect of thousands of woman around the country who
have been logging onto OTBKB. These women belong to chat rooms like
Sybermoms.com, the-bungalow.net, mothering.com, nursingmom.com,
got-breastmilk.org, and others, where they are "chatting" about Barbara
Walters and the woman on the airplane.

R., your public is waiting. We want to hear more from you.

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_Biker Dies on Fifth Avenue

Ds016988_stdSad news tonight at the Old Stone House wine tastng: A biker died in a traffic accident on Fifth Avenue in Park Slope.

Aaron Naparstak, the man who helped convince the local Commerce Bank to rethink the drive-in concept, informed me and a friend about the incident.

The accident occurred on Fifth Avenue at Warren Steet. This is how I understood what he said: the woman was cycling north down Fifth toward Flatbush when the door of a truck opened suddenly and hit her. She went flying off her bike and sent to the other side of the street, where she was hit by another truck She died on impact.

The New York Daily News describes it this way: As Elizabeth Padilla, a 28-year-old lawyer, attempted to pass a 10-wheel Edy’s Ice Cream truck, the driver of another truck parked on Fifth Ave. in Park Slope opened his door, witnesses said. Padilla swerved to avoid the door but hit the side of the moving ice cream truck, causing her to topple under the vehicle’s large rear wheels, police said. She was killed instantly, just six blocks from her apartment.

The friend I was standing with at the wine tasting had already heard the news. She lives on Berkeley Place in the building next door to the young woman’s apartment. Earlier today, a policeman came to her home and told her that one of her neighbors was in a biking accident. He wanted to know if she knew the young woman’s relatves. She did not.

In fact, my friend didn’t know the woman at all. The young woman moved in maybe three months ago. "There’s a lot of turnover in the building next door," she said. They never spoke. "I don’t even remember what she looks like," she added. But she feels very said,
nonetheless.

My friend asked the policeman how the young woman was doing. "Not very well," the police offier said.  Somehow she knew that meant she was dead. "It is every mother’s nightmare to lose your child. I felt sick to my stomach for the mother of that young woman."

A young life was lost today on Fifh Avenue. Her name was ELizabeth Padilla.

* A reader on Daily Heights notes that it is more than likely that Padilla was riding on (or trying to) ride on a well-marked bike lane. Much of FIfth Avenue from Flatbush to 20th Street is well-marked as such. 
 

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_More Nursing

BfgraphicAshley Clark, one of the organizers of the Nurse-in, the protest against Barbara Walter’s comment about breastfeeding on THE VIEW, stopped by my in-box today and had this to say: 

"I’m one of the organizers or the nurse-in and we’d love to get in contact with R.  Would it be possible for you to send her my email address? Our website is up and although rough, it’s running (we’ve all had such craziness really with all this that there hasn’t been a whole lot of time)."

I forwarded her message to R. and then e-mailed her back asking her if I could interview her:

Thanks so much!  And yes, absolutely.  I’d love to talk…what would you like to know?

Readers, you’ll be the first to see….


POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_Airplane Exclusive

PlaneR., the woman who was breastfeeding near Barbara Walters on the shuttle from New York to D.C. has made contact with me. 

This morning when I checked my in-box, there was an e-mail from R.

sure you can use my letter … i guess
the issue is that i did not use a blanket which we would have gotten
out of the overhead compartments but on the NYC – DC flight, you are
not allowed to stand up at all or else the flight is diverted to
another airport … so that was not a possibility
.

R. is a manager at an international financial firm in Africa. I wrote her back immediately:

R, thanks for getting back to me.  I’ve breastfed on many a plane so I know exactly what you were going through. And you had just endured an 18 hour flight. Unbelievable. Sounds like your baby is a great flyer I’d love to ask you a few questions. Please answer them if you have a moment.

I think R. will probably respond to my questions. I can’t wait to hear from her. For the exclusive OTBKB interview with R. see June 10, 2005.  If you’d like to purchase the "It’s Only Natural" t-shirt, go to http: www.cafepress.com/otbkb

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_The Woman on the Plane

Breastfeedinginfo_1The woman, who breastfed her baby on an airplane near Barbara Walters surfaced in my in-box today.

A friend forwarded me an e-mail from this woman, let’s call her R., that she saw on a Washington D.C. mother’s  list serve (probably something like Park Slope Parents here in Brooklyn).

R. posted this after seeing Tuesday’s New York Times’ article about Lactivists:

Thank you for sending me the New York Times article on breastfeeding.  I believe that I was the woman on the plane.  I started my journey in Johannesburg, South Africa and flew to NY (18 hours) with my 2-month-old son.  I then switched airports to fly the shuttle to Washington, D.C. and encountered Barbara Walters on the plane.  I was three seats from her.  She made a comment about not wanting to sit near a baby which I ignored.  I breast fed during the take-off and landing to protect my baby’s ears.   He did great – did not cry at all – on all of the flights from South AFrica to DC and back. And he got to meet all four grandparents, a cousin, all of siblings and the whole neighborhood in our 2.5 week trip.   I thank everyone for supporting us about breastfeeding!

I’ve sent R. an e-mail and am hoping to interview her. I have so many questions. In my book, she is definitely having her Warholian 15 minutes of fame. On Only the Blog Knows Brooklyn, anyway.

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_The End is Near

Ds016855_stdAnother school year is almost over. You can feel it in the air. The final stretch, the end of the line. Private schools let out later this week, while the public schools hang in there until the end of June. The joke around here is this: the more money you pay for school, the fewer days you spend there.

The kids look ready for the break. The big crowd of high school kids
who hang out across the street from the Mojo just keeps getting bigger.
And wilder. Last week my daughter and I saw one of the boys scale the
PS 321 building attempting to retrieve a frisbee stuck on the second
story roof. Fortunately, he did NOT get killed.

Graduation is just weeks away for the 8th graders at MS 51 and
schoolwork is definitely far from their thoughts. Footloose and fancy
free, high school spreads out before them, the world their oyster. And
yes, there’s been some misbehaving. They are spreading their wings,
experimenting with their own independence, giving their parents a good
scare.

Even the second graders know that the end of school is
in sight. This is the fun time of year: class trips, picnics, field
days, bird walks. My daughter’s class is embarking on a ambitious
photography study designed by her teacher: they’ll be learning how
photographers compose photographs. The children will have the
opportunity to try out many of the techniques photographers use – using
their own disposible cameras.

My daughter has gotten very attached to her beautiful young teacher
("I love her hair," she said the other day) and there will be tears at
the end of the term. It is always hard to adjust to someone new, and
much fear at the prospect.

Who will next year’s teacher be creates anxiety for both parent and
child. On the last day of school, parents find out which classroom
their child will be in come September. The kids run around: "Are you in
318? Are you in 318?" in a desperate attempt to find out who they’ll be
with next year; to get their bearings. This can be joyful as in: "I’m
with all my friends!" or dispiriting as in:  "I’m with no-one I know,
NO-ONE."

Sobbing can and will ensue.

The parents, on the other hand, are desperately interested in which
teacher their child has next year. They are all too aware of who’s
"good" and who’s "not as good." So they have to decipher the code: this
classroom means this teacher, that classroom means that teacher. Why
the school can’t just come out and tell you who your new teacher will
be feels downright silly. However, there’s always a parent with the
coveted  list that shows class number and teacher.

Invariably, I cry on my children’s last day of school. It’s when the
teacher walks out of the building with his or her class for the very
last time: that’s the moment that gets me. Every time.

The look of pride, imminent
loss, relief, and sadness on a teacher’s face.  The look of sheer panic, pain, and excitement on a child’s face as she hugs her teacher good bye.

The last busy days of June are here: parties, events, graduations, trips, good byes. So much to do, so little time.

And then we start all over again next year.

 

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_Diane Arbus Cake

2cbw0330_1One can safely assume that my husband’s 50th birthday cake was probably the only cake EVER to have a Diane Arbus photograph painted on it in icing.

And that’s not all. The cake also had photographs by Muybridge, Stieglitz,  Julia Cameron, Ansel Adams, Feinineger and even Hugh Crawford,  painted in gorgeous sepia hues.

Created by Park Slope cake designer, Ruth Seidler, the cake was a vertible history of photography. And it was a smash hit at my husband’s 50th birthday party on Saturday night at The Old Stone House. An almond sheet cake with rasberry frosting on the inside and marzipany frosting on the outside, it was astonishingly delicious.

JollyBe Bakery  is the name of Ruth’s baking business. A former art restorer, she makes all kinds of painted, stained glass and sculptural cakes. For my father’s 75th birthday she created a Matisse cake that was also quite wonderful.

2cbw0417Last night, we had an impromptu after-party in our front yard on Third Street. The kids enjoyed singing Happy Birthday. Then they got to the part about "Are you 1?. Are you 2?   Are you 3,? Are you 4?…" etc.

Finally, my daughter shouted out: "Let’s just count by tens!

And yes, that was a more expedient way to reach the momentous number.

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_A Wet Sunday

2cbw0365_1Sunday’s humidity got my daughter thinking about the green plastic frog pool that we keep in the basement.

"Can we use the pool today?" my daughter asked as she watched the children two buildings away splash and frolic in their own kiddie pool.

I can’t think of a warm day when she hasn’t asked me to take out the pool.

Usually my answer is a short and not so sweet: "No." And a don’t have anything  against her cooling off in the summer.

The quick answer is this: the tenants in our building no longer have access to the basement hose. Seems that, back in the day when the kids did splash and frolic in our green plastic frog pool,  the old hose leaked and we got the basement a tad wet.

But today my daughter had a new idea: "I’ll fill the pool myself," she said. "I can carry buckets of water up from the basement."

Looking forward as I was to a quiet Sunday afternoon rest on the plastic lawn chair in our front yard, I couldn’t argue with my daughter’s self-occupying plan to fill the green plastic pool one bucket of water at a time.

Heck, I’d probably get through the entire Sunday Times’ in the time it’ll take her to fill that pool.

So I carried the pool up from the basement and she began the labor intensive task of filling the pool. And as the kids in the building and the kids next door got wind of my daughter’s shallow pool, the fun was non-stop.

And then my downstair’s neighbor, sipping wine and eating antipasto with me at the green plastic table, remembered something.

Last year when neighbors on Third Street moved back to Manhattan, they gave us all the backyard equipment they wouldn’t be using anymore: the green plastic table, chairs and…

A HOSE!

Soon a long hose was being threaded out the basement window gushing beautiful, cold water. The children were ecstatic: my daughter’s shallow plastic green frog pool was  filling with more water than it had seen in years.  At this, the kids next door, ran home and got out of their wet play clothes and into swimsuits. This was serious SWIMTIME!

The kids splashed and frolicked in the  pool unti dusk when they got so cold they couldn’t stand it anymore. My daughter, goosebumped and shivering, wrapped herself in a colorful beach towel.

When I emptied the green pool onto the sidewalk, the children watched the water stream toward Sixth Avenue sparkling in the apricot  light of the setting sun.

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_White Rabbit

2cbw0226_1Yesterday I learned that squirrels are an increasingly big problem in Park Slope apartment buildings. My story, gleaned from Park Slope Parents, really hit home with a lot of apartment dwellers who wrote to say that they have squirrels in their window boxes, squirrels on their ledges, and in some cases, squirrels in their furniture.

The only rodent we have on our couch from time to time is our beloved rabbit, Opal. Actually her full name is Opal Abu Opalina Crawford; a compromise between all the names my kids were fighting over.

White with a few black streaks, Opal is the perfect apartment dweller’s rabbit: she lives in a cage and enjoys brief walks around the living room. But she tires of them quickly and jumps back into her cage from the leather couch.

My son and I bought Opal on a whim over two years ago. We went to the two pet shops in the neighborhood (the one on 9th Street and the Petland on Fifth Avenue between 12th and 13th Streets) to "explore" the idea of getting a guinea pig, a hamster, or maybe some fish.

And then we saw the rabbits at Petland and we were hooked. My son gravitated toward Opal and held her in his arms. It was the one and only time that Opal seemed to enjoy being held in someone’s arms.  And my son looked so cute with Opal – "please mom, pleeeeeeze, mom," he said over and over. Next thing I knew we were  buying a cage, food, bedding, treats, toys, and a white rabbit.

When I got home, I surfed the Internet for information about the care and feeding of rabbits. And what I found again and again were warnings about rabbits NOT being the  best pets for children because they don’t really like to be held (and their bones are fragile). There were also warnings against keeping rabbits in apartments where there are a lot of wires because rabbits have a tendency to chew on electrical cords and that can result in: ELECTROCUTION.

Yeesh. I had a sinking feeling in my stomach that I had just made an ENORMOUS mistake. With all the computers, printers, scanners, electronic equipment, and electric guitars this apartment can be a jungle of electrical wires.

But my son and daughter were already in love with Opal,

I, on the other hand, had worries up the wazoo. But those passed as we got used to having Opal around, and adjusted to life with rabbit.

Opal seems to have especially warm feelings for my husband (and visa versa). When he walks into living room she jumps up and down like a small puppy.

When we go away on vacation, our beloved caregiver boards Opal in her Coney Island apartment because her grandchildren love to play with her. Opal usuallly puts on weight on those visits: the sea air must be good for her appetite.

Sometimes I worry that Opal is depressed, that she is sick of her life in the cage in our living room. What kind of life is this for a rabbit? She spends most of her time drinking water, eating, and jumping from one side of the cage to the other. If she could talk, what would she say?

I’d love to know what she thinks of us and our not always tranquil life on Third Street.

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_Squirrel Invades Park Slope Apartment

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Squirrels_2My children and I are obsessed with a black squirrel, who lives on our block. He/she climbs on the window sills and doorway molding of the limestone apartment building just east of our building. But, unlike one of the members of  Park Slope Parents, a community e-mail list service here in the Slope, we’ve never had to contend with a squirrel invasion in our apartment. 

Most days I check in on Park Slope Parents (Your Site for Parenting in Park Slope) to see if there’s anything newsworthy there. Amid the usual discussions of one-day potty training techniques, baby sleep problems, and the use of duct tape to treat warts, this post by a mom in Windsor Terrace really grabbed my attention.

HELP!!!! 311 is completely useless.  There is a squirrel in my apartment.  The woman who works for my landlord is here with her boyfriend, who is a carpenter/handyman.  We are without resources! The squirrel was in the couch, and is now between the wall and the cabinets. We need some kind of a trapper person? Does such a person exist?   I’m googling but fruitlessly.

HELP!!!!!

My heart went out to this woman who, in the midst of a squirrel invasion, was typing away madly on her computer, googling for help. Finally, in desperation, she reached out to her fellow Park Slope parents. Later in the day, she followed up with this:

I’m sorry to bog down the site with this, my third & final post of the week.  Just wanted to report that my landlord’s helper managed to grab the squirrel with a weird kind of a lasso thing he rigged with a mop handle and a rope, and he’s out.  PHEW!

If anyone else ever has this issue, there’s a guy in Queens called Trapper John who will trap animals in your house but it’s $250 a visit.  You can get his number by googling Trapper John NY. 

Also, there is a guy who lives on either 10th, 11th or 12th Streets between 6th and 7th (various reports.  I’ve seen his station wagon myself; I think 7 or 8 years ago he used to park it in Carroll Gardens at the parking lot under the F train elevated tracks near Luquer Street and Smith.  His wagon is full of cages and stuff and his name and phone number are painted all over his car.  I guess you could probably find him by driving up and down those streets.  He may be something of an eccentric.

This is not an uncommon experience apparently!  One family reported that they moved to a friend’s for a day and left a window open. Others reported having luck with a trail of crumbs to an open window.  Others reported ongoing problems as late as earlier this week — looks like it’s young squirrels season!  So keep those screens firmly in your windows. 

This Park Slope parent signed her latest post: Squirrel-free.  It’s  good to know that in an emergency you can always depend on Google and the kindness of strangers on Parkslopeparents.com.

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_Class Matters in Park Slope

Ds016840_stdThe New York Times in their current special report, "Class Matters in America," says social class has become harder to see in the things Americans buy. Higher incomes, lower prices and easy credit give people access to so many high-end goods that "traditional markers of status have lost much of their meaning."

The series got me thinking about class in Park Slope.  What are the markers of class here? Needless to say, this is a class society with a high, middle and lower class living side by side. As Sloper, one of the readers of OTBKB, writes: Park Slope is really the sum total of all of us: the old slopers, the new slopers, the renters, the owners, the hipsters, the yuppies, the parents and children, the childless by choice, the singles, the married, the straight, the gay. As Slopers, we are at once extremely diverse in ways that are extraordinarily appealing, yet often so uniformly homogeneous in our quasi-bohemiam-bourgeoise aspirations that it is sometimes utterly nauseating.

And then he added: "I really do mean that in a totally non-judgemental sort of way."

Suffice it to say, class is a complicated issue in Park Slope. This is a neighborhood that prides itself on democratic values, inclusionary politics, and one of the oldest and largest member-run Food Coops in the United State. Viva La Revolution!

That said, the Slope isn’t exactly an egalitarian socialist society. It’s pretty damn privileged and pretty damn stratified in some clear and not so clear ways.

So, how does class work here?

Certainly, real estate must be  one measurement of class. But then, it all depends when you bought your house or coop. There was a time, a long, long time ago, when buying a house in Park Slope was a solidly middle class thing to do. Now only the rich need apply. But the early buyers and the recent buyers are living side by side in the same kind of houses. It can be a sign of status but it all depends on when you got in.

So having a house doesn’t necessarily define you in that way.

How about cars? The Volvo is probably the quintessential Park Slope car. But the Slope also has its share of Humvees, Hummers, and Hybrids. And there are people like my husband and me who picked up a used 1987 Volvo for $4000, more than eight years ago. By the same token, many a wealthy person has a reasonably priced Mini Cooper because its small size makes for easy parking. And they’re so damn cute.

And have you noticed the fancy cigarette boats docked in the Gowanus Canal? They are visible from Carroll Street. Who says you’ve gotta be "The Donald" to have a luxurious yacht?

How about private school? Do the rich go to private school and the middle class and poor…

This may be true to a large extent. But in Park Slope and Prospect Heights, there are people who say they are "forced" to send their kids to private schools they can barely afford because they don’t have the right address to get into PS 321. Some of them get their parents to pay, others get financial aid. Who doesn’t know people who are "school-poor:"  those who shovel over a big percentage of their income to pay for private school?

Which isn’t to say that there aren’t loads of loaded people who can comfortably dish out three tuitions at
$20,000 a pop. But private school as a status marker does and doesn’t wash.

To complicate things, attending PS 321 is a status symbol of sorts. It is, in many ways, like a private school. And while the administration is passionately anti-elitest and inclusionary, the school is inherently privileged because of the wealth and influence that exists in this neighborhood. A highly-accomplished PTA is able to raise money for value- added enhancements that are practically unheard of in many public schools.

How about services like child care? Here again, things get confusing. If a caregiver picks up the kids at school it probably means that both parents are working. However, that couple has lower status, says the Times’, then a family where a parent is able to pick up the kids at school because that family can afford to have one parent stay home.

But many families in Park Slope make the choice to keep one parent at home even if it is ill-advised financially (and might set them back in the big-picture scheme of things). Deep feelings about attachment parenting or the simple desire to be with one’s kids lead many a family to make these choices; and they are most definitely NOT a sign of status.

According to the Times’ it’s the parents that can walk to school with the caregiver that have the most status of all. Tricky.

What about shopping? The Times’ writes: "A family squarely in the middle class may own a flat-screen television, drive a BMW and indulge a taste for expensive chocolate." True. There are plenty of Park Slopers with high-end tastes who don’t have high-end incomes. I know people who care so much about good design, good food, and good things that they’re willing to fork over too much money for the things that matter to them.

That said, some of the most frugal people I know are those with the most money. Shopping at Target or Costco does not mark you as low status. Not at all. Shoppers at those stores run the gamut from lower-income families to large Orthodox Jewish families to sittin’ pretty brownstone dwellers from Brooklyn Heights. And everything in between.

How about the Food Coop? Does it just attract those who can’t afford to shop at Fresh Direct, Whole Foods, or Dean and Deluca? Not really. Was a time when the Coop was the only place in the Slope where foodies could load up on the organic food, produce, gourmet cheese and artisan breads they required. And they were willing to put up with the monthly work requirement and the Coop’s much maligned eccentricities, of which there are plenty.

The Slope definitely has a class system and it’s getting more and more obvious now that real estate values are rocketing skywards. And stratification breeds envy. OTBKB reader, Sloper, writes: "Somebody’s b-stone is always even more nicely renovated, on a better block, etc. and let’s not discuss how I envy the celebrity owners of townhouses on quaint tree-lined streets in the West Village. And last summer, I was at a Slope party, only to discover that we were nearly the only b-stone owners that did not have a weekend house in the Hamptons or Upstate (and these were "old slopers" not finance/law moguls). But, whoa, I don’t want to get too carried away here."

What makes Brooklyn such an interesting place is the crush of cultures and classes that co-exist (somewhat) comfortably. Sameness is boring. It’s fun to have neighbors from many many backgrounds, many points of view. While the Slope itself is, to some extent, homogeneous, it is near enough to other neighborhoods, other lifestyles, and other ways to be, to make it interesting.

And that’s what makes Brooklyn Brooklyn.

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_Lateness

2cbw0016My daughter and I always know when we’re late for school when the father of the girl upstairs is entering the building just as we’re leaving.

When we’re extrmely late, we see the coffee clatch, the group of parents who sit at the Mojo until 9:30 or so discussing the state of the world – both local and geo-political.  That’s when we really have to pick up speed and pray that the
Assistant Principal isn’t handing out late passes just yet.

It’s embarassing to be late as often as we are because we live right around the corner from the school. Lately, PS 321 has gotten very agressive about penalizing lateness. "We keep getting calls from downtown," said one of the office ladies to me the other day. "They think our latenesses are excessive. They wanna know what’s going on."

In other words, late kids are bad for the school. It’s also not
condusive to the smooth running of the classroom. That’s what the
teachers always say, anyway. Understandably, it’s quite distracting
when kids stream into class between 8:45 and 9 a.m, when the teacher is
trying to do "Morning Meeting" or get started on the first lesson of
the day.

Back in the day when my teenage son attended PS 321, you’d get a plastic late pass from one of the office ladies, those lovable, slightly gruff women who sit behind the counter in the administration office. It wasn’t such a big deal then. A pain in the neck, yes. But I don’t think it went on any permanent records.  Now, the school is giving out late passes printed in triplicate and it is going on the child’s record, the record that determines where the child goes for middle school.

It seems that the middle schools take a close look at lateness and view excessive lateness as criteria for not accepting a child to their school.  Yeesh. Lateness is serious! Or: punctuality is serious business. As the office lady said, "What would you think of a teacher who walked in 10, 15 minutes late every day? What kind of review would he or she get?"

Point taken. Those office ladies have an admirably pragmatic approach to things.

I take some of the blame for my daughter’s lateness. She’s really hard to wake up and likes to linger in bed in the morning. We should probably wake her up earlier and force her to select her outfit the night before. She changes her mind about what she wants to wear three, four times in the morning, her bedroom floor a moutain of clothing rejections. It can be quite exasperating.

That said, we have been making a big effort to avoid tardyness. Today, when we saw the father of the girl who lives upstairs my daughter said, "We haven’t been seeing him that much lately. I guess we’ve been getting there on time."

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_Building-wide BBQ

2cbw0007We used to get funny looks from passerbys when we’d set up the Weber grill near the garbage pails in front of our building and have pot-luck BBQs on summer evenings.

But now everyone’s doing it  on Third Street. On the north side of Third Street, that is.

On Memorial Day, at least four apartment buildings got out their grills and folding tables. The succulent smell of BBQ steaks, veggie burgers, salmon and other delicacies traveled from Sixth to Seventh Avenues inspiring others to do the same.

Our building has been doing this for years. All it takes is one person to say: "Anyone wanna do a BBQ?"  and we’re off and running. It’s the casual nature of the thing that makes it so sweet. Neighbors bring whatever they’ve got. Sometimes that means running out to the supermarket for meat and vegetables. Sometimes that means bringing leftovers from the fridge.

At our Memorial Day feast, in addition to the usual BBQ fare, there was tuna steaks, veggie shish kebab, Apple Brown Betty pie and a fruit salad with mangoes.

And there’s always plenty of wine and beer to drink.

The kids in the building spent much of the evening roasting marshmallows.  And S’mores are a tradition: What would a Third Street BBQ be without  a grahm cracker  sandwich filled with marshmallows and Hershey chocolates? Wrapped in silver foil, this concoction is heated for a few minutes or so – the kids seem to know the exact duration – until the ingredients are perfectly melted together. And delicious as hell.

Observing this warm-weather ritual, one is disabused of all guilt about bringing kids up in the city. If you squint your eyes, there’s little difference between this Park Slope scene and a summer evening in suburbia. The kids, hunched over a grill roasting marshmallows on chopsticks, could be anywhere: Scarsdale, Summit, or Syosset. And the adults, too: sipping wine, sitting on lawn furniture, discussing local politics and world news.

Sure,we’re out there on  the cement by the garbage. Sure the furniture is plastic, not Smith and Hawkins teak. Sure, the only green is the tree in front of our building and the geraniums and posies that got potted early in the day.

It’s a classic American scene, but very Park Slope in its way:

Everyone’s invited, the food is delicious, friendly pedestrians are welcome, and the conversation is as juicy as the burgers: veggie or otherwise.