There was a nice vibe at Brooklyn Reading Works last night. Twenty or more people filled the cafe at Fou Le Chakra as two talented writers read from a make-shift podium in the candle-lit red room.

It was cozy and atmospheric just the way I hoped it would be and I think everyone enjoyed themselves.

Pam Katz read two excerpts from her book AND SPEAKING OF LOVE (Aufbau-Verlag), her novel that alternates between the fictional voices of Lotte Lenya, Lenya’s mother, and a an American newspaper reporter. It is the vividly imagined world of 1930’s Berlin, the first performance of "The Threepenny Opera," and the complicated marriage of composer Kurt Weil and Lotte Lenya that jumps off the pages of this beautifully written first novel.

Michele Madigan Somerville, read from her book-length poem, WISEGAL (Ten Pell Books), a language-driven, street-smart piece about teaching Shakespeare at a Brooklyn high school, that was not only hilarious but powerful and poignant too. Other work included "Bodies  of Water," a poem dedicated to her bother, one about motherhood infused with the Brooklyn Museum of Art, and a translation of a Sappho poem that she sang in Greek and English. Somervile is a poet with great stories to tell and a passionate way with words.

As the organizer of the event, I was thrilled to pair up these two literary lights and to hear them in action.

Now I am looking forward to next month’s event on Thursday May 26th at 8 p.m. when Marian Fontana reads from her memoir, "WIDOW’S WALK" (Simon and Schuster) about life before and after the death of her firefighter husband on 9/11, and Susan Karzowska debuts an excerpt from her work-in-progress novel, "THE RIVER FROM NOTHING."

– Louise G. Crawford

Tomorrow is the first episode of Brooklyn Reading Works, a reading series curated by me at Fou Le Chakra.

Brooklyn Reading Works is just a little thing I threw together at the urging of Mary Warren, owner of that tiny shop and cafe at 411 Seventh Avenue between 13th and 14th Street.

Ms. Warren had the inspiration to turn her new cafe/clothing shop into a sometime salon. A salon!

Whoo hoo: We were off and running with that concept: literary readings, art shows, portrait sittings, musical performances, stand-up comics, new age workshops, trunk shows…

We were down with that idea.

And so Brooklyn Reading Works was born. Immediately I had a vision of what I wanted it to be: a cozy evening once a month for stories, memoir, and poetry in a candle-lit atmosphere with music, wine, tea, and succulent sweets.

And I knew I wanted it to be a place for all the "underground" writers of Park Slope to come out of their writing rooms and share what they’ve been doing. It seems that there are plethora of readings by the usual suspects. And by usual suspects I mean our media-adored and much-esteemed  literary neighbors like Paul Auster, Jhumpa Lahiri, Siri Hustvedt, Jonathan Lethem, Jonathan Safran Foer, and Elissa Schappell. Love them all as I do, I wanted to make a space for all the others.

Because there are so many other writers in our midst that nobody ever sees,  that nobody even knows are here. So I started making phone calls. And before I knew it I had a full roster of really interesting writers with published work or work-in-progress through July and a list of writers ready to go for next fall.

I even heard through the grapevine that Elissa Schappell is interested in doing a Brooklyn Reading Works and is wondering why I didn’t ask her.  Go figure.

Of course, the first call I made was to the writer I’ve know the longest: Pamela Katz is my great friend and creative co-hort since fifth grade at the New Lincoln School in Manhattan. We even interviewed children’s science fiction writer Madeleine L’Engle in her office at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine when were in 7th grade.

We’ve been putting on shows of one kind or another, running around town, makin’ michief, producing films, talking, talking, talking, and being the best of friends for 36 years now.

A few years back, she wrote AND SPEAKING OF LOVE (Aufbau-Verlag) that was called by Jay Parini " a compelling and beautifully rendered novel about the astonishing life of Lotte Lenya." She is now revising it for its American publication. She also wrote the screenplays for the films "Rosenstrasse" and "The Other Woman," both directed by Margarethe von Trotta and shown at the Museum of Modern Art and on German television.

When I told my very readerly and knowledgable friend Adam that I was doing this reading series, the first name that came  to his mind was the poet and fiction writer Michele Madigan Somerville. Her book-length poem, WISEGAL (Ten Pell Books) was described by poet Thaddeus Rutkowski as "a post-beat odyssey through present day New York…full of joy and
wonder at the sheer saltiness and sexiness of life." I was thrilled when she accepted with great enthusiasm my invitation to be part of the first show of Brooklyn Reading Works.

It should be a great night. Come on down.

-Louise X. Crawford

As I usually do, I read with interest Bob Morris’ weekly column in the Style section of the New York Times: "The Age of Dissonance." This week’s really hit home. Titled, "No Sleep Till Brooklyn"  he opened with the revelation that local literary luminary (a dime a dozen around here) just sold one Park Slope House for more than $3 million and bought another one for $6.75 million.

"Maybe Brooklyn can finally stop the need to promote itself as some kind of hip equal to Manhattan. Here is a loaded celebrity author who could afford to buy anywhere – who doesn’t have children who would need extra bedrooms and a yard – and he has chosen Brooklyn over Manhattan."

He goes on to say: "Paying $6.75 million to live a half-hour subway ride from Greenwich Village. That tells the world that you’re not an outskirt. You’re a mecca."

At this point in my reading, my blood pressure was rising. And the quote from Marcellus Hall, the illustrator of the New Yorker cover that got Marty Markowitz spritzing all over the letters from readers page of that tony publication, really pissed me off:  "It’s all just insecurity."

Who says that Brooklynites would rather be living in Manhattan?  I’m a born and bred Manhattanite – grew up on Riverside Drive no less and I chose to be here. Granted, I was priced out of Manhattan back in 1991 – but that’s besides the point. I didn’t know better. I thought I was settling when I was actually doing something better. And that doesn’t come from insecurity.

Every choice comes with a price. Sure, we’re a half-hour away from the village, forty-five minutes to Chelsea, and an hour door-to-door to the Upper West Side. But so what?

As Morris says, Brooklyn has become a world-class mecca, a destination not a place to escape from (as it was for my mother’s generation). She always said, "Growing up in Brooklyn makes you an over achiever. You have to cross the bridge."

Our kids aren’t itching to escape from Brooklyn the way my mother’s generation was. They love it here and they know it has a great deal to offer. They don’t feel gipped that they’re not in Manhattan. They know they’re living in one of the great communities in America.

And that doesn’t come from insecurity, Marcellus Hall. That comes from a wholehearted appreciation of a really special place.

Passover is definitely my favorite Jewish holiday. What’s not to like? Matzah, gefilte fish, chorosis – a mixture of apples, walnuts, almonds, and wine – and chocolate covered macaroons.

And then there’s the seder itself. Every family has its own approach. The more orthodox seders last many hours. The children sit bored and hungry, while they wait for the adults to finish reading from the Hagadah so that dinner can begin. Certainly, there are a few bright spots in the long service: the four questions, the search for the matzah, the wine glass for Elijah.

While our reform Jewish seders are a bit shorter, I can still remember the hunger I felt as my grandfather led what felt like an endless seder in our Riverside Drive dining room. That was back when my parents were still married, back when we got together every year with my grandparents, my maternal aunt, uncle and cousins.

For a family of Upper West Side and Westchester Jews, Passover’s message of "Let my people go," was all that we needed to draw a progressive and humanistic message from the holiday. Often, the seder took on a political dimension – it was the 1960’s and 70’s afterall. Political discussion added a spirited element to any family get-together.

After my parents split up, some years we did the seder with my father and his wife, some years we did it with my mother. I would often find myself the leader of the seder, as I have a reputation in my immediate family as the most Jewish of us.

Leading the seder is a job I absolutely cherish at it affords me the opportunity to channel my inner rabbi. And it’s a chance to teach my children, the offspring of an inter-faith marriage, an important piece of their Jewish history. I also get to exercise my directorial instincts, figuring out who reads what, and which parts of the ceremony end up on the cutting room floor.

Tonight the seder is at my father’s apartment in Brooklyn Heights, with it’s spectacular view of  New York Harbor and lower Manhattan. My cousin on my mother’s side and her family will be there, too. My sister is in Palm Beach sedering with her mother-in-law and my mother, My stepmother, no doubt, will cook a delicious and imaginative meal. 

In the next few hours, I will pull together this year’s readings. I will probably use my favorite Hagadah, it’s actually a children’s book called "The Four Questions" with text by Lynn Sharon Schwartz and paintings by Orin Sherman. Toward the end she writes:

"At the Passover Seder, we remember that terrible and then wonderful time and in the remembering, the terror and the wonder happen to us. We were once slaves, now we enjoy freedom. Together we wish that by next year’s Seder, all people living in slavery any place in the world, will pass over to freedom."

We will all take turns reading from this book and a more traditional Hagadah. And we will sing. It is a night different from all other nights. And that’s the point.

We were on the wrong Fifth Avenue and walked right past the Total Wine Bar at first. When we were practically at Flatbush we backtraked, finally finding it near St. Marks/

It is, quite simply, a completely charming place: elegant, cozy, dark. I felt like I was walking into the perfect small party: beautifully lit, friendly people, intense conversations, welcoming hosts offering glasses of good wine…

Perfect.

Our friends weren’t there yet and my husband kept joking, "Are you sure her birthday party is tonight?  Are you sure this is the place."

"Stop doubting me," I said."

But it didn’t really matter. I was blissed out to be in my new favorite Park Slope bar. Because it’s not really a bar – you’d never order a Cosmopolitan there – it’s a wine bar with an interesting list of wines from all over the world and wine, cheese, sausage and pate supplied by Blue Apron Foods.

Need I say more?

At first we sat at the bar. The bartender, a friendly fellow with punky platinum hair asked what kind of wine I like. He seemed really interested. "I  like red but not a really deep, heavy wine. Something on the light side." 

He gave me an organic Pinot Noir from Chile and it was delicious. Just my style.

Then he asked my husband: "You know what she just said. Well, I want the complete opposite. I like a wine that’s big and loud." And he poured him a big, loud Argentinean wine. Perfect.   

When our friends arrived later, we were sitting on banquettes near the front window with a view of a tree in white flower bloom. In front of the banquettes there are low table cubes that are lit from within. The wine glasses are egg shaped without a stem.

We shouted "Surprise!" when the birthday girl arrived and she glowed with her newly dyed reddish hair. It wasn’t really a surprise but it was most special way to be feted by friends on your birthday, at this most special place on Fifth Avenue on a rainy night in April.

There’s a different rhythm to life now that the warm weather has hit Park Slope. For the past two days, we’ve eaten dinner past nine. I know that must sound shocking. But we find ourselves enjoying the weather, the sunlight, and the general feeling of giddiness that comes over the Slope when the magnolias are in bloom.

Yesterday, on the way home from my office I bought a cold bottle of Italian white wine at Shawns. When I got to my building my downstairs’ neighbors were eating dinner on the stoop. "Can you bring out your corkscrew and some  plastic cups," I asked. We drank the entire bottle of wine (with our husbands) while our children made chalk portraits of themselves on the sidewalk.

It was after eight before we went upstairs, made a quick dinner, and rushed through homework, baths, and bedtime reading.

Tonight, my daughter and I went out at five to check out the new children’s store that took the place of Fidgits. We even managed to buy a really cute black skort and top there. We then found ourselves in the PS 321 playground and discovered that there was a special event at the school in honor of "Annual Turn Off Your T.V. Week," an event that featured charades, hopscotch, chess, science experiments, and a wonderful sing-a-long in one of the kindergarten classrooms.

Afterwards, we hung out in the playground again; in the dark, I talked to a mom while my daughter played on the slide. We then went to Pinos for take-out pizza and to Met Food for breakfast basics. It was 9 p.m. before we were home. Again a speedy dinner, homework, and to bed.

Yup, I’ve just outed myself: on these first warm days I’m letting the routines slide. We’re doing things a little bit differently, infused as we are with the wayward spirit of spring.

After a weekend spent channeling Isadora Duncan, swimming like a dophin and yelping like a whale at a Berkshires retreat called "Coming Home to Your Heart," I took away a simple message

"All along I had what I needed. It was enough."

These words  came  out of me almost unconsciously as I  recorded my thoughts on paper after waking from a dream. I wrote about the sense of scarcity that I feel in my life; it’s a primal feeling I’ve carried with me for years. But it also connects to my fear of not being able provide for myself and my family – now and in the future. A common fear many of us hold at this stage of life.

The anxiety, the sense that there isn’t enough – money, time, space, talent, love, things, attention, goodness, nurturing. In so many ways I focus on what I don’t have.

Back in Brooklyn I’ve been thinking about those words over and over. It’s become my mantra as I go about my business in the Slope – walking to my office, to the school, to meetings, to the gym, to the Park. What does it mean really? Or to be more exact: how many things does it mean?

"All along I had what I needed. It was enough."

This morning in the shower, I felt some of the fortifying solitude I felt during the silent breakfasts in the Berkshires. Revelation: I could wake up just 15 minutes earlier each morning and be alone, shower luxuriously and meditate. I have the time that I need. I just need to use it.

On leaving for school with my daughter, I couldn’t find my keys. The usual panic set in. And no, they were not on the handy key hook that’s right by the door.  An hour later our neighbor called, "I have some keys, they may belong to you…" They were in her apartment all along, I’d left them on the stoop. All along I had what I needed…

And now, facing a congested day, I made some calls, moved some appointments around and now I feel like I have enough time to get done all the things that need to get done today.

"All along I had what I needed. It was enough."

I can’t wait to discover all the things that means.

-Louise G. Crawford

I escaped Park Slope for the weekend and everyone seems to have survived in my absence. Apparently, my husband was telling those who asked that I was off being a goddess, dancing in a barn

Not far from the truth. But not quite.

Suffice it say, it was a "mindful" weekend with plenty of rest, quiet, inspiration and the good company of a small group of interesting women. It was, to say the least, fortifying.

I’m not sure what I appreciated most about my retreat in the Berkshires. But I certainly liked the "silent breakfasts."

I slept in a lovely room with rustic, antique furniture in the book-filled Race Brook Lodge, a 200 year old post and beam barn at the base of the Taconic Mountain range, and woke up with no one waking me, no sleeping child beside me, nothing to do for anyone else but me.

Each morning, I got to spend an hour or so simply getting ready for my day: showering, meditating, writing down my dreams, thoughtfully putting on my clothes, brushing my hair…

I found that in the quiet, I could easily remember my dreams, and spend time contemplating them. Sometimes it took 20 minutes or more, but details came back to me: little by little voices and images came to consciousness as I quiety began my day. 

At 8 a.m. I went downstairs to the sunny breakfast room. Everyone in my group was quiet, sitting at tables reading, writing, eating and drinking coffee or tea alone. There was delicious food to choose from: fresh fruit salad, homemade muffins, bagels, eggs, cheeses, cereals, muesli, orange juice, cranberry juice, water, Stonybrook yogurt – you name it.

I selected my breakfast with great care, trying a little bit of many things and sat by myself, smiling, nodding hello to my fellow retreaters as they came into the room.

The silence was anything but awkward. It was required, which  made it easy, so easy. It seemed completely natural and such a soothing way to begin.

At 9 a.m. we all walked up to the barn, a huge open space with enormous windows framing the woodsy view, the brook outside. Overhead, there were huge white Japanese lanterns. No longer silent, some talked, some stretched, some read or wrote in their journals.

When it came time for the dance to begin, we got into our circle, put our right hand over left, held hands with those to either side and waitied for the music to begin.

And then, our group of ten women danced a simple Greek dance to the music of Nina Masouri – a soulful song with a heart wrenchingly beautiful melody.

Even this morning, back in Brooklyn, I can’t get that song out of my head, or the simple steps out of my body. Nor would I want to.

I’d love to try the silent breakfast approach around here. And a simple Greek dance before everyone goes out the door would be great way to begin our hectic days. But somehow, I don’t think it’s gonna work. Just don’t think so…

-Louise G. Crawford

Guest Blog by Caroline Ghertler
I have wanted to be a mother for a long time now. I was reminded of
that today when I took my niece to the Manhattan Children’s Museum, a wonderful, inventive place filled with educational and artistic
interactive exhibits.

I’ve spent so many hours in that place with my
nephew when he was 4,5, and 6 years old. He is now fourteen years old and barely gives me the time of day, except to ask for money or to buy
some pizza.

I remember enjoying my time with him there as well as feeling the
longing to be a mother myself – and for that matter, to be married. I
envied all the moms and dads with their beautiful children. Although it was fun to pretend that my nephew was my "own", it still
stung not to be a mother myself.

Time passed, boyfriends came and went,
and came and went again – and the longing continued. And when I met my
husband, I was elated to join the ranks of the married – I really felt
that I had arrived, albeit, a bit late at forty one. Nevertheless, I was
to be a wife and mother.

But alas, life is never easy and a
pregnancy was not forthcoming. There was the roller coaster of
infertility doctors, treatments, blood tests, IVF procedures,
progesterone shots, eggs donated and transferred, an ectopic pregnancy,
operations – and the realization that this wasn’t going to work. And
then the resolve to stop the medical procedures as I was getting older
– and what I really wanted was a baby to love and to create a family.
So the adoption process was begun with all the myriad of papers,
notaries, apostles, homestudies and general bureaucratic nonsense.

And
here we are a little over a year later, getting ready to meet our
daughter, Sonia ( born, Svetlana ) and to travel to Perm, Russia,
Throughout this process, my husband has been supportive, loving,
pragmatic and exemplary in all ways. He never batted an eye giving me
too-many-to-count shots in my ass and other body parts. He has been
wonderful and our marriage has blossomed through this adversity. We are
lucky that way. Well, we deserve to have something to go right, don’t
we?

So, it was bittersweet today to be at the Children’s Museum.
I noticed that many of the mothers were a bit overweight, still carrying
their baby fat (baby phat) with them. I found it rather charming to
see. This is something I probably hadn’t noticed in the past, so busy
was idealizing all the moms back then. Of course, I noticed how many were pregnant
again, and I did feel that tinge of envy, but it didn’t sting half as
bad as it had in the past. That’s because I am going to be a mother
myself. Yes, I’m going to be a mother.

Caroline Ghertler is Louise G. Crawford’s twin sister, who also lives in park slope.

Guest Blog by Caroline Ghertler
When you have grown up in New York City, and continue to live here in
your adulthood, it is hard not to be constantly reminded of the
geography of your memories. The"this is where that happened" syndrome,
or the "there used to be a… but now it’s gone" reverie.

Guest Blog by Caroline Ghertler
My great aunt died less than a week ago. Losing her has been tougher than I expected. There’s an old song that goes: "When landmarks fall and institutions tumble, Will it be just a memory from the past?"

And that’s just how I feel. Losing my aunt, the consummate New Yorker, was like losing a piece of my world.

We weren’t very close. In fact, the last time I saw her was at my wedding nearly five years ago. She was very weak but she came to the ceremony anyway and I appreciated her for that. My father lived with my aunt when he was a child. It was just after his parent’s divorce. My aunt lived on the top floor of an Upper East Side apartment building, where she had a sumptuous view of the Guggenheim Museum and the resevoir in Central Park from her windowed breakfast room.

In the mornings, my father would be driven to school by my aunt’s chauffeur. He was so embarassed by that limo, he’d ask the driver to drop him two blocks from his public school. She was like a mother to him during those years, and throughout his life. And he loved her a great deal. Even if he was embarassed by her fancy limo.
She loved fine things and her apartment was not only full of art but a work of art, as well.

At her funeral her grandson eulogized her, wearing crazy blue-tinted granny glasses. He imagined that if his grandmother were there she’d probably say, "Why are you wearing those ridiculous glasses." In her honor, he removed them.

A friend spoke lovingly of my aunt’s good taste, fine manners, savoir faire and sense of humor. Just days before her death she asked him if he was a Yankees fan. When he told her that he was a Mets fan she said, "It’s going to be a long year."
I’m sorry that she won’t get to see the Yankees play the Red Sox and become world champions again.

After the funeral, we went back to my aunt’s apartment. It was strange to be there without her. I kept thinking she’d join us looking the way she looked twenty years ago. She’d walk around the antique-filled dining room checking to make sure that the platters were full of smoked salmon and caviar spread.

And she’d probably tell her grandson to take off his ridiculous blue sunglasses.

It was hard to walk away from that 15th floor palace. "This is the last time we’ll ever be in one of the great New York apartments," I said to my sister as we got on the elevator. "This is the last time we’ll ever know someplace like this."

Caroline Ghertler is Louise G. Crawford’s twin sister. She lives in Park Slope.

I’m going away for a few days. My husband will be holding down the OTBKB fort. I’ve prepared a special weekend version of Scoop Du Jour – to keep you all on top of what’s going on in Brooklyn this weekend (wouldn’t want you to miss a thing).

So it should, more or less, be OTBKB business as usual.

While I’m gone, there will be a couple of guest writers for Postcard from the Slope. It’ll be fun to see what they have to say.

Where am I going you might ask. I will be in the Berkshires attending a workshop. It’s supposed to be a beautiful spring weekend and I should have some free time  for rest, meditation, reading, deep breathing, hiking and whatever else I feel like doing.

I am looking forward to tomorrow’s three and half hour bus ride. I love the limbo – being between two points, feeling the anticpation of going someplace new. I am, of course, nervous about being away from the family. But I think everyone’s going to be okay. My sister, brother-in-law and mother are pitching in as it’s a busy weekend for the husband: Saturday he’ll be at Fou Le Chakra taking portraits of whoever happens to stroll in wanting a shot of themselves and/or their friends and family.

Curious? Saturday April 16th from 12:00 on he’ll be there with camera, gray backdrop and his unerring eyes. Fou Le Chakra. 411 Seventh Avenue between 13th and 14th Street.

I’ll be somewhere else that day. Far, far away from Seventh Avenue.

-Louise G. Crawford

Last Saturday my sister, my daughter, and I attended a tea at the Plaza.  We were invited to join my sister’s friend and thirty of her closest friends, a power lunch for creative interesting women of all ages. Even her gynecologist was there giving out cards. And when she ran out, she wrote her name down on small scraps of paper.

I was very pleased to be included as I was dying for one last trip to the Plaza before it closes. I’d never met my sister’s friend before, a tall, attractive television art director, with a warm personality and a penchant for bringing people together. She looked absolutely Plaza-ish in a vintage cloche hat with a tall feather and her grandmother’s old-fashioned gloves. She welcomed everyone personally and gave each of us Plaza candy bars, postcards, and unlimited amounts of champagne.

I sat at a table  with an assortment of well-traveled, accomplished women. One, a filmmaker of Persian descent, is on her way to Baghdad next month for the second time as part of a humanitarian group made up of Quakers and Mennonite Christians; she’s making a film about  her experiences there.

My daughter is a great afficianado of the Eloise books so a trip to the Plaza to see the portrait of Eloise is always a treat. She is aware that the Plaza is closing and has decided that Eloise is moving to Paris, along with Skipperdee and Weannie, to be with her mother. She is, however, concerned about where Nanny and Mr. Salamone will relocate. In an Eloise sort of way, my daughter spent much of the tea collecting white plastic Plaza Hotel tea sandwich tooth picks (see photograph, above left).

When we arrived at  the hotel,  I asked one of the doormen if he’d seen Eloise. "I think she’s around here somewhere," he said cheerfully. He then turned to another doorman and asked, "Have you seen Eloise?"

His willingness to go along with the game was very endearing. We then asked a managerial looking person if he knew where to find the hotel manager, Mr. Salomone. He looked at us like we were crazy and said he didn’t know anyone by that name.

-Louise G. Crawford

Last Tuesday and Wednesday, all the 2nd graders at PS 321 performed in a Dance Informance, an informal presentation of what the kids have been learning in Karen Curlee’s fabulous dance classes.

At my daughter’s Informance, Curlee explained what the kids had been up to. In coordination with the children’s study of cities – in social studies and art – the children choreographed their own "Cityscape" dances. Each child created two kinds of movement: axil and locomotion and used these movements again and again to create an exuberant and improvisatory piece.

The music was an infectious, highly rhythmic track that made you want to get up and dance. Parents with video cameras were standing in the aisles while those seated clapped along and BEAMED.

CUT TO: One week later…

Today, the 3rd and 5th graders at all New York City public elementary schools are taking a crucial standardized test, which can determine academic promotion. This is all part of Mayor Bloomberg’s big revamping of the  New York Public Schools. Until the next election, these kids are caught in this administrations sometimes mis-guided attempt to "improve" a troubled system.

I can’t help thinking that what went on last Tuesday during the Informance was so much more wholesome and REVEALING about the nature of our kids than what they are being forced to do today: becoming statistical specimens in the Department of Education’s effort to categorize and stigmatize children.

Curlee is, in my opinion, a real hero of the New York City public school system.  As a dance staff developer, she trains academic teachers how to use dance to teach core curriculum. She works in approximately 25-30 schools a year, offering training that can last anywhere from a few hours to a few days, depending on the school

There is something so reassuring about being able to turn on the radio at any time of the day or night to hear Billie Holiday sing.

And that’s what’s happening at WKCR . They are playing Billie Holiday for fifteen days straight. 360 hours of anything is probably too much. But if you like total immersion, tune in to 80.9 or the web broadcast and give it a go.  For me, her music holds up to the constant play.

The Billie Holiday marathon started on April 1 and it’s going to continue until April 15th, which would have been Billie Holiday’s 90th birthday. 

It gives you faith in humanity that something like this is going on.

Firstly, the fact that there is a radio station in the world crazy (wonderful) enough to come up with such a concept. And as a fund raising measure. You gotta love WKCR, Columbia University’s radio station, with Phil Schaapp at the helm of the Jazz Department.

WKCR has been responsible for independent programming for over 63 years. Since 1999, they’ve been sending out their signal worldwide over the internet. They’re famous for their Louis Armstorng, Charlie Parker (Bird) and other jazz greats’ marathons. But this may be their longest one yet.

Currently, WKCR is in a period of financial crisis. And they need the financial support of their listeners to  ensure that they can keep on going.

Radio in New York is, generally speaking, a sad state of affairs. Other than New York Public Radio and WFMU, what’s a gal to listen to in this city?  WKCR is an oasis in a desert of lousy, commercial radio.

Billie Holiday, is, in my opinion, one of the greatest artists of the 20th century. The way she transformed the popular songs of her day into masterpieces of phrasing, nuance, meaning, and deep emotion is remarkable. When I was in college, I nearly wore out my copy of "The Golden Years  Volume Two."  "All of Me" I’ll Cover the Waterfront," "No Regrets," "I’m Pulling Through," Them There Eyes," and all the other songs on that three record set were the soundtrack of my life back then.

So it’s really not that strange to listen to Billie Holiday for 15 days straight. For me it’s like being twenty-years-old again when the lilt of Billie’s voice was all that I needed to get out of bed in the morning.

-Louise G. Crawford

There are three teenage boys sleeping in my living room as I write this. God knows what time they actually fell asleep. One is sleeping on the couch, one is in a sleeping bag on the floor, and my son is squeezed into the red club chair, his legs hanging over the side, covered in his favorite blue comforter.

They are snoring, drooling, generally lost in sleep.

I went to bed around 11 p.m. and they were, of course, awake. I woke up a few hours later, maybe 1:30 a.m., and they were still up. I said something like, "You guys should really think about going to sleep. You must be tired." One of them, a tall redhead said, "We’re teenagers, we never get tired."  The redhead was listening to thrash metal music  on an iBook, the other boy was noodling on an unplugged electric guitar, and my son was reading a Japanese pulp classic called, "Battle Royale," which, he explained, is about a class of junior high school students who are taken to a deserted island,  provided with arms and forced to kill one another.

The guys were together all day. They’re in a band called "Cruell and Unusual  Punishment" and they were recording some songs over at one of their apartments. They were particularly excited about a self-penned, acapella cut called: "Onomatopoeia."

I always know my son wants to ask me a favor when he says, "Hi Mom," in a really cute English accent. When he called at 10 p.m. last night asking if his two friends could sleep over in the living room (because my son’s bedroom is too small for sleepovers), I couldn’t say no. I probably should’ve because it looks like they’re going to be sleeping in the living room for most of the morning. But that’s okay.

They look so cute when they’re sleeping.

-Louise G. Crawford

There’s a woman on my block who lost her husband last September. A small, stocky woman, she waddles a bit as she walks up Third Street. And she  looks like the loneliest person in the world.

Her husband was much taller than she, handsome, with a full white beard. Barrel chested, he always looked so robust. I was surprised one day when I saw him coming out of a yellow cab looking so weak, she had to help him walk to their stoop. At first I thought the man might be his father. He looked exactly like her husband just much, much older.

I mentioned this to my husband and he said he knew something was wrong. He’d seen him talking to someone about selling the BMW motorcycle he kept in the front cement yard of their building. "That bike meant the world to him. I thought it was strange that he was selling it," my husband said.

We learned that he had cancer soon after from neighbors on the block. One day I saw two of his sons sitting on the bench in their yard and somehow I knew.

I never knew him at all. I only observed his comings and goings on Third Street. But I liked him: the way he looked, the way he talked to his adult children, his friendly, deep-voiced hellos, the closeness he emanated with his wife. I guessed, in that way you conjecture about neighbors,  that they were longtime Park Slopers, progressives, political-types. Through their front window, there was evidence of a former hippie life – Indian fabric, abstract paintings, stained glass. To me it brought to mind: civil rights, New York in the 1970’s, "We Shall Overcome." 

Infused with grief, his wife looks lost, aimless, sad all the time now. She still smiles at me as she walks up Third Street. But we’ve never been in the habit to stop and talk. Besides I don’t know what I’d say. Clearly, she is trying to find her bearings in this life without her bearded man. The other day I noticed a vase of dried out roses in her window.
It made me sad just to see them there.

-Louise G. Crawford

It never ceases to amaze me how very connective the Internet
is. I have "met" so many people through this blog.

Just
today a woman from Chicago wrote to say that she’d like to use my "balabusta" poem as part of a wedding shower gift. She also wanted to
know if I had any other balabusta poems.

I am delighted that this woman, who is 67 years old and a former English teacher at the University of Wyoming and Iowa State University, wants to use my poem as part of an elaborate shower gift she is giving to a colleague’s daughter. I am also incredibly impressed that she asked in the first place. That seemed pretty classy to me.

And no, I don’t have any more balabusta poems.

Balabusta is a
Yiddish word that means terrific homemaker or super-efficient housewife.
There’s an exclamation in American Jewish that goes: "such a balabusta
you are." It’s something you would say after a wonderful and effortful
meal. Or when admiring an immaculate apartment. 

I also wondered how exactly this woman from Chicago found the poem in the first place – it appears
on the Internet in two places, but still. So I googled "Balabusta" but there
was no link to it there.

My husband, also known as Mr.
Knowledgeable, suggested I try "Balabusta Poetry" and lo and behold –
there it was, number 2 on the google roster, which directs surfers to
the Poetry Superhighway, where the poem was published in January 2005.

This Chicago woman and I have exchanged a flurry of e-mails. She sounds very nice. She even asked what kind of photography my husband does because "we are always looking for new talent for our publications," (she now does public affairs, communications and fundraising for an environmental organization ).

Ooooh, I thought, maybe something more will come of this connection. So I sent her a link to No Words_Daily Pix by Hugh Crawford because, as she said in her last post: "God works in mysterious ways."

Here is the poem that the woman from Chicago admired.

Yiddishe Mama

Such a balabusta
I am
bringing this tin of
homemade cookies

More fodder for
your extravagant elucidations
your theoretical be-bop

Chewing them slow
you savor the X-ray view
swallowing the id of me

Flavorful, rich
Freudian frosting
Purveyor of
phantasmic erogeny
and childhood suffering

I whipped up these
mnemonics of small
sweet longing
in my hot basement kitchen

For your plaisir
and your analysis, of course

Sugar on your lips
you lean forward
eyes shut tight
receptor of
psychoanalytic radio signals

and riff radiantly on my
unconscious confections

Take them for what they are

my cookies
are yours

-Louise G. Crawford

Last night my husband attended the President

Seventh Avenue after midnight: dark, quiet, even a little forbidding. 

At Santa Fe,  the busboys wash down tables while the bar stays semi-full with singles and lonely men; big baskets of tortilla chips on the counter.

Two Boots  is childless; free of flying pizza dough, mismanaged toddlers, parents soused on one too many margaritas. TV on, an easy crowd gathers at the friendly bartender’s bar. Talk about politics, sports, sex, moves seamlessly from one end of the amoemba-shaped bar to the other.

Walking home from writers group and drinks after,  I venture through the dark Slope Streets.

The smokers stand outside of Snookys, the old-time slope sports bar between President and Carroll. A man, coatless and drunk, looks like he might not make it home. Inside, a woman makes out with the bartender, her belly flat on the bar.

Late shift shoppers at Key Food avoid the daytime crowds. But there’s usually only one cash register open and a long line just the same. At the Korean on Garfield, a man buys a big can of Fosters Ale and Scott toilet paper.  The scholarly homeless man sits near Starbucks, which was closed for the night. In his worn-out preppy clothing, he has a thoughtful face and the gait of someone who’s been in and out of mental institutions.Last night he was studiously working on math problems in a text book. Usually, he’s tackling heavy, existentialist tomes.

Ironically, it’s spooky going past PS 321 at night, where people get stoned under the playground equipment or on the dark steps. In front of the newstand between 2nd and 3rd Streets, one of Arabic boys who works there packs up the daily papers and brings the low newspaper tables in.

Turning the corner on Third Street, I am cautious and alert, making sure that no-one is  following me. Some nights  I pass a dog walker or young revellers walking home from the beer pub on Fifth Avenue. Often, it’s me alone, peeking inside television-lit rooms that face the street. I usually cell phone my husband and ask him to wait on our steps; it makes me feel better just to know that he’s there.

You know it’s spring on Third Street when you see your neighbors’ faces for the first time in months. Last night before sunset, Third Streeters were out in force, sitting on the steps in front of their buildings, watching the kids play, seeing who was walking down the street.

And chit chatting.

On Third, we spend much of the warm months out on the street. The 8-unit lime stone apartment buildings, of which there are ten or more, have these large, gated front yards that are perfect for hanging out.

Unlike those with brownstones, we don’t have backyards, so we do our outdoor sitting, eating, lounging, reading, watching our children play in plain sight. This adds a pleasant social element to our outdoor recreation. There’s lots of spirited talking over the fence at passersbys. "Nice bike," we might say to the neighbor’s kid. Or "Is it possible that so and so is going to college. When we moved here he was just six."

On summer weekends, the people in my building bring out canvas umbrella chairs, green plastic turtle-shaped pools and barbecues: we do a great imitation of suburbanites. We even have impromptu building-wide pot-luck barbecues, which include marshmallow roasts for the kids and lots of beer and wine. For the grown-ups. "Anyone up for a barbecue?" is all it takes to motivate the neighbors to check what’s in the fridge and cook dinner outside.

For the next few days it’ll be like old home week. If the weather stays
warm, we’ll shoot the breeze with friends we haven’t shot breezes with in
ages due to cold weather and rain. Everyone will be in a slowed
down, "isn’t this a lovely day," kind of mood and we’ll hear the latest news, all the Third Street gossip.

And we’ll be out-of-doors for a change, back to living our lives out on the street near the window boxes and the garbage pails.

Yours from Brooklyn,
OTBKB

Torential rains didn’t keep a nice-sized crowd from enjoying an afternoon of photography and champagne at Fou Le Chakra.

The cafe’s red-painted walls were filled with black and white and color portraits of those whose pictures were taken in the very same room on Valentine’s Day.

The portraits are spontaneous, unguarded – sometimes unflinching, sometimes joyful, always gorgeous.

It was a mostly local crowd, though some did brave the weather from upstate New York, New Jersey, even Brooklyn Heights. No one from Manhattan made the trek as far as I could tell. People who’d said they’d definitely be there didn’t show – a fact we blamed on the weather and not lack of loyalty or devotion to art.

In the midst of it all, one of my friends, on a whim, ran off to get a tattoo at a parlor just one block away. In less than an hour she had a beautiful bird and the word, LOVE on her lower back. The  parlor has a wide-selection of vintage-style tattoos to choose from. The artist, who herself was tattoo covered everywhere she had skin showing, bandaged my friend’s tattoo and told her to wear lose clothing, not to scratch it or put scented soap on it for risk of infection. In five or six days, the flaking should have stopped and my friend will be able to wear low slung jeans and show it off to the world!

My daughter and her friend couldn’t wait to see the flying bird on my friend’s back. They were mighty disappointed when they saw that it was bandaged up for no one to see.

On Saturday April 16th, Crawford will be doing it again. He’s setting up his portable studio, signature backdrop and all, and will take shots of those who come in. There’ s no obligation to buy a print – but see if you can resist having a picture of yourself that also doubles as a work of art.

And you can get a tattoo right down the street.

Yours from Brooklyn,
OTBKB

Now I know how the other half lives. Literally. My other half.  While our guests slept in  our apartment on Third Street, we slept at my twin sister’s a few blocks a way. 

My twin sister and her husband, who were away for the weekend, have an immaculate place – no clutter, no mess. And everything is brand new – coffeemaker, televisions, stainless steel refrigerator, granite counters. It helps that they don’t have kids yet (they’re adopting a little girl from Russia in a few months) because they’re both neatniks and everything has to be just so. 

Much as I would love to live this way, it just doesn’t seem possible in our apartment, with our children. Our’s is chock full of things – clothing, books, computer equipment, school papers, toys. We’re four people with lots of combined interests, activities and STUFF.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t jealous of the way my sister lives. It’s so calming to be here. There’s nothing to distract you from the lovely colored walls, the Arts and Crafts pottery, the framed prints on the wall, the view of Prospect Park out their window.

In this regard, we couldn’t be more different, my sister and I. Or maybe we’ve just made different choices. She’s always been the more visual one. Even in elementary school – she was the artist and I was the musician. Now she’s in film and I’m a writer. We’ve always staked out different areas to throw ourselves into. It was a coping strategy, a way not to step on each other’s toes.

And our husbands are quite different, too. Mine is a lovable packrat with an inability to part with even the most mundane piece of paper. He collects cameras and computer equipment, books, and strange things like Greek diner coffee cups.

My brother-in-law  is compulsively neat.  His closet says it all: suits, shirts, pants and ties are arranged in something akin to alphabetical order. He has not one, but two dressers full of perfectly folded clothing, and his shoes are lined up on the closet floor.

Serenely elegant, thier apartment is like a hotel. They’ve got a sumptuous brown leather sofa, an upholstered headboard,  an entertainment unit, built-in bookcases, a dining room set – it could be featured in a shelter magazine. It’s that nice.

To be honest, our place is a little more rococo, decorated as it is with antique furniture handed down or found on the street. There are a few items, like the green leather couch from Ikea, and the Noguchi coffee table, that we actually picked out and bought. It’s a hodge-podge at best, a well-intended one, but a hodge-podge just the same.

So I spent the weekend comparing myself to my sister, it’s a natural thing for siblings to do. But it’s not really all that fun as it bring up subtle shades of sibling rivalry. It wouldn’t be that hard to redecorate, I kept thinking, to throw things away and organize what we have…

So despite the calming decor and the world’s most comfortable bed, I didn’t sleep that well at my sisters. The traffic noise on Prospect Park West and  the rain on their bedroom air conditioner had me up at one-hour intervals. It’s always strange sleeping in an unfamiliar bed, with unfamiliar noises.

I guess I have to admit, even if it’s not quite right, there is no place like home. Simply because it’s mine.

Yours from Brooklyn,
OTBKB

Our friends from Kingston came down for the weekend. They used to live in Park Slope so it’s always nostalgic for them to revisit the neighborhood where they spent the first few years of their children’s lives.

They moved away almost exactly three years ago. It was in April and their friends gathered at Ozzies to say a noisy farewell just hours before they drove off in their overstuffed blue Volvo.

Over time, they created a new life for themselves in a yellow Victorian house on a grand, tree-lined street in a small upstate city.

It wasn’t easy at first. They renovated their house and one of them, a lifetime non-driver, had to learn how to drive. But eventually, they settled in and made friends through the strong homeschooling network in Ulster County, and the local Unitarian Church.

The kids thrived with a huge backyard and ample space for creative activities and imaginary play.  There’s nothing like a house with two stairways to make a childhood fun, particularly for games of Hide and Seek.

Still,  it’s sad to have them so far away. And in some ways, they are still Brooklynites at heart. They miss the Food Coop, the Botanic Gardens, the street life, and the friends they made here when their children were small. Our kids reconnect almost instantly. It’s a raucous time – they seem to bring out the LOUD in each other.

As for the adults, the distance seems to have intensified the friendship and proved to  them all that it wasn’t just being neighbors that pulled them together as friends.

Tomorrow they’ll  do all their favorite Brooklyn things: lunch at the Taqueria, the Carousel in Prospect Park, First Night at the Brooklyn Museum, a visit with friends from pre-school, and a walk down Seventh Avenue just to see who they run into.

On Sunday, they’ll go back up to Kingston restored by their weekend in Brooklyn. Filled up with the things that they miss the most, they’ll return to the sane, non-Brooklyn life they’ve created in the new place they call home.

Yours From Brooklyn,
OTBKB

On Valentine’s Night, photographer Hugh Crawford set up his portable portrait studio: ancient grey backdrop, brand new strobe light, and a state-of-the-art Canon digital camera (souped up with a vintage Nikon lens),  at Fou Le Chakra, a small cafe/shop on Seventh Avenue, and waited for friends and neighbors to come in to have their pictures taken.

It was a rainy night and the turnout wasn’t as large as expected but more than 30 people did come by, primed for their close-up. The crowd included plenty of kids who were enthralled with the photographer’s flashing light.

On Saturday, the photographic bounty from that night will be on display at Fou Le Chakra. Crawford has painstakingly printed 30 large-scale and small prints that reveal his unique gift for capturing a subject’s unguarded essence, as well as his unerring sense of composition and timing.

"It’s reflexive in both senses of the word," says Crawford. I try to mirror the subject – so that he or she is, in a sense, looking in a mirror. And for me, it’s about improvisation and reflex; very subsonscous on my part."

There’s a nice symmetry about the show: the photographs are being displayed where they were created. Many of the subjects will be there. It’s amazing how a photograph can transform a rainy night endeavor into a full-fledged work of art.

Hope to see you at the opening on Saturday April 2nd at 3 p.m. The pictures will be up through May 16th. Fou Le Chakra. 411 Seventh Avenue. Between 13th and 14th Streets.

On the last Sunday of every month, Crawford will be setting up his
portable studio at Fou Le Chakra. The Portrait Project is a free sitting and the photographs can be viewed
the very next day at hughcrawford.smugmug.com, where you can order prints. It’s an interesting
concept; easy and inexpensive like a photobooth – but with a
skilled, professional art photographer at the helm. Who can resist? Come to the kick-off event on April 16th at Fou Le Chakra.

My 8-year-old daughter and I have long talks about what goes on in the playground of her school after lunch. Just about every day she has a story about one or more of the "mean girls" and some mean thing they did or said. Sometimes on our way to school in the morning she’ll point someone out and say: "There’s one of them. She’s a mean girl." And we’ll discreetly spy on her for a  moment, so that I’ll have a picture to go with the stories.

Recently, my daughter seems to be getting really fed up with one particular mean girl. Last night she stood on a chair and raised her hand very high and said: "I’ve had it up to here with her." She even wrote a note that she probably won’t give to her that says:

Dear ____, I do not like how you play. Mostly you are bose(sic) and mean too. I hate how you are to kids.

My daughter seems to want to stop being friends with the girl she wrote the letter to. But it’s hard. She seems simultanously drawn to and repelled by this girl. And as you can imagine, the girl is quite commanding both emotionally and physically.

After my last postcard about mean girls in the playground, I got this response from a friend: "Wait till 4th grade when it really, really kicks in. Oh my god. My daughter’s going through a hard time now, and if possible the girls have gotten meaner from when we went through it with my older daughter. I was actually thinking of asking the school to please have some kind of workshop addressing this issue, which is widely ignored by school authorities, though some teachers are better than others at dealing with it. I know a number of mothers whose first kids are boys and this all comes as a shock. Even thought I know what to expect, it isn’t any easier."

I’m one of those mothers of boys who had no idea what was going on in the playground all those years. The last few months have been a real education for me. I am grateful that my daughter has been so expressive about what’s going on. And conversations with other moms have helped too. It’s never too soon to address the issue at home and give our kids the time and support they need to really talk about it figure out what to do.

Thanks to Park Slope Parents, a Yahoo.com discussion group, a documentary film called "Let’s Be Real" has come to my attention. The film, which is appropriate for ages 10 and up, lets kids, both victims and bullies, speak out about the pain and confusion of bullying and taunting. It also explores a variety of issues that lead to it, including
racial differences, perceived sexual orientation, learning
disabilities, and sexual harassment. A discussion will
follow the screening on April 16th at the ImaginAsian Theater 239 East
59th Street in Manhattan between 2nd and 3rd Avenues. 10:00 am until noon. Reservations necessary. For more information and registration: urbina9@aol.com

Co-Editing  "Pandamonium," PS 321’s poetry magazine, is mostly a labor of love. But it’s also a bucket-load of work. Since 2001, I’ve headed up the team of parents who type, design, scan, proof read and edit the 70-page magazine, which features one poem from every child at the school; 1300 poems in all. It’s  nothing if not inclusive and that’s what I love most about it.

From pre-K to fifth grade, there’s a wide range of subject matter, quality, and style. You can learn a little bit about the teachers through the poems their students write. Some classes produce lots of poems about "rain going pitter pat." Other teachers  help kids dig deep for content and forms of expression.

There are so many interesting poems, it’s hard to pick a few to mention here. I enjoyed a vivid poem about an asthma attack, a humorous piece about a boy not wanting to "Practice, practice, practice" his horn, a sad poem about the divorce of a girl’s parents, and one called: "When Alliteration Hits Me:"

When Alliteration hits me / I/ Marvel at Monkeys maliciously/Mashing Mangos making/Metropolitan Museum Mummies/Melancholy/When Aliteration hits me…

The end of March is always crunch time for me, and I’ve been holed up in my office for the last five days doing a final proofing before sending the file to the printer. I feel like I’m going blurry-eyed making sure that students’ names are spelled correctly and that there are no typos or punctuation errors.

Much as I can’t wait for this laborious task to be finished, I do enjoy these long days spent sitting on the floor in my office, reading the poetry of children. It is a rare chance to get inside their heads and find out what makes them tick. Like this excerpt from a poem by a fourth grader:

Me

Violet purple
sleeping flamingo pink
pony-tailed brown hair
dirty sand brown eyes

My hometown Brooklyn
Florida, I come from
Jamaica, I come from
Barbados, I come from
Africa, I come from
but love is what I have

Yours from Brooklyn,

OTBKB

He’s in our midst. He looks just like everyone else. Drops his kid off at PS 321 and drinks coffee in the morning; he helps out with PTA activities and does the Times’ crossword puzzle at the same table every day at Starbucks.

Bu this man has another identity too. He’s a prodigiously talented composer and songwriter. His work will make you swoon, laugh, even cry. Just like I did. Lifted out of the every day, his work delivered me to the worlds of Maya Angelou, Langston Hughes, and a white, Jewish guy from the Southside of Chicago.

His name is Louis Rosen. And Sunday night at Joe’s Pub, Capathia Jenkens, sang, among other things, a song-cycle he created based on the sassy eloquence of Maya Angelou’s poetry. Rosen uses a variety of song styles to bring the poet’s words to life – blues, jazz, musical theater, classical – with suprising leaps of melody and harmony. His music brings out the poet’s voice in a  way that enhances and enthralls.

Vocalist Capathia Jenkins is a discovery. Like Rosen, she deserves to be a star. The songs, which were created expressly for her multi-timbered voice, give life to Angelou’s women. And Capathia becomes these characters in an instant – her stance, the way she holds her microphone or moves her hand. In tiny theatrical ways, she embodies these phenomenal women and stirs the room with virtuousic blues in a deep alto-to-high soprano range. Her earthy emotionality belies a sophisticated vocal control.

What a pair. Louis and Capathia: a handsome, skinny guy from Chicago’s Southside and a ravishing, voluptuous black woman with a voice that makes you laugh and cry.

The audience at Joe’s Pub was in their thrall Sunday night. Louis on the piano singing an autobiographical song about growing up. Capathia endearing herself to the crowd while taking us on a journey through a universe of identities.

The room took them in with all the cabaret-attention it could muster. Waitresses served, people ate from plates of delicious food, drinks were a-plenty, but the audience was rapt and they applauded ferociously after every song-poem, honored to be among the few to see what was probably the best show in town.

Monday morning I saw Louis in the Slope but I didn’t say hello. Feeling a little awed, a little shy, I watched to see if there was a spring in his step after such a phenomenal night. He kissed his son good bye in the lobby of PS 321 and found his usual table at the local Starbucks.

Back to being a regular guy. Someone who looks just like everyone else.

Yours from Brooklyn,
OTBKB

Sometimes I’m not sure I want winter to end. A part of me appreciates the cold, dreary season because it is, in its way, very forgiving of moodiness. Spending a winter weekend at home, making soup, and devouring the Sunday paper inspires not the least bit of regret that I am not doing something better with my time.

These first springy days bring with them a kind of pressure to take advantage of what the weather has to offer. I force myself to say: "Wake up everyone, it’s time to get out there and have some FUN," when really all I want to do is lie underneath my comforter until hunger and the need for coffee forces me to the kitchen.

Much has been said about winter depression. But what about the blues brought forth by the expectations that spring arouses. What if the reality and the expectation don’t exactly match up? I, for one, am not quite ready for perky tulips at the Korean market, the park full of fair-weather runners, or Easter, for that matter. Truth is, I’m just not ready for spring.

A great, great jazz tune sung by Betty Carter comes to mind. The lyrics by Fran Landesman really say it so well:

"Spring this year has got me feeling. Like a horse that never left the post. I cry in my room, staring up at the ceiling. Spring can really hang you up the most."

I think this is just a temporary thing. Transitions are often hard. You get kind of attached to the seasons, even the nasty ones, and it’s hard to move on. I’ll get past this. I know I will. But please, just a few days more of winter, so I can get this  malaise out of my system.

Yours from Brooklyn,
OTBKB

There are ghosts around here. And I’m not talking about the spooky kind. They’re friendly ghosts, like Caspar, ghosts of friends who have moved away from Brooklyn for greener pastures more than 90 minutes from here.

These friends have left behind pieces of of themselves that appear from time to time when I walk past their apartments or the well-worn spots on Seventh Avenue where we used to stand and talk.

Some of these ghosts are good friends, people we try to stay in touch with, and call on the phone. Friends who, regardless of the fact that they abandoned us for a huge Victorian in Rockland County, we continue to love.

Our friends from across the street fall into this category. They’re here but they’re not here. I check their window everytime I leave my building. What I’m checking for I don’t know. Now that it’s spring I half-expect to see her weeding her flower boxes, or pullilng her shopping cart chock-full of gourmet health food from the Food Coop.

And then there are our friends who up and left us for a big Victorian in Upstate New York. I still dial 718 when I call them on the phone. Yesterday I addressed a postcard to them and wrote Brooklyn, New York instead of…

There’s also the family downstairs, whose kids were best friends with ours.  "I’m going down to Eddie’s," was my son’s constant refrain until the day Eddie moved away. Eddie and his sister were like family, as were their two younger siblings, and their parents. Even if we were wildly different in our approaches to things, we found a common ground on Third Street.

This block is also full of ghosts of people that I never got to know but wonder how they are: the single mother with the adopted son from Viet Nam, the woman who writes T.V shows for PBS and her husband and son, the two moms with the two kids who moved to Montclair, the family from Yemen with the spunky daughter (does she wear a veil now that she’s grown up?). And there are more. Plenty more. And they’re all still here in their way.

It’s been hard to figure out how to be friends with the friends who have moved away. it takes time, a year or more, to accept that their ghostly apparitions are just that, and that they’re NOT coming back to the Slope. Denial can be deep.

The next step is learning how to be friends at a distance. Phone calls and addresses must be memorized. New conversational topics must be substituted for the old standbys like: local real estate, 321 teachers, Coop gripes, and Third Street gossip. The ease of shouting up to a window Brooklyn-style, must be replaced with the effort of picking up the phone

But it can be done. First come the good-byes. Then the ghosts. And then, after a very long time, the acceptance that they’re no-longer in their too-small apartment in Brooklyn, but a suburb or town that’s really not that far away.

Yours from Brooklyn,

OTBKB