Thanks to Eugene J. Patron, Press & Communications Director of Prospect Park, I knew that Thanksgiving Day was the opening day of the Kate Wollman Rink in our beloved park.
I am now on Mr. Patron’s e-mailing list, which means I am up-to-the-minute on all park events.

Daughter and I packed up our skates bought last winter at Good Footing, and car-serviced over to the rink (with her best friend and neighbor). My friend downstairs said she would TIVO the Macy’s parade so the girls could see it later.

The Wollman staff was in good spirits it being the first day of operation. No-one seemed too pissed off about working on Thanksgiving. The guy at the bag-check, candy and supply shop, learned that the price of everything had gone up since last year. "First I heard about it," he said cutting me a break on the price of the bagcheck because I didn’t have 8 cents in change. "Just this time, okay?"

It now costs $1.08 to check your bag up from one buck. No biggie.

The cafe was in fully operational mode: their famous great-for dipping -in-hot-chocolate Churros were as tasty as ever. In addition to H.C., the girls enjoyed cotton candy (yuck), and popcorn sitting outside on the picnic tables.

Days like yesterday make me feel so privileged to live in the small town of Brooklyn. The rink wasn’t crowded at all and its view of the lake surrounded by reeds, grasses and fall foilage was spectacular.

The sky was full blue with majestic clouds and the sun warmed the over-dressed skaters as they skated round and round.

In the months since we last went skaing, Daughter has become an extremely confident and speedy skater. A far cry from the imbalanced, "hold on to me" skater she was less than a year ago.

I attribute it to her excellent physical coordination and balance AND to her NEW SKATES, fancy pink ones with Velcro closures.  Having your own skates is half the battle in the effort to skate well.  Those rented skates are just awful.

Even my skating has improved expoentially since purchasing my own skates.

We walked back through the park passing the Prospect Park Audubon Center & Visitor Center at the Boathouse The "Heart of Brooklyn" trolley picked us up in front of the Zoo and took us to Grand Army Plaza. We walked to Third Street in thick piles of leaves. Daughter and friend picked acors the whole way.

"We’re going to paint them when we get home," Daughter said. And they did.

FOR WHAT’S GOING ON IN PROSPECT PARK TODAY SEE TODAY’S DAILY SPECIALS ON SCOOP DU JOUR (below)

On Thanksgiving morning, a neighbor knocked on the door of another neighbor. She was holding four red folding chairs.

"Read the blog. You gotta read the blog," she said. "And here are some chairs for your party."

I am paraphrasing. But I think I’m close. When I spoke to my neighbor downstairs, the one who was having 14 guest over for Thanksgiving, we had this conversation:

"I haven’t read the blog yet: It’s been so hectic around here," she said. "What did you say?"

"I said you needed chairs because the number of your Thanksgiving guests exceeded the number of chairs in your apartment," I told her. I also assured her that nothing too personal about her had been blabbed or blogged to the world. But then I remembered thepart about the hat.

"I also mentioned the thing about you wearing a woolen hat while you cook (instead of a hair net) because you’re so nervous about people finding hair in your food," I said nervously.

"And I was wearing the wool hat when she came by with the chairs. She said, ‘You really are wearing a hat.’"

I wondered for a minute if I had crossed some kind of boundary by blogging about the green wool hat, the red chairs.

But she said she didn’t mind about the wool hat. And she really needed the chairs.

On Ducky’s first Thanksgiving, observing my sister with her 15-month-old brought back memories of trying to enjoy a family event with a baby.

THE GOOD PART: All the cooing and oohing on the part of one’s relatives. Everyone volunteered to hold the precious one and she was passed around the table like a bowl of mashed potatoes.

Ducky looked a tad startled by the new faces and the strange  environment (a teriffic restaurant in the West Village called Inside). But she was mostly game. And she did flash that to-die-for smile.

THE BAD PART:  By the time my sister and her husband arrived at the restaurant,  they were already exhausted after dressing Ducky (which involved tights), and packing supplies — books, toys, diapers, changes of clothing, and special baby food — for the outing.

Yes, I remember it well. I felt a little guilty for the fact that I was able to enjoy the company of my relatives and my Thanksgiving meal unencumbered, for the most part, by the needs of crying or whining children. Now that my kids are 14 and 8…

I told a fib. Daughter, picky eater she, was unbearably hungry AND quite picky about the soup course. She would not even TRY the incredibly delicious squash soup with creme fraiche.

THE BAD PART: Knowing that a hunger-induced snit fit could be on the way, I offered to take her to a nearby Grey’s Papaya (we’d spotted it on the way to the restaurant) for a hot dog to quell her dizzying hunger. She was good to go.

THE GOOD PART: We managed to do this without anyone knowing that my daughter ate a hot dog from Grey’s Papaya in the middle of our Thanksgiving feast.

Phew.

Indulgent mothering aside, having a picky eater isn’t something I want to advertise to my extended family.

On Ducky’s first Thanksgiving, Ducky’s dad had to duck out mid-meal to take Ducky for a stroll in her stroller for a nap. He came back a half-hour later with a non-sleeping Ducky.

Ducky and her parents left the party early sensing that she needed to settle down in her own crib. It was time for bed. For all of them.

Thanksgiving eve on Third Street. I visited with my friend on the first floor who is having 14 people over for the feast.

I watched her whip up a pumpkin pie, a pecan pie, and cranberry sauce. while we drank wine and covered a free-associative spectrum of topics.

Daughter and her two kids swirled around noisily.

My friend was wearing a woolen cap because she lives in fear that someone will find a hair in her cooking.

She’s serious.

She told me that, as the day progressed, her husband kept calling with word of more  guests. What started as a small family Thanksgiving had evolved into crowd scene. Too many for her table. Worried that her 13-pound Food Coop turkey might not be enough. she had to add pork loin, ribs, and turkey wings to the menu.

Earlier, she phoned one of the guests, a good friend, and took her up on her offer to bring gnocchi and polenta with sage and butter sauce. "We need more food," she told her.

I think she’ll have enough food.

Sitting and chatting in her apartment she seemed anything but worried about Thursday’s feast. The meal was coming together slowly dish by dish.

The wine was helping.

She asked me if she can borrow chairs. "Of course," I said. We’re having Thanksgiving in a West Village restarant with 21 family members on my mother’s side.

We won’t need the chairs.

Frankly, we’ve gotten lazy about going to the Thanksgiving Parade. Too cold, too much of a schlep from Brooklyn, too early. We don’t even watch it on TV anymore.

And it ain’t what it used to be. So commercial, so glitzy, so…different. But what isn’t? This year they’re adding Dora the Explorere and Scooby Doo. Artist Tom Otterness has
created a 33-foot-tall Humpty Dumpty, frowning mid-"great fall."  As usual,  the parade route begins at 77th Street and Central Park West, proceeds to Columbus Circle, and turns onto Broadway. It turns west on 34th Street (just past Macy’s Herald Square) and finishes at Seventh Avenue.

Back when we aspired be the ultimate New York parents, the parade was a must-do activity. When my son was 3, we all bundled up and stood under a Broadway marquis on a freezing cold day. Friends brought a thermos of hot chocolate and it felt like the most essential New York childhood experience of all.

For a few years, my cousin rented a hotel room on the 5th floor of the Central Park’s Mayflower Hotel, which provided a perfect, indoor spot for viewing the balloons. To watch the parade from indoors is one of the great luxuries of New York City life. A real perk. One windy year, we watched a ballon deflate before our eyes after it rammed into a lamp post.

When my sister lived across the street from the Museum of Natural History, she invited Son and Daughter (who was only 2 at the time) to sleep over so they could watch the blowing up of the balloons the night before the parade, one of those great New York traditions. So great, that it’s almost as popular as the parade itself and unbearably crowded.

My childhood memories of the parade are vivid. When I was a kid, I remember being bundled in a snowsuit on freezing cold Thanksgiving mornings and standing out on Central Park West too short to see the parade.

In fourth grade, a classmate invited a group of girls over to her 77th Street duplex for a sleepover. Her parents took us out in the middle of the night to watch the balloons – Underdog and Mickey Mouse being blown up on 77th Street. This was before it was a popular activity. back then, it was strictly for residents of 77th Street and 81st Street. How special we felt walking outside in our nightgowns and overcoats beneath a crystal clear night sky.

The next morning we were out early watching the parade in full swing. The foot of one of the balloons nearly touched my friend’s little brother’s head as he sat on his father’s shoulders.

I asked my sister if she has plans to take her 15 month old daughter into Manhattan for her first parade. "Not this year," she said. They’ll probably take her next year when Ducky is two. She can sit on her daddy’s shoulders and watch the enormous balloons up above.

It’s a New York tradition she won’t want to miss.

Yesterday morning, Mister Oh So Blase about the new Harry Potter movie woke up with a start: "What time is it?" he screamed from his bedroom.

We told him the time (it was 12:30 p.m. or so, his usual weekend hour of wake up) and he told us that he needed to go out to get advanced tickets for the 7p.m. show of "Harry Potter and the Goblets of Fire." at the Pavillion.

Actually, he asked Husband, and then me, if we wanted to go out and get him a ticket. But we declined.

On Saturday night, he and his friends had tried to get into the 7 p.m. show and it was sold out. So he was determined to get in Sunday night, as his desire to see the new movie had risen to a fever pitch.

The mattter of advanced tickets was settled when word came, via cell phone, that his friend’s mother was picking up a ticket for him. A flurry of phone calls followed, "Are you going to the movie? Okay. See you there." and "You going to the movie tonight? Good. See you later…"

A plan was in place. Advanced tickets had been secured. Things were progressing in a postitive direction.

When he came home from the movie I was already reading in bed. He poked his head through my bedroom door: "Mom, do you know where all my Harry Potter books are?"

I told him to look in all the obvious places. They used to have an honored spot on the top row of his bookcase but they’d apparently moved on. I’d forgotten how after seeing each movie, Son usually wanted to  re-read the book, sometimes more than one book. Following the third movie he was so outraged by how much had been left out that he wanted to savor those missing parts.

But this time was different. I could tell that he’d thoroughly enjoyed the movie. "It put me in a Harry Potter mood. I need all my books," he said. Eventually he found them in various bookcase around the house. He was also starving. In all the excitement to see the movie, he’d forgotten to have dinner. We were all out when he left so he missed our family meal.

"Can you make me something to eat," he asked. I agreed figuring I might get some interesting insight into why he liked this film so much better than the last. "I always knew that the fourth one would make a great movie," he said. "J.K. Rowling wrote it right after the first movie came out and it’s very cinematic. There’s mystery, flashbacks, a lot of action. I somehow knew this one would be good."

I watched the eggs carefully; my son likes them perfectly sunny-side-up. "There was almost no Quidditch in the movie," he added, the only negative he had to say. He thought they did a good job of not leaving anything out. And, according to him, it wasn’t really very violent at all despite what the reviews said. "Some guy cuts his hand off but it goes by really fast." 

Son ate his fried egg sandwich in his bedroom with the fourth book lying open on his chest. There were books from the bookcase all over the floor.  He seemed eager to get back to his reading. We urged him to go to bed as he needs to be up bright and early to take the subway to school. But being in a Harry Potter kind of mood, he might just not be able to stop reading until he gets to the end. Even if it is over 500 pages long.   

When Son was in second grade, a friend of his who had a friend in London heard about a book called, "Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone."

While J.K. Rowling’s magical epic was already gathering a readership in England, the book was unavailable in the United States until the Spring of 1999 (I may have my dates wrong).

Our friends discovered that you could purchase the book on the English Amazon.com. Barely anyone in Brooklyn had even heard of the book.

Our friends kept talking about the interesting book they were reading to their sons at bedtime. We waited until the American edition came out and I read it to my son at bedtime.

I noticed right away that the book was well-written and noticibly more complex in terms of form. It really felt like a work of literary fiction for adults but with a subject that was continually interesting to children.

I also noticed that the the chapters were long — and it was time-consuming to finish one before bedtime. But we read the book quickly – one chapter a night.

My son became obsessed with the book and when his birthday rolled around in June he wanted a Harry Potter party. Mind you, this was before there was Harry Potter merchandise, party plates, games, etc. This was years before the first movie. In fact, nobody in my son’s second grade class had read Harry Potter or even heard of it in June of 1999.

We sent out invitations to his friends and classmates. It read like the letter Harry gets from Hogwarts, the Wizard’s school, inviting him to attend the school.

Many of the parents were intrigued by the invite and thought we were massively creative. The truth was, we’d copied it out of the book — just changing a few names and dates.

The party itself was planned to a T. My sister bought supplies for a wand-making activity. We created our own Sorting Hat, the hat used at Hogwarts to determine which special society (Gryffindor, Slitherin, etc.) a student belongs in. There was "Pin the Letter on Hedwig," a huge painting of a beautiful owl like the one in the book who delivers mail to Harry. On my son’s loft bed we created a simulation of a Quidditch game. At the conclusion of the party, my husband read the first chapter of the book.

Needless to say, the party was a roaring sucess and my son was pleased as punch. The parents were happy not to have to drop their kids off at Kids ‘n Action or a bowling alley and were excited by what sounded like a teriffic book.

By spring of the next year, Harry Potter was a world-wide phenomenon. Scholastic released the second book (or was it the third?) at midnight on a Friday night that year, a huge event for kids who showed up at bookstores dressed as characters in the book or in pajamas as Son did. J.K Rowling was on her way to becoming the richest woman in England.

Soon there was a Harry Potter movie and Hollywood images of all the characters and places that had previously been conjured in the imagination of those lucky children who were the first to read the book before it became the iconic bestseller it is now.

Now Son is so "been there, done that" about the opening of the new movie. Daughter, on the other hand, went with Husband the very first night. Son  "hated" the third movie because it left so much out, not surprisingly since the book was 500 pages long.  At 14 his movie tastes have evolved a bit: "Jarhead," "Harold and Maude,"  and "Garden State" are favorites.

He and his friends intentionally avoided the hoopla of opening night at the Pavillion, attending instead a production of Galileo by Brecht at Berkeley Carroll that his best friend was in. Just so you don’t think I’m showing off in that "my child is more interesting than your child" way, I’m not. Son found the Brecht play to be quite boring (though he said his friend was EXCELLENT).

My guess is that Son and his friends will catch the movie on the sly this weekend or next. While they’re doing a good job of pretending that they don’t care a bit about the new Harry Potter, underneath it all, I suspect, they’re dying to see Harry, Hermoine, and Ron in the latest installment of that wizardly tale.

UPDATE: Son and friends tried to see the 7 p.m. show on Saturday but it was sold out. He made fun of me this morning for posting, as he put it, this "aren’t we cool for knowing about Harry Potter before you did" post.

One of the fun things about having a Brooklyn blog is hearing from readers with news and information about the neighborhood. I encourage everyone to keep me posted on all the latest news! I love to know what’s going on and it’s hard to keep track of everything.

This arrived this morning in my In-Box (my email is louisecrawford@gmail.com). Thank you to the person who sent it.

Just wanted to let you know that a new restaurant —
Little Dishes — is going into the space vacated by Cornbread Cafe.
According to a sign on their window the website is littledishes.org.
Says it will be "American cuisine."

Also, Anthony’s — the new brick oven pizza place on 7th Ave btw 14th
and 15th — is scheduled to open on Monday November 21. They are connected in some way to a legendary pizza place in Forest Hills but I can’t remember which one (anyone know?)

There is also a new Thai place going on 7th between 13th and 14th, I
believe.  It’s under construction now.

Often, at a nice restaurant in Park Slope, you see a table of women
talking in a very animated way. They seem relaxed, even uninhibited.
Talking loudly, they throw their heads back in laughter and discuss
husbands, children, school, money, careers, politics. The big stuff and
the small.

You just might be witnessing a "Mom’s Dinner." More than likely
these are women who met when their children were in pre-school. What
started as an excuse to get a break from the routines of family life,
has evolved into a bi-monthly ritual; a A sanity-check, if you will. A
chance to compare notes and support one another, these evenings are
great way to stay connected and share information.

The women I "Mom’s Dinner" with were introduced at an orientation
meeting at Daughter’s pre-school. The night we met, the teacher said,
"Look around you. You are going to know these people for a very long
time."

She was right.

We were young and innocent then. Ourr children were only
2-years-old. They’d never been in school before. We were worried that
they wouldn’t separate, behave, enjoy this new chapter in their lives.

Most pre-schools have something called Phase-In. In the first weeks
of school, the parents are asked to stay in or nearby the classroom
just in case your child has a difficult adjustment.

Some people have to spend more time than others. Daughter was
quickly acclimated to life in the classroom — she didn’t hang on to me
at all. But some of the other kids had a more tearful time.

Over school-provided bagels, we talked about separation anxiety,
transitional objects, bottles, thumbsucking, and potty training.

Our talk evolved as our children did. Now our kids are in elementary
school. They read the Harry Potter books and "A Series of Unfortunate
Events;" take piano lessons and dance; talk back and give attitude. All
the usual stuff.

And the Mom’s Dinners have changed, too. We talk about who we are
now. It’s seems like we’re on an upward trajectory: there’s less anxous
talk, checking to see if our children are "normal." We’re happier, more
settled, a little more comfortable in our own skin.

Tonight, we were a group of 5. The restaurant was buzzing with a hip crowd. Big parties, couples.

The pomegranite Cosmos were incredible. So were we.

Brooklyn Reading Works, the reading series I curate at the Old Stone House is really hitting its stride.

What began in a small South Slope cafe (Fou Le Shakra) is now welcoming audiences of 30 or more one Thursday a month at the beautiful and historic Old Stone House in JJ Byrne Park.  This Thursday’s show may be the most ambitious yet.

Tonight, Cathy Caplan, a
playwright whose play, LAPIS BLUE BLOOD RED, was cited as one of the best
plays by women in 2002 and included in an anthology, will present a staged reading of the first act of her new play, MODEL.

In MODEL, a high end fashion photographer goes to a country house for a
weekend shoot, accompanied by the model, camera assistant, fashion
editor and her seventeen year old daughter. Inspired by photographs
from 1970’s Vogue magazine. Model  examines  the forging of a new
feminine ideal in the mid ’70’s.  Sexual desires are played out in and
out of the frame. The taking of photographs within the play function
almost like songs in a musical–the set up and re-creation of these
actual photographs allow for little playlets within the play that
inhibit and exaggerate the emotional desires and needs of the people
making the images. With Lisa Dove, Greg Paul, Bess Rous, Dustin Smith
and Jess Weixler.

Ellen Ferguson, a former Park Sloper and gifted poet and short story writer will be giving a rare reading of her poetry.

The previous event, a reading by New York Times reporter Jesse Green and journalist Christina Frank of their essays from a new anthology about adoption called A LOVE LIKE NO OTHER: STORIES BY ADOPTIVE PARENTS,  was very well attended and enjoyed by all.

Green’s essay about a same-sex couple who adopt two boys from Texas was a an illuminating and sometimes hilarious pieced called "The Day that Hallmark Forgot." And Frank’s piece about her endless ruminations about the mother of her adopted Vietnamese daughter was moving, wise and real.

In September, noted South African author Sheila Kohler read from her new novel, CROSSWAYS, which was just published in paperback. Matthew Zapruder, read from AMERICAN LINDEN, his first book of poems.

Also in September, Elizabeth Royte read from her book GARBAGELAND, ON THE SECRET TRAIL OF TRASH, her incredibly interesting and important book about what we leave behind.

Regina McBride, author of "THE MARRIAGE BED" read a beautiful passage from that novel complete with Irish brogue and scintillating language. Nancy Graham shared the first chapter of her work-in-progress novel and some of her Somniloquies, poetic experiments in writing while sleeping.

If you can get out for the evening, come on over to the Old Stone House. It’s free, refreshments are served, and you’re sure to have an interesting time. Spread the word. For more information about upcoming readings through June, go to the BRW web site.

So now I am on the planning committee for my 30th high school reunion. A dinner meeting is planned for next week. In a sense, the reunion IS next Monday.

I can attest that my fellow graduates of an unnamed progressive private high school on the Upper West Side of Manhattan that no longer exists are an organized and accomplished lot. We already have a detailed "to-do" list:

At the first meeting we will be discuss: Who to invite? How to find them? How to convince them to attend? What event or events should we have? Where should we have them? What to order for dinner? Why it is not odd that we all know the history of the labor movement is great detail, but cannot name any state capitols.

Those of us on the planning committee (doesn’t that sound like high school?) sent a flurry of e-mails to one another yesterday. Mind you, I haven’t been in touch with some of these people for years. In one e-mail, someone on the committee surmised that I and another friend would be unable to attend next week’s meeting in Manhattan because we live in Park Slope and each have 2 children. My friend swiftly responded with this missive:

We would like to protest the stereotyped and diminishing description of us as