Brooklyn Reading Works (BRW) started because Mary Warren owned a men’s clothing shop in the south Slope called Fou Le Chakra with a tiny cafe in the back. It seemed like the perfect spot for a small, extremely intimate reading series. I immediately thought up a list of writers to invite and BRW was up and running.

Well, Fou Le Chakra is a thing of the past. The last BRW reading was in May with Susan Karwoska and Marian Fontana, the night before the shop closed. It was a great reading and the joint was packed. Fou Le Chakra went out with a bang.

The very next day, Kim Maier offered the Old Stone House as the new home for Brooklyn Reading Works. In June over 60 people came out to hear Carlton Schade, Lauren Yaffe, and Sophia Romero read their engaging work.

Tonight, OTBKB takes off her blogging shoes and puts on her fiction and poetry ones. I will be reading a story about a Janis Joplin obsessed teenager and a self-abusing Manhattan housewife, as well as some poetry.

Mary Warren is a transplanted southerner who is firmly rooted in Brooklyn. She has a 7-year old son, a shop called Shangri La, and is currently getting certified as a financial planner. A former journalist, she has an MFA from Brooklyn College in creative writing.

I think it’ll be a fun night and I hope to see you there.

At 8 p.m. The Old Stone House is in J.J. Byrne Park on Fifth Avenue between 3rd and 4th Streets. Refreshments. Free. A small donation to the Old Stone House is optional but much appreciated.

Brooklyn Reading Works at the Old Stone House has a full fall schedule of great writers, including Regina McBride, Shelia Kohler, Matthew Zapruder, Nancy Graham, Ellen Ferguson and Cathy Caplan and more Go here for BRW’s fall schedule.

In 2004, I found out that I was too old for a Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band arena show. Sitting in the nose bleed section of Shea Stadium with beer guzzling Springsteen fans yelling BROOCE just wasn’t that much fun. It seemed like the band was miles away. Only the gigantic television screens conveyed something of what was going on. My friend and I actually left before the encores, eager to beat the crowds on the number 7 train.

And I’m a huge fan of his music. My interest in Springsteen harks back to the early 1970’s when my father gave me a stack of records by performers being heralded as "the new Bob Dylan,"which included Loudon Wainwright’s first self-named album, The Wild, the Innocent, and the E Street Shuffle, and Waiting for the Sky by Jackson Brown.  Wainwright was probably my favorite of the three at the time.  But during college, I grew to love Springsteen’s masterful second album, especially songs like Rosalita and New York Serenade.

After the 2004 Shea Stadium show, I was dubious about seeing him live again. But when my good friend Toby, a major Springsteen aficionado, asked me if I wanted to see Springsteen play a pump organ while stamping his foot for rhythm on a board, I had to say yes.

Toby and I left Brooklyn for Bridgeport at 4 p.m. Wednesday and it was stop-and-go traffic all the way. Why Bridgeport? Because it was the only New York area show. It took us three hours to get to there, but it was worth the trip.

Solo Springsteen is my kind of Springsteen.

Springsteen pure and simple. Minimal. Reduced to the  bare essentials: emotive, even explosive singing; a real sense of narrative and evocative images in the songs; a highly dramatic performance style. With an almost minimalist approach, he was able to keep the fans transfixed for much of the evening.

Springsteen works hard for his money. He performed for two and a half hours alternating between 6 and 12 string acoustic guitars, electric guitar, harmonica, pump organ, electric piano and grand piano.

I felt like I was in Springsteen’s living room listening to the kind of music he plays when he’s really in the mood to play. Performing only his own songs, the stylistic influences  included  Delta blues, work songs, Woody Guthrie ballads, Dylan in a big way, Patti Smith, Roy Orbison and a little Joni Mitchell thrown in because of Springsteen’s penchant for open tunings on his guitar. His acoustic guitar playing was a revelation – he banged the strings, hit the guitar, and used a bottle neck to create overtones. Sometimes it sounded  like a sitar or some middle eastern instrument.

Considering that there were 5000 or so people at the sold-out show, it was a very intimate evening that demanded fair amount of concentration. Springsteen insisted that the concession stands be closed during the show, that nobody exit or enter during a song, and that the audience not hoot, holler, or yell BROOCE during the songs.

A few rowdy audience members could not contain themselves and Springsteen was quick to throw a tough curse their way, with a smile.

The ride back to Brooklyn took half
as much time as the ride up. In the full moon night, we drove down on scary 95, which
felt like a racetrack with the daredevil  motorcyclists and trucks
constantly roaring by. We discussed the concert all the way to Park Slope going over every detail in depth. During the show, Toby kept a list of the songs on an envelope. Here it is. Just for fun, check it against the list on Backstreets, the Springsteen fansite.

Into the Fire, Devils and Dust, Long Time Coming, Highway 29, Empty Sky, The Promise, All That Heaven Allows, The River, State Trooper, Nebraska, Maria’s Bed, Reno, Racing in the Streets, Lost in the Flood, the Rising, Spare Parts, Jesus Was An Only Son, Should I Fall Behind, The Hitter, Matamoros Banks, Ramrod, Bobby Jean, Land of Hope and Dreams, Promised Land and Dream Baby Dream.

Yesterday was hot and humid like a sauna. My hair got wet just walking my son to the subway at 7:45 in the morning. Beads of sweat formed above my lip as I trudged to my office; even my sunglasses fogged up.

At dinnertime,  all I could think about were frozen Margaritas. So husband, daughter, and I walked s-l-o-w-l-y to Two Boots, dreaming of icy air and cold drinks. Son was with friends at the Pavillion seeing Charlie and the Chocolate Factory for the second time.

As usual,  we asked not to sit too close to the pizza window as there’s always the risk of getting hit by a flying ball of pizza dough. Been there, done that. The restaurant was Monday-night-quiet and there were almost no children running around. Amazing for a place that can feel like a day camp for hyperactive children on a busy night.

We missed the super friendly waitress with the red pony tail and nerdy glasses: she’s working at Brooklyn Fish Camp now after five years at Two Boots (news flash).

Once we ordered my peach Margarita, my daughter’s Shirley Temple, and my husband’s Guiness, we decided on a Pizza Face and our old favorite: craw-fish, andouille and goat cheese pizza.

My daughter drew with the waitress-supplied crayons on the white paper tablecloth, as my husband and I reminisced about all the years we’ve been coming to Two Boots. Before we were married, we used to enjoy Two Boots on Avenue A. In fact, my husband proposed to me there using an empty white coffee cup as a ring. The East Village establishment wasn’t really a kid’s place in the 1980’s; it was more of a groovy place for 20-somethings like us, who lived on the Lower East Side.

Once we moved to Brooklyn, we discovered that Two Boots was a children’s paradise. From early on, our children loved to stand on the steps at the pizza window and get pizza dough from the pizza man. They’d spend most of the meal pounding the dough, making imaginary pizzas, asking the pizza man for more. And they liked the food, too.

The Pizza Face is probably the centerpiece of the Two Boots experience. A small pizza with a mild, kid-friendly sauce, it has eyes made of tomato slices, black olives for eyeballs, a sprig of broccoli for a nose, and a sliver of red pepper for a mouth (or some variation on that theme).

Last night, my daughter spent at least five minutes removing the offending vegetables from her Pizza Face. We had forgotten to order the pizza face sans face. She grimaced as she used her fingers to delicately extricate the tomato slices (ugh), the broccoli, the dreaded black olives, and then very, very carefully, the slivers of red pepper.

"Why don’t they put kid food on the Pizza Face? " my daughter asked.
"Because vegetables are good for you. That’s why they’re there," I said.
"Oh yeah," she said.

Once the veggie removal was complete, she ate one slice finding the pizza a little too cheesy and un-Pino’s like. The waitress packed up her left-over Pizza Face (sans veggies) and one slice of our delicious combination. We noticed that one of the owners of Two Boots and his family were eating at a booth not far from us: it’s always a good sign to see the owner eating the food. "This place must be a goldmine," I said to my husband. And he agreed. It’s been around for ever. And it’s still going strong.

Future generations of Brooklyn children will be delicately removing the vegetables from the Pizza face and pounding pizza dough at the pizza window.

Tradition. Tradition.

On President and Fifth Avenue the other night, right in front of a community garden,  my husband and I literally stepped on a work of art. Just as we realized what we were stepping on, we saw the artist hovering close to the concrete, signing his chalk drawing and adding the words: The Beat Goes On, with an arrow pointing toward Fourth Avenue He then hopped on his bicycle and was on his way.

At first I thought it was a stoop sale sign with an arrow pointing toward the location of the stoop sale (which is an oh-so-Park Slope thing to do).  But then we bent down and studied the drawing: it said by Ellis G. 2006. Hmmm, I thought. But it’s 2005.

The drawings, appearing on many corners of Fifth Avenue the other night, are like crime scene outlines of a corpse. But in this case, they were something even more ephemeral: the shadows cast by street lights, bicycles, mailboxes, parking meters and fire hydrants. And they were all signed either 2006 or 2009.

Rendered in various colored chalk, the drawings are a cross between  Keith Haring and James Turrell, an artist known for his work about light. I for one had never seen Ellis G’s chalk drawings before; I feel like we made a great discovery. 

Wallking back home from the Brooklyn Fish Camp, we saw many of Ellis G’s drawings and stopped to admire each one.  They are eerily beautiful, almost spooky. The street light shadows look like tall abstractions at first. The bicycles are quite masterful with their perfectly drawn spokes.

Among other things, Ellis G’s work is about gentrification and the fleeting nature of things. In the last ten years, Fifth Avenue has changed a great deal.  One population replacing another; stores going out, new stores coming in; out with the old, in with the new. While there are still some holdouts from the old Fifth Avenue like Joe’s Shoe Repair(got shoe problems, call Joe),  the Donut Shop, the pork butcher, most of it is gone. Like shadows, a neighborhood’s identity can change in an instant in this city – with money, lots of money. There is something poignant about this artist’s attempt to capture the mark of a shadow, something that will soon be gone.

Sidewalk chalk is a great metaphor for time. As are shadows. Ever fleeting, ever moving, ever changing. The fact that Ellis G. dates his work in the future is pure irony, I think. These chalk drawings, like this moment, won’t be around one or more years from now.

Sunday it rained and Ellis G’s Fifth Avenue drawings were probably been washed away. Etherial, yes. But very memorable, too. I’m sure Ellis G. is creating new works to replace  those that  disappeared. On some corner, somewhere. Probably in Brooklyn.

Sixteen years is a long time to be married. Consecutively, that is. It is definitely something worth celebrating; something to make a big deal about. In 1999 when we hit the ten year mark, we started to make a fairly big deal about our anniversary.

Staying at the Paramount Hotel on West 46th Street became our annual ritual.

The first five years at the Paramount were fine. But last year, they told us there were no rooms left (even though we had a reservation) and then proceeded to give us what must’ve been the tiniest room in a hotel full of tiny Phillipe Starck designed rooms. And the crisp white design – white everything except for the gilt-framed artistic headboard – wasn’t so crisp and white anymore. There were cigarette burns on the white carpet and a soft patina of gray everywhere else.

And, to make matters worse, a clock radio went off FULL BLAST in the room next door at 4:30 a.m. Hotel security came upstairs immediately and knocked vigorously on the door until the guest turned it off.

So it wasn’t exactly the perfect night away from the kids that we always fantasize about.

This year we decided to be low key, even blase. Why make such a big deal about it anyway? It’s only 16 years. Plus making a big tadoo arouses expectations and sets you up for disappointment. This year, our pproach was: take it easy, take it slow. Wish each other a Happy Anniversary and have a nice dinner in Brooklyn.

And that’s exactly what we did. At Brooklyn Fish Camp on Fifth Avenue at Warren Street, the chilled bottle of reasonably priced white wine from Australia was all we needed to enjoy the sultry summer night sitting in the restaurant’s large, lovely backyard. We reminisced about our wedding 16 years ago, remembering what we were doing when.

And both of us agreed that this new addition to the Fifth Avenue restaurant scene had the feel of a lobster restaurant in Welfleet, or some other Cape Cod town. We felt like we were close to the ocean, not Fifth Avenue. 

Even though the service was unbelievably slow – the kitchen was extremely backed up during the rush hour of Saturday night dinner – the food was excellent and the wait staff was friendly, attentive, and full of guilt about how long it was taking for the food to come out. Our waitress, April, kept giving us progress reports and assurances us that the food was on the way.

And we didn’t get antsy or annoyed. First off, we were just glad to be out without the kids, away from our apartment. Alone. That in and of itself is special.

And the restaurant’s shortcomings felt appropriate somehow. It was real life, not the fantasy of "the big night out where everything is perfect." Kind of like marriage: full of minor inconveniences and annoyances. It isn’t easy, it isn’t always fun, and sometimes it’s downright frustrating.

Nothing a nice bottle of chilled white wine from Australia can’t fix. That’s just the way it is.

It is 8:30 in the morning and my son is asleep on the couch. The lights are on and a copy of the new Harry Potter book, THE HALF-BLOOD PRINCE, is open to pages 346-347 face-down on his chest.

He started reading the book at 1:30 a.m. or so, the time we got back from Community Bookstore, which was selling the books at midnight. We waited on a line which stretched from the bookstore up Seventh Avenue to Garfield and then curled around a good ways up Garfield toward Eighth Avenue.

There must have been 200 or more people on line. Few were dressed up as Harry Potter characters but there were the requisite Hermoines, Harrys, Dumbledores, generic wizards, etc. It was an excited group of parents, children, teenagers, college students, and some unescorted adults. Some kids didn’t make it and were asleep in their parents arms. But for the most part, the kids were raring to go.

Hugh Crawford set up his portable portrait studio in front of the bookstore and took portraits of all those who wanted to record themselves on this historic, literary night. To see those pictures, go to HughCrawford.com on Sunday, July 17th for information about getting prints.

Community Bookstore set up a small table in front of the bookstore for cash and credit card transactions. After payment, customers were handed a blue card that could be exchanged for a book inside.

Once inside, the fun really began. The store was decorated in fanciful Harry Potter style. Employees were dressed as various characters and there was lots of Harry Potter-inspired refreshments on a banquet table in the front of the store.

Perhaps the most inspired element was "The Hand." In order to redeem the blue card for a copy of the THE HALF-BLOOD PRINCE, you had to give your card to a real disembodied hand that was wiggling its fingers in a puppet like theater – think puppet show with a human hand.

After we got our book from The Hand, we walked to the back of the store where a party was in full swing. We saw lots of familiar second grade faces as well as neighbors and friends. One store employee made a rather convincing Hagrid. We were offered butter beer — a concoction of vanilla ice cream and cider. The kids were offered cups of steaming dry ice that provided plenty of fun.

We left before the traditional reading of the first chapter began; my daughter was extremely tired. Sure enough when we got back to the apartment, she was asleep in two seconds flat and my son lay down on the couch to read the Potter.

Once again, a standing ovation for Community Books, which did a creative and eccentric job of celebrating, for the third time, the release of a Potter book. They deserve to make a lot of money on this one. Barnes and Noble had, someone said, more than a thousand people; a real zoo. Seventh Avenue Books/Seventh Avenue Kids, was very quiet about the midnight release. During the week, I kept checking their window to see if they were going to do something but there was no sign or anything. I figured that they were a little overwhelmed with the move. For the last release, they had a nice party and reading.

Seventh Avenue Books was still open at 1 a.m when we walked past on our way home. I noticed a little sign in the window that said: "They’re Here at Midnight." There were some people in the store, buying the Potter and browsing books.

God knows what time my son was up last night reading. He’s a late-night reader to begin with and he has a general propensity for staying up WAY past his bedtime. I don’t expect him to be awake anytime soon. But when he does get up, he’s sure to start reading again. He needs to finish it before the weekend is out. That’s part of the ritual, too.

It’s a savings plan of sorts. We put our pocket change into El Pico Coffee cans, those bright yellow and red containers that, when new, hold our brand of strong expresso coffee.

The cans fill up quickly placed as they are in strategic locations all over the apartment. Coins spill out of my husband’s black jeans when he throws them on the bedroom floor. I routinely pick them up and put them in the El Pico Jar on the dresser. And my purse, my pants, my jacket pockets are noisy with change from buying coffee, the Times, and all my other various and sundry Seventh Avenue purchases. Into the El Pico Coffee can they go.

We always need quarters for the washing machines in the basement. At five quarters a pop, for the washer and 4 quarters for the dryer, you can never have enough quarters around.
But the pennies, nickles and dimes: they really add up in those El Pico Coffee cans. So yesterday, my daughter and I packed the cans in a tote bag and took them over to the Key Food on Fifth Avenue to put them in their Coin Star machine.

The machine is rarely used and it works like a charm. It’s fun to pour the coins through the slot, though my fingers get quite dirty touching them. The machine automatically rejects foreign coins and any non-coin type objects like marbles, screws, and other detritus that finds its way into the El Pico cans.

We found coins from Russia, Germany, and Holland in the coin return slot and enjoyed watching the screen as it showed a breakdown of how much there was of each type of coin. When it was done, the machine printed out a receipt, which we cashed in at a nearby cashier.

$74 dollars was the total yesterday. Not bad. Pocket change really adds up. Now the El Pico cans are empty again, and it’s time to start saving so we can hurry back to the Key Food for the satisfaction of cashing them all in.

RE: I Saw it on Craig’s List

The job of a lifetime is with Howard Bloom, author of The Lucifer Principle. I thought it was for Harold Bloom, emminent intellectual, professor at Yale University, author of such works of literary criticism as The Anxiety of Influence, Kaballah and Criticism, Poetry and Repression, Shakespeare and the Invention of the Human, The Book of J, and many more.

A friend of mine studied with Bloom at Yale University and has great Harold Bloom stories.

That’s why I blogged about it. I am absolutely FASCINATED by Harold Bloom. Truth it, I don’t really know who HOWARD Bloom is. Sometimes I misread things. That was an easy one to get wrong. I was just so excited about HAROLD BLOOM putting an ad on Craig’s List. The pay sucked but it was the intellectual adventure of a lifetime.

Okay, okay. Howard Bloom has his own website and wrote a book called: Global Brain: The Evolution of Mass Mind from the Big Bang to the 21st Century. Blurbs on the site include:

“Howard Bloom may just be the new Stephen Hawking, only he’s not interested in science alone; he’s interested in the soul.” Aaron Hicklin–Gear

“A soaring song of songs about the amorous origins of the world, and its almost medieval urge to copulate.” –Wired Magazine

“I have met God, and he lives in Brooklyn. …Howard Bloom is next in a lineage of seminal thinkers that includes Newton, Darwin, Einstein, Freud, and Buckminster Fuller…he is going to change the way we see ourselves and everything around us.” Richard Metzger, creative director, The Disinformation Company, host of Channel4 TV Britain’s Disinfo Nation

“For those who worry that our ingenuity has upset nature’s equilibrium, Bloom has a message that is both reassuring and sobering. ‘We are nature incarnate,’ he writes. ‘We are tools of her probings and if, indeed, we suffer and we fail, from our lessons she will learn which way in the future not to turn.’–The New Yorker

Well, he sounds interesting too (and egotistical, very) and he lives in Park Slope. Who knew? And he’s got $350 to pay you for the big intellectual adventure of working for him.

I think I’m going to give him a call. Really. I need the dough. Besides, it sounds…dare I say it? Interesting.

I’m actually getting used to it: the new garden on Third Street. Not to say it doesn’t take me by surprise when I walk past.  I was so used to its former concrete modesty. It may not have been the scuzziest yard on Third Street, but it was, for a long time, crying out for improvement. It’s a major adjustment to see it all spiffed up.

Every day I notice something different. How pink the Flagstone tiles are. The lovely droopiness of the skinny new trees. The gray tile used for the walkway to the stoop. The color of the benches.

Nice attention to detail.  It looks like someone really put a lot of thought into the overall design and landscaping. Probably Root Stock or one of the other Park Slope landscapers. Or maybe it was decided by committee: the New Garden on Third Street Committe. Whoever did it, they knew what they were doing.

There’s been quite a bit of buzzing about the new garden. One neighbor calls it "Park Avenue." She asked one of the owners: "What were you thinking? Pink tiles?" I think it was sour grapes. Or joking. Or just stoop envy. And she has one of the best yards on Third Street: the source of much garden envy for years and years by many.

But it’s time to hand over the crown. The prize for most enviable yard on Third Street goes to: the little coop that could. They surprised us all by transforming their concrete jungle into something very posh.

And they’re loving every minute of it.

I just heard about  WE’RE NOT AFRAID, a site that "shows the world we’re not afraid of what happened in London and that the world is a better place without fear."

I hear they’ve already had something like 4 million visitors. And thousands of people of many nationalities have submitted photographs of themselves or artwork that says: We’re Not Afraid.

Add your photo, add your words.  It’s an amazing site.

A highly esteemed intellectual and literary critic is looking for a full time assistant. On Craig’s List, he calls the job the "Intellectual Adventure of a Lifetime." The job requires omnivorous curiosity, computer skills, a tad of web-design, phone skills, and attention to detail. Park Slope Brooklyn resident preferred. Pays very little, but may prove to be the adventure of your life.

Who is he? Send your answers to OTBKB. Also if you are interested, I will forward the Craig’s List info your way.

P.S. This person’s name has never been mentioned on OTBKB. I didn’t even know he lived in Park Slope. Where have I been?

Also, I surf Craig’s List frequently because I am always looking for writing projects, and other interesting work opportunities. If you know of one – PLEASE LET ME KNOW.

It was a slow motion kind of day: what it must be like in Louisanna or Alabama. Mint Julip weather. Lemonade or a tall glass of ice water kind of day. All sultry and sweaty; perfect for swinging on a porch swing in Savannah.

We in Brooklyn know how to slow down. If we have to. It’s funny to be so lazy, so slow, going about the day with such effort.

It was too hot to move. No, you couldn’t go too fast on this kind of day. Heat advisory in effect: stay home if you’re very old. Stay home if you’re very young, or prone to heat exhaustion. Stay hydrated. Being wet is your best bet on this humid, humid day.

No one felt like eating. Dusk found us outside, catching what little breeze there was. I brought out a box of Breyer’s checkerboard ice cream. Chocolate and vanilla and lots of spoons. My daughter and her friend used the dragon pool next door. No one seemed to mind. Everyone was inside – staying air conditioner cool.

Fully clothed, my daughter and her friend splashed and jumped and dived into the dragon pool. My daughter got herself so cold she had to go upstairs for a hot bath. A hot bath on such a steamy day.

Can you imagine?

It was the kind of day that made you feel accomplished for just getting from one place to the next. Drinking cold water. Turning on the air.  A slow motion kind of day. Funny to be so lazy, so slow, going about the day with such effort.

I know it’s not over yet. But the recent news from the Atlantic Yards is starting to feel an awful lot like the feel-good ending of a Frank Capra movie.

Just hours before the deadline, the Extell Development Company entered an 11th-hour proposal to the MTA for their
8.5-acre Atlantic Avenue Rail Yards.

Brooklyn community groups and politicians are greeting the new plan with 

It was my daughter’s idea. She heard about a chess camp and she wanted to do it. So she spent four days last week at "Let’s Play Chess," a small storefront on Fourth Avenue between 8th and
9th Streets. For three intensive hours a day, it was chess, chess, and more chess.   

When we first got there, I didn’t think she’d want to stay. Or if I’d want to leave her there. I’m not sure what I was expecting but Let’s Play Chess’ dreary storefront is a messy room with four tables with three chess sets each. There’s a display case filled haphazardly with chess merchandise and a bulletin board covered with photos of LPC chess teams and clippings from the New York Times, Newdsay, and the Daily news about chess in the schools.

Worse, there were only three other campers and they were all boys. And the teacher wasn’t the one she expected: the adored Tag who teaches at PS 321.

But my daughter was okay with it. She likes chess and this place just reeks of it. The teacher immediately grabbed the kids’ attention standing in the front of the room with a pointer and a large Velcro chess board going over chess basics. She seemed  engrossed enough for me to leave.

When I came to pick her up, she was happy to see me but she didn’t budge from the game she was in the middle of. A good sign. At McDonald’s afterwards she was mezzo-mezzo about the experience: she  liked the chess, but didn’t much like the boys-only atmosphere. Still, she agreed to try it again if I went with her (or found a girl to join).

The second day, I pushed aside the old coffee containers and newspapers on the teachers’ table, and set up my laptop, ready to work while "observing" my daughter’s day at chess camp. I was pleased to see that my daughter really understands chess and is, according to the teacher, very smart about it. She seemed comfortable enough to raise her hand frequently and answer the teacher’s strategy questions.

Overall, the kids seemed very engaged by the teacher’s on-going discussion of famous chess moves, chess history, and strategy. Stopping only for an occasional snack of pretzels and warm Poland Spring water, it was all-chess, all-the-time. The teacher, who also teachers at private schools in Manhattan, clearly lives and breathes chess and knows exactly how to teach young children.

After a while, she let me take a walk and do some errands. From that point on, I knew my daughter would stick out the rest of the week. Especially, since the teacher promised special prizes at week’s end.

On Friday, the promise of prizes propelled the day. The group had come a long way together and they all seemed to be getting along nicely. At the end of the day, the teacher gave my daughter a trophy because "she improved the most of everybody this week." He also gave out Let’s Play Chess t-shirts to all the kids.

This coming week, she’s off to a camp called Kim’s Kids for swimming, hiking, and special trips. She’ll do that three days a week and spend the other two days at a storefront on Fourth Avenue – her idea – playing chess and looking for another trophy, no doubt. Looking for another trophy.