While in Red Hook last Saturday to see my son’s band at the Liberty Heights Tap Room. my husband and I walked over to nearby Coffey Park, an old Parks Department baseball field that has been transformed into an organic garden.

We introduced ourselves to Ian Marvy, the Director of Added Value, the group that is responsible for bringing farming and a thriving farmer’s market to Red Hook.

I told Ian that I am Meg Fidler’s first cousin. Meg is executive director of the Petra Foundation, a group dedicated to honoring "unsung
individuals making distinctive contributions to the rights, autonomy
and dignity of others." Each year, through a national search
and nomination process, the Petra Foundation recognizes such leaders. Petra selected Ian and his partner, Michael Hurwitz, as Petra Fellows in 2004, recognizing their work with youth in Red Hook.

On this unbearably humid Saturday, we watch as a small group of young people shovel dirt, push wheel barrows, and weed in the garden. It was a sight to behold.

According to the website, Added Value’s mission is to promote "the sustainable development of Red Hook by nurturing a new generation of young leaders." They run programs that help kids develop new skills and participate in a  socially responsible urban farming experience.

For the past three years, Added Value has trained more than 50 young people, founded the Red Hook Farmer’s Market, and helped to revitalize Coffey Park. The organization’s sucess is partly due to savvy community organizing and Added Value’s effort to create a Community Advisory Council representing 30 local, regional and national institutions that support ghdif work to improve the neighborhood by creating youth leaders.

Added Value has many components: Herban Solutions, a market gardening business,  Digital Horizons, media literacy and multi-media initiative, and Project R.E.A.L, an environmental justice program.

Participating kids work seventeen hours each week in the gardens, which is right across the street from the pier that will soon be made into an Ikea box store. They learn to nurture plants, sell at the farmer’s market and work on Added Value’s web site. Participants receive a generous stipend while learning invaluable skills.

We spoke with Ian, an open, soft-spoken man, who clearly knows a great deal about farming and organizing successful programs that really address the needs of the Red Hook community. He lives nearby and is quietly passionate about the environment and the people of Red Hook.

Ian showed us around the garden. It really is an amazing thing. Planted  on top of an old Parks’ Department baseball field, they grow "fast crops," that can be harvested several times a year like lettuce and tomatoes. They use  special hoses made out of a porous material that water soaks through. There’s lots of composte and mulched trees mixed into the soil. 

The former baseball field in a rather stark urban setting has that nice/stinky smell of good dirt with compost:  that wholesome, farm-y frangrance you don’t expect to find in Brooklyn.

I always cry on my children’s last day of school. They are quiet tears: quickly-brushed- away-tears, or tears – that – get – stuck – in – the – middle – of – your – throat – tears.

There is something about seeing the teacher coming out of the building with the children he or she has been teaching for the last year that really moves me.

The teachers, too, often look near tears.

When my son was in 1st grade, his teacher, Eve Litwack, was wearing the same floral print dress she wore on the very first day when she was welcoming the children into the class.

That killed me.

Tomorrow I’ll watch my daughter, slightly stooped from her heavy backpack, walk away from her teacher, Ms. Cohen and her classmates – the people that, for the moment, form an important part of her world.

I’m getting teary just thinking about it.

On the last day of school, the children always look a little dazed. Some of them cry, others look scared and uncertain about the future.  They are, of course, tremendously excited to begin summer vacation. Such a mixed blessing this: the end of one thing, the beginning of the next.

After the hugs and the tearful goodbyes, children and parents find out which teacher they have for next year. "Who’d you get?" is a question of great import (the answer is on the last page of the Report Card).

This is a moment of truth. It can mean squeals of delight as children discover that they will be with friends next year. Or it can mean anguished looks of pain and disappointment as a child finds that he or she will not be with a special someone or a group of people she identifies with.

Desperate parents look around asking others: "Is your child in Class __?"

If no-one can be found, the desperation intensifies: "Does anyone know anyone in Class __?"  Sometimes a helpful parent will come up and say: "I think I know someone in Class__." This usually offers some relief.

Walking away from the school on the last day can feel anti-climatic. The emotion of those last moments, the tears, the hugs, the quest to find companions for next year is suddenly replaced with the great expanse of summer vacation.

It’s a snap transition from schoolness to no schoolness and it can feel a little empty, even lonely.

Once home, it helps to read over your child’s report card, to sustain the connection with what you’ve just left behind. In less than an hour, it can all feel pretty far away: the homework, the class trips, the poetry celebrations, the end of year parties, the life that revolves around school.

There is plenty of time to ponder what the summer months will hold. But for those first moments after the good bye, it helps to hold on to the report card, the backpack, the stack of classwork. Like a baby’s security blanket, these transitional objects smooth the way into the next new thing.

My son’s middle school graduation was last Wednesday and the 8th graders have not been back to the building except to pick up their report cards (school has been in session for the 6th and 7th graders).

This transition feels MONUMENTAL. Not only is school out for summer. But elementary school is over and the rest of life BEGINS (high school, that is).

The kids are on the cusp of something big and they look it. My son is taller than last week, his voice is lower, his hair longer. I know, I’m probably just imagining it. But I swear: he’s different.

He’s got friends I don’t really know. I’ve never met their parents, I don’t know their last names. I swore I wouldn’t let this happen. But it did. And quickly. Today I saw him walking down the street with a new friend from school. They waved but walked quickly past on Seventh Avenue.

This evening he called from Starbucks, "I sitting on a big comfy couch with…" I’d never heard the name. And it was a girl.

At least he called. And he was home by 8 pm.

This is an exciting time for him. I can tell. Busy, busy, busy. He has friends, interests, a band he’s proud to be in; the computer purrs with IMs into the night.

Being 14 seems to be all about what goes on when you’re not with your family – even kids who are close with their parents and siblings. When he’s with us he’s not really here: he’s thinking about friends, his band, his music, his life on the outside. That said,  his cranky doppelganger is here big time.  

I remember the summer before high school. I took a pottery course on the Upper West Side where I learned how to "center" clay on a potter’s wheel and to make coiled pots. I did feel betwixt and between. It was a lonely, quiet summer; I wanted to be with friends but no one was around.

My family spent the month of August in rented house on Martha’s Vineyard. I took sailing lessons and developed an unrequited crush on the 18 year old boy, who taught me to capsize in a Sunfish.

It was a limbo between states of being. Everything felt awkward and strange.

14 is about longing: wanting more from every situation; wishing you were someplace else most of the time.

I was impatient for the next thing to happen (even if I didn’t know exactly what I wanted the next thing to be).

For him, I don’t really know. He seems happy in his skin, engaged by what’s around him, excited by the prospect of summer which lies ahead like a blank canvas.

Hot, hot, hot was the temperature this past sultry Saturday, but so was Saturday afternoon’s ROCKIN’ TEENS SHOWCASE at the Liberty Heights Tap Room in Red Hook. Steve Deptula, the show’s producer is truly a hero to the Brooklyn teen rock scene.

First up was my son’s band, Cool and Unusual Punishment, which played a delicious 10-song set.  Queen’s "Another One Bites the Dust," is fast becoming their signature song. The Pixies’ "Where is My Mind," and originals "Cheerful Infinity" and "To My Mother" are also big faves. "To My Mother," penned by the band’s female singer is a blunt and painful message to a less than perfect mom. Kenda manages to balance wrenching  bitterness with a confident vulnerability. An encore was requested by Deptula who whispered to me: "They do have another song, don’t they?" And the band delivered with a surf rock version of the Spider Man theme, that they’d never played publicly before. Cool.

In between acts, the show was emceed by an eighth-grade stand-up comic, Jake Gilford, a funny, funny kid who happens to be the grandson of the late comic actor Jack Gilford.

Next up was, Teenage Jesus, a physically mis-matched duo that was a sight to behold. The electric guitarist and singer was precocious 8th grade Lydia Lunch wanna-be with a decidedly punk/goth fashion sense. The drummer was a pre-growth spurt 8th grader who wore a Brooks Brother shirt, a tie and tidy khaki pants. But musically they rocked.

Virtuosic pianist, Max Coburn, a Berkeley Carroll 8th grader now on his way to Laguardia High School, played an incredible jazz improvisation that had this audience of parents and rockin’ teens in thrall.

He was followed by Jonathan Edelstein, Park Slope’s 14-year-old answer to early Bob Dylan. He’s even got one of those metal harmonica holders. He opened with a  fantastic John Lennon song I’d never heard and followed that with "Talkin’ New York Blues." The kid has great taste in music. With big hands and fingers that seem to totally rule over his Fender acoustic, solo guitar is really Edelstein’s forte.

Steve Deptula deserves a Grammy for supporting Brooklyn’s teen rockers (folkies and jazzers). But you’ll have to wait until the Fall. Liberty Heights Tap Room will be closed all summer for renovations. Deptula says he doesn’t want to pay for air conditioning, the place needs to be fixed up, and he’s got some fishing and beaching to do.  When  the Ikea construction begins across the Street, DiPatula will be busy enough serving lunch to hungry construction workers, working on that big box store. (I hear there could be some major construction delays due to an asbestos problems on the site).

The Tap Room is one of the best neighborhood bars in Brooklyn and a godsend to parents who want to encourage their teenagers to make music and stay out of trouble.

Marian Fontana’s soon-to-be published memoir, Widow’s Walk, received its first review, a starred one, from the Kirkus Reviews.

She sent out an email this morning to friends and family: "I’m THRILLED to have my first review and THANK GOODNESS, SIGH, EXHALE AND WHEW, that it’s a positive one.  Starred, which I don’t really know what that means, but apparently good.  As always, thank you all for your help, love, and support.  I can’t say it enough…"

And here’s the review:

"Fontana tugs at the heartstrings in this engrossing, inspiring 9/11 memoir. The author married firefighter Dave Fontana on September 11th, 1993, and they were supposed to spend their eighth wedding anniversary toddling hand-in-hand through the Whitney Museum. But Dave never made it home that day; he died at Ground Zero. Marian mourned, gave countless interviews to reporters, planned Dave’s wake, wrote his eulogy and conferred with other widows. Gradually, she became a skilled political organizer, founding the 9-11 Widows’ and Victims’ Families Association. She used her newfound media cachet to educate people about the lousy wages firefighters are paid and to weigh in on the debates surrounding compensation to victims’ families. She met with mayors and senators, and she now serves on the Lower Manhattan Development Corporation’s Family Advisory Committee.

Fontana is a good writer, with an ear for phrasing and a focus on small, poignant details: We see her plucking strands of salt-and-pepper hair from Dave’s hairbrush, because she needs a sample of his DNA and brushing her teeth with his toothbrush,"secretly pretend(ing) I was being kissed."

An impassioned, non-manipulative memorial, timed to coincide with the fourth anniversary of 9/11. (Agent: Susan Golomb/Susan Golomb Agency)."

From the Kirkus Reviews.

I can’t bring myself to look at the newly fixed up yard in the limestone building two buildings west of us. In the last couple of weeks, that coop has done a major renovation of their yard. I did see that they replaced their rough concrete pavement with a smooth pinkish  flagstone.  And in the last few days they’ve added trees and grass. I hear that they’ve even hidden their garbage pails with plants.

Someone said they were assembling the teak benches from Smith and Hawken yesterday.

I just can’t bring myself to look over there. Pure and simple, it’s stoop envy. I’ll be the first to admit that I’d like my children to have a tasteful front yard, one that would impress other people and make me proud.

So in lieu of walking toward Sixth Avenue to investigate the newly fixed up garden, I walked the other way to one of the buildings closer to Seventh Avenue (not a limestone), that has recently fixed up their front yard. It’s a rental building and the tenants on the second floor decided to invest their own money to create a small front garden area.

It happened very quickly. They created a curvy stone walk and put in a bench. They also made a brick planter and planted deep purple and lavender pansies. It is a simple, tasteful design; strictly a seating area with no room for children to play.

A few buildings west of there, there’s a limestone building that for years I considered the lemon of the block. The building was run down and full of a strange collection of tenants, some of whom had probably been there for years. There were always police cars and ambulances pulling up to the building.

About five years ago, a Greek man bought the building and started fixing it up: painting, plumbing, electric; he put in new windows, cleaned the exterior and scraped the paint off the antique front door. The place started to look much better.

Over time, he got rid of some of the more questionable tenants and has been, I’ve heard, charging market-value rents.

The building originally had a make-shift garden of sorts, which had sagging trees and tacky Mexican figurines placed here and there. On the far side of the yard there was a robust rose bush that flowered every June.

A couple of years back, the Greek landlord dug up the yard’s concrete pavement and created two large  rectangular areas for dirt and plantings on either side of the front stoop. Initially he paved over where the rose bush used to be.

The rose bush disappeared completely.

That seemed very cruel to me. But a few days later, he cut out a small circle in his newly poured concrete for the rose bush. The resurrected rose bush was very trembly at first and the landlord had to attach strings on two sides to hold it up. It seems to have stabilized over the years and it still blossoms every June.

Whenever I walk by I admire the brave little rose bush, that demanded a hole in the new concrete to call home.

The landlord made some attempt, not a very professional one, to plant trees and flowers. The garden still has the look and feel of the old victory-style garden. And he’s even left the small statues.

These are the brave little gardens of Third Street. The newly fixed up one at the coop two buildings west is a tad more pretentious. I hear it was designed by the landscape designer at Root Stock, the Slope’s trendy plant shop and nursery. I bet he did a great job; he’s a talented guy. I’m sure it’s nice.

I just can’t bring myself to go look at it. Not yet.

As many of you know, I spent the last two weeks in a Brooklyn criminal courtroom listening to a story unfold. Being
on a jury is all about listening to stories. And it’s the jury’s job to see if there’s evidence to support one story above another.

For days and days, I listened to many people tell their version of the story. We heard from the "victim" and her family, a detective, a cop, and a security representative from a cell phone company .

The defence never called any witnesses. The burden of proof was on the  prosecution to prove that  the defendant was guilty. The defense wanted to keep it simple. He never gave the jury a chance to hear from the defendant.

Soon into the trial, it became clear that this was a complicated story. And we were going to hear many versions of it. Like the Japanese film, Rashomon, there were many ways to look at the same thing.

Like in fiction, we had our unreliable narrators, and those who know how to spin
a tale. We heard from out-and-out liars, and those who tell the whole
truth and nothing but…

Sometimes it was hard to tell one from the other. But that was our job: to get as close to the truth as possible.

Veritas.

The lawyera’ closing arguments are truly the grand finale. As the defence attorney hammered away at the prosecution’s case trying to create as much doubt as possible, he was making  eye contact with me constantly.  Overall, his speech was effective,  though there were moments of hyperbole and psychobabble. It may have gone on too long, but it was a passionate plea for the defendant.

The prosecutor was a real diva. She deserves an Academy Award for her performance during the closing arguments. It was that good. She probably knew that she didn’t have the evidence needed for a conviction, so she really had to ham it up and hope for the best.

Was justice served? I think so. I’m still not sure what did and didn’t happen. But the defendent was found to be guilty of endangering the welfare of a child – and there was evidence to prove that. No one seemed happy with the results: not the prosecution, not the defence and surely not the defendant’s family sitting int he courtroom. he truth is complicated, nobody wins.

Being on a jury is an amazing expereince for someone who loves
stories. There’s high drama and the quiet drama of every day life. It’s all about language: exageration, ommission,  hyperbole, and undeniable sincerity.

So many voices, so many words. So may ways to spin a few moments in time.

Last night at the Old Stone House, Brooklyn Reading Works presented three excellent storytellers:
Carlton Schade, Lauren Yaffe and Sophia Romero. Their stories were engrossing, and interesting; beautifully rendered with well constructed sentences, authentic dialogue, inner life.

More the 60 people showed up at this, our third installment of Brooklyn Reading Works. The next reading is July 21.

What a pleasure it is to hear a story told well.

Everyone tells you how boring jury duty is. People feel sorry for you  when you tell them that you are on a trial. "Oh," they say with pity. "You poor thing."

But no one tells you how emotionally involving a trial can be. No one tells you about the surrogate family you form with your fellow jurors as you spend day after day together in a small room. Most of all, no one tells you how incredibly serious it is to decide another person’s fate.

Well, I’m here to tell the tale. While I’m still processing the events of the last few days, I will try to share with you some of the details of my experience. 

Monique, the Court Officer, told us on Tuesday that we might go into deliberations on Wednesday and she was right. The lawyers presented closing arguments in the morning and then the judge gave us his general procedural instructions about deliberations and specifics about the legal issues pertaining to this trial.

Before we went into the courtroom, Monique took our lunch orders because we were being sequestered during lunch. She told us to be very specific about what we wanted. When we got back from the courtroom, there were white paper bags with our numbers on it.

Monique had promised us chips and none arrived. "There are no chips," one of the jurors cried sounding quite upset. "I’m sorry," Monique said. "They usually send chips."

But there was nothing she could do.

We decided before beginning to deliberate, to eat lunch and let the smokers smoke outside (under supervision of a court officer). We were not allowed to discuss anything unless everyone was in the room. If someone was in the bathroom, we couldn’t speak about the trial. If a court officer was in the room: mum’s the word.

The judge asked that the alternates stay on until the verdict, but they were not allowed to listen to our deliberations and had to go into a separate room. 

Once deliberations began, things got very loud and contentious. Dad suggested we speak one at a time and listen to one another with respect.

That turned out to be easier said than done.

I wrote the words: "Quiet Please" on a napkin and pinned it to a bulletin board. Finally, the group let me call on people in an orderly fashion. I made people raise their hands and told them to stop when they interupted one another. That would work for a few minutes until people started shouting again.

Despite the noise level, it turned out that the group was unanimous about some major points. We all agreed that the prosecution’s evidence did not prove their case against the defendant, a hospital police officer who was accused of sexually abusing a minor in her hospital room.

We all came to the conclusion independently that the prosecution’s case didn’t hold water and that the testimony of the girl was, to say the least, extremely fuzzy; we easily agreed to throw out much of her testimony. We all believed that while something may have gone on in that girl’s hospital room, there just wasn’t the evidence to prove it.

So in an orderly fashion, we got rid of the first four counts against the defendent: NOT GUILTY. NOT GUILTY. NOT GUILTY. NOT GUILTY.

There was, however, one point that the evidence proved: the police officer had indeed endangered the welfare of a child. The wording of that particular count was so broad that it was nearly impossible NOT to convict him.

On this point, however, there was some confusion. We sent the judge a note asking that he explain to us once again the meaning of "endangering the welfare of a child."

As a group, we marched into the courtroom and listened to the judge, a smart, good natured man, explain it again. After that, we voted and two people still weren’t sure. A lengthy discussion enused. The fact that two people were uncertain, really forced the rest of us to articulate and clarify our position. Eventually, everyone came to believe that the defendant had indeed endangered the welfare of a child according to the wording of the law.

Quite simply, we could not escape the fact that the defendent was a 25 year old hospital police officer who had acted in an inappropriate and illegal manner toward a minor in a hospital pediatric ward.

When we finally all agreed that the defendant was guilty on that one count, the jury forman gave Monique a note that said: "We have reached a verdict" and we were eventually called to the courtroom.

This is when things got hard. From the jury box, I could see the defendant’s mother, sisters, and pregnant wife sitting behind him crying and praying. I knew what we were going to say would please them to some extent. But it was not the aquittal that the defense had wanted. We still had to convict him on that one count.

The women looked relieved as the foreman declared Not Guilty four times for each of the first four counts. The defendant’s mother held her hands in prayer and looked toward the ceiling. But when the foreman said Guilty to that fifth count, a misdemeanor, they all started sobbing.

It was heart wrenching. In the jury room we’d all been able to put aside our sympathies and our emotional feelings about the two parties. We had acted seriously and responsibly; we had done our job.

But here in the courtroom, there was no denying the sadness of the situation.

This was real life. Right or wrong, this young man was not going to be aquitted on that one count because the evidence proved that he had, in fact, endangered the welfare of a child.

While the defendent was aquitted of some of the other more serious sexual counts, that fact didn’t seem to console the sorrow of the women sitting behind him.

And that was hard to bear. No one tells you that the verdict sits like a rock in your stomach as you attempt to go about your life in the hours after the trial.

The faces of everyone connected with the trail are lingering in my mind. Even as I try to reconnect with my own life, my family, these faces are in my head and heart.

That’s what happens. Being a juror is a serious job. But someone’s got to do it.

  *To read about who was on the jury. Go to the next post: POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE: Who were we?

On Third Street just west of Seventh Avenue, there’s a house that’s been boarded up for as long as I’ve lived here. And that’s 14 years.

What a mystery.

There is rampant curiosity about this house. Years ago, I heard that the house was caught up in a contentious divorce battle.

Then I heard that the owner had died and his heirs were fighting over it.

Then I heard that the owner owed so much in back taxes that he abandoned the house;  the buyer of the house will have to pay back taxes that far exceed the value of the house.

For years, the house attracted riff raff. It was a neighborhood hangout for local teens for a while. Then, the people in the house next door installed a motion detector to discourage nighttime mischief. Derelicts slept in the house until all the floors were removed

Now, the house is a shell without walls and floors, I’ve heard.

In the summer of 2001, construction workers began working on the house. I was told that a developer was turning the house into condos – one or two per floor. That sounded plausible to me. A wooden fence was built and a Do Not Trespass sign went up. Work crews moved debris into dumpsters; it looked like they were readying the house for a major renovation.

After September 11, 2001, all work stopped. No worker ever returned to the building. I imagined that someone connected with the building died at the World Trade Center. Or that the development money was somehow connected with a WTC concern.

Maybe it was a coincidence. Since then, the building has been untouched. During the 2004 election, someone spray-painted on the wooden fence: VOTE FOR KERRY OR DIE, a bit of election grafitti that garnered some attention in the press.

The mystery continues. How in this age of overdevelopment could this house, a four story brownstone on Third Street, remain abandoned. Which, if any, of the many stories I’ve heard is true. I’ve observed many a Sloper walk by the house and confidently explain their theory of why that house is abandoned; their own private fantasy of the mystery house.

No one really knows for sure. Or do you?

Do you think there are any kids named Manhattan in Manhattan? How about Queens?  You can bet there’s no one named Staten Island in Staten Island. Or Bronx in the Bronx.

But there are quite a few kids named Brooklyn in Brooklyn. There are even kids who don’t live in Brooklyn named Brooklyn. In fact, in Andalusia, Alabama, Thousand Oaks, California and Fort Worth, Texas, there are kids named Brooklyn.

Wow. If I lived in Andalusia, Alabama I would want to name my daughter Andalusia.

The filmmaker Jonathan Demme, was the first person I ever heard of to name his child Brooklyn. I thought it was one of those pretentious Hollywood names. Sort of interesting. Sort of strange. Then I heard about the grandson of a family friend who was named Brooklyn.

Turned out my son, now 14, was in elementary school with this Brooklyn. Never in the same class. But I was aware that there was a kid named Brooklyn at PS 321.

Later, when my daughter was a baby, one of the parents in my post-partum exercise class had a daughter named Brooklyn. For some reason, I imagined it was spelled Brook Lynn. She is the best friend of one of my daughter’s friends and it’s interesting to hear the name in common use: Brooklyn and I have a playdate…I’m going to Brooklyn’s house…Brooklyn is coming to my party…

Just another name. But one that is growing in popularity. It might not be up there with Brittany and Taylor. Yet. But in 2004, 3,211 baby girls were named Brookyn in the U.S. And in a ranking of popular names for girls, Brooklyn was listed as #84.

In this week’s City Section, there was a story about those kids. I love what George Hagen wrote about his son’s name:

I developed an elaborate rationale why the name Brooklyn was good, and
it had to do with the fact that Brooklyn is a very auspicious beginning. Lots of people in American began their lives in Brooklyn. It’s sort of
a point where great things begin.

It’s really not all that unusual to name a child after a place. Think of Savannah, Paris, Jasper, Jackson…

If the place holds meaning for you, why not?

Considered one of the best used bookstores in New York City, Seventh Avenue Books has fallen victim to the truly skyrocketing rents on Seventh Avenue. On July 1, the store is moving out of its location on Seventh Avenue between 7th and 8th Streets and joining its sister-store, Park Slope Kids, on Seventh Avenue between 2nd and 3rd Streets.

First a little local bookstore history:

When I first moved to Park Slope in 1991, there were three bookstores on Seventh Avenue: the Community Bookstore and two branches of the now defunct Booklink.

And then came Barnes and Noble.

Prior to B&N’s arrival, the then-owners of the Community Bookstore made significant upgrade to the store in the hopes of fighting off the mighty giant. They renovated, created a cafe, offered discounts, started a website, and enlarged their children’s book section.

Booklink, which was a nice local bookstore, eventually succumbed to market pressures and downsized to one location and then down to none. The store is only a memory now except for the occasional Booklink canvas tote bag you see on oldtime Slopers every now and again.   

In 2001, Catherine Bohne took over the Community Bookstore. In the days and weeks after 9/11, the store became a true community center. It was in front of Community Books that Park Slopers donated goods needed at Ground Zero. The window of the bookstore became a message board about 9/11 related activities, newspaper clippings, poems, and personal and political responses to the tragedy. 

I’m not sure if Community books is thriving economically but it is certainly a lively and essential component of this community. And a great place to buy books.

And then in 2002, came a rash of used bookstores. I watched incredulously as not one but three book stores opened on Seventh Avenue: Seventh Avenue Books, Park Slope Books and Park Slope Kids. I for one was shocked and pleased. Not only had we survived the incursion of B&N, we had defied it. Even Shakespeare and Co. could not survive the B&N that went in on the Upper West Side. But in Park Slope, we did it!

We could have a B&N and eat it too. What a neighborhood.

Sadly, it looks like it hasn’t been an easy ride for Seventh Avenue Books. They are consolidating both stores under one roof in an effort to not go under completely. I salute them for their committment to independent bookselling on Seventh Avenue, a true service to a community that purports to be so literary.

"Even though we’ve had many loyal and wonderful  customers, we have been running the store at a considerable loss," writes Tom Simon, the owner of Seventh Avenue Books. He writes on Park Slope Parents. "Nonetheless, selling books in this community is truly a pleaseure: the quality and variety of books being bought and sold is fantastic, and people are uncommonly supportive of independant booksellers."The new store "will be predominantly books for "the grown-ups" with a significant though compacted selection of childrens books. While there won’t be the same amount of room for parents and kids to read together, there will be, more importantly, a wonderful selection of books to choose from."

The bookstore’s motto: A book is new only if you haven’t read it yet, is available on tote bags, a must-have item for all Slopers in this age of mega bookstores and skyrocketing rents.

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

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

The Great Awakening [NY Times]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe it was my mood.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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