forget me not

Well I thought that's what these were, they grew thickly on the lawn on the South side of the Bishop Boardman Apartments, a local home for the elderly on 8th Avenue in South Slope. I crouched there for a long time reaching through the fence trying to get the right focus and stay out of my own shadow but there was little I could do. I had parked there to bring my husband's box of zappos shoes to the post office, to spare myself the misery of the misery that typically befalls the household when, on Saturday morning, the day requires waiting in the long post office line on top of everything else Saturdays require.

An elderly woman was looking at me and muttering under her breath about how New Yorkers only help New Yorkers when I passed her with the box, it seemed like she was talking about me, but I imagined she noticed I was carrying a large box that rendered me unavailable to help her. I suppose everyone has had moments when it seems like no one is willing to help.

On the way back from the PO I saw her again, standing there in nearly the same spot, asking me to walk her the rest of the way to the facility because she feared the strong wind might cause her to lose her balance. With my arms free I was more than able to help and happy to, because I always wondered about all the people that live there, what it's like in there, what their stories are. I also marvel at the trees that grow on the grounds, one large oak with an astonishingly solid collar of hefty branches coming from it, it seems magically strong, as well as the white maple that stands tall on the other side of the entrance. Trees so enchanting they manage to evoke a sacred grove right there on 8th Avenue.

I spoke to the woman as we walked. She spoke of how she was leaving Bishop Boardman, how it had gone downhill since taken over by HUD. She felt the woman that runs it, someone named MCcuin, shows little kindness to the elderly that live there, answers them with sarcasm as if she forgets their humanity. It is so easy for humans to lose the sense of another's humanity, I've done it and it's done to me all the time. I know when I'm being inserted into protocol. I oughtta know. I also see the suffering or vacancy in the eyes of those who feel they have to emotionally abandon us and themselves.

If my acquaintance is right about Bishop Boardman, I hope it can recover its dignity, dignity like the dignity of those grand trees that shade its West facing entrance. The place has potential.

multiplication

Alluring Lights in the South Slope

These lights, hand made by Ruby of Slope Cellars, stopped me cold the other night. While I photographed them a man came out, coatless into the freezing night, to tell me they were for sale. I asked him which would get me more drunk, the lamps of the wine, and he beat it fast.

My phav's the one with the flickr, no that's Flicker, though I've got nothing at all against puppies and kitties. As for pricing, I really don't care. All I needed was a picture and a sense of appreciation that not only do they trouble themselves with hanging these excellent things in the window, they've also kept that beautiful pink neon liquor sign up all this time. If it ever comes down, I'm going down too.

15th St. entourage

Potato Rocks, House Sparrows, Hobos

I was sitting in front of The Ladybird Bakery recently trying to get a picture of a House Sparrow for a post but the opportunity eluded me even if my left hand was full of blueberry muffin crumbs. I thought I might get lucky since I'd just been lucky enough to receive the full benefit of a hot, wet cloacal kiss on the inner elbow of my right arm.

As I walked to Ladybird where I hoped to clean up, I passed cutie John Hodgman who seemed to give me a completely justifiable hairy eyeball. For me, this brush with a local celebrity who might resent me for a post I wrote in the spring, was seeing the elephant. Once Hodgman, an acquaintance of my husband's, tried to help me shop around a children's book - this about 11 years ago when he was a literary agent. So I bought Hodgman's book recently as a way of karmically making amends, and also because I have a keen interest in reading about matters hobo, that is, hobo matters. And all sorts of other matters of his expertise, which include but are not limited to squirrels, lobsters, eels, and haircuts. I seemed to neglect my own areas of expertise however, or I would have had babywipes with me when my arm became the bird's toilet. Once at Ladybird, I had to explain the problem of my arm's profanation to the man at the counter, who kindly gave me a bunch of napkins moistened with very hot water to clean up with. What relief! A hobo's shower, or rather, a sushi douche.

I also found relief in the fact that rocks are much easier to photograph than Sparrows, especially this one harvested behind the Bandshell in Prospect Park, which my son's little friend and her mother called a potato rock. It is uniquely talented at impersonating potatoes, but what work went into the costuming?

I'm told it takes eons for a rock to get over as a potato. But of course rocks turn into other things all the time. Once when I dozed off for a second while nursing my youngest I saw a friend of mine quickly and silently approach me and put a rock in my left hand. Before I knew it, the rock turned into a Sparrow. These dreams had while still conscious in that liminal state are compelling. Later I came across a discussion of the Sparrow's symbolism in a book called The Bestiary of Christ, and from it learned that Sparrows are often thought to represent the soul. And indeed, I'm so grateful to this friend of mine who has helped to restore my soul to me, a soul that I lived for a long time with only a meager connection to. But still, I have to work hard to keep it happy and make it stick around. Like a hobo, it's fickle, completely self-directed and hard to tie down. It's impractical, difficult and likes to get messy. Sometimes she's in direct opposition to the good girl I try to be. Thank goodness my little one is such a good harmonica player, by the sweetness of her breath, she causes the soul to linger.

According to A Natural History of New York City by John Kieran, (Natural History Press, published in 1959 and 1971), all the House Sparrows in our country can be traced back to a group released in Greenwood Cemetery in 1852.

The first successful crossing of the Atlantic by House Sparrows occurred in 1852. Those that survived the voyage and a winter in captivity here were liberated in Greenwood Cemetery in Brooklyn the following spring. In something less than a century their descendants, and those of later introduced groups, spread all the way across the continent. p. 222

Here's more on the House Sparrow. Consider the little beard under the male's beak, which ornithologist call a bib. That's so infantilizing! I'll call it a soul patch.

Courage of Convictions

Collision Land

Before we drove to Maine last week I got the car checked over at Superior Auto Care on 3rd Avenue and 19th St. It was worth it, the brakes are working much better now, and that's a good feeling.

I walked from the Prospect Ave. R stop to pick up the car . As I neared the entrance to the garage of King's Collision on 19th, a car screeched out of the garage at at least 20 miles an hour and came to an abrupt hault on the sidewalk. I observed the man driving the car had a giant grin on his face, as if he had just had the time of his life. And nearly ended mine. He had the look of someone who couldn't understand how anyone couldn't relate to how much fun he was having.

I gave him a talking to while he grinned at me, and another man there had the sense to apologize.

I have to always be very careful on 19th St. for some reason. I'm not sure why I'm most frequently imperiled on that St., which delineates one of the Northern boundaries of Greenwood Cemetery.

It was worth the risk though, the mechanics did a great job on our car, and I got to compare the pattern of the paint peeling on their wall with the cloud formations above it.



























And got to admire the Superior Auto Care moth which hangs framed in their office, which they were kind enough to let me photograph. The shot's not so good, even though I got lots of advice from the people in the shop office as to how to get the best exposure.

A Tree with Many Names

I've been studying up on this tree. Maybe you know the one. It's the Tree of Heaven, but some call it the Tree of Hell because it grows in ruins. Because of its rancid peanut odor, some call it the Stink Tree, because it thrives in neglected neighborhoods, the Ghetto Palm.

It arrived in this country from Asia in the late 17th Century as a purveyor of the chinoiserie fashionable at the time. Back then there was some confusion among taxonomists who labeled it Rhus succedanea, grand vernis du Japon, Toxicodendron altissima, Rhus Sinese foliis alatis, Rhus cacodendron, Ailanthus glandulosa, and finally Ailanthus Altissima, which means, more or less, the tallest tree of heaven.

It leaves are food for various moths including a variety of silkworms that produce a dull silk called Shantung, it's bark creates medicine for balding, cancer, malaria, cardiac palpitation, asthma, dysentery and epilepsy, and the tree produces toxins that poison competing seedlings. It wants to be left alone to grow, to grow as tall as it can in its brief 50 - 75 year life span. Betty Smith made it famous, it's the tree that grows in Brooklyn. How does one plant get so many names?

The Lonely Wall

Perhaps it was once part of a house. Perhaps it never was but hoped one day it would be. Perhaps the wall at 220 16th St. is quite content to mislead the mind and toy with expectations. Perhaps it holds out as a tease to the developers who've built the ample condos on that block. Who could hold that against it, life for a wall can be pretty boring.

Unless of course you are a wall in Jerusalem, where you might see some action. In an edition of Ripley's Believe It or Not, which I read with my daughter on Monday while we waited in the Methodist Emergency Room, it is stated that if you address a letter to God it is forwarded to Jerusalem and tucked into a crack in the Western Wall. But I imagine it would be pretty hard to get delivery confirmation on that. Perhaps as hard as it is to figure out what's the matter with her arm and when it will stop hurting her. But at least we now know there's no fracture.

13th St. Cactus Flowers

Whoever lives at 409 13th St. has an unusual front plot bedded with sand and hosting an abundance of succulents and the most beautiful flowering cactus I have ever seen. The garden looked so hot and dry and prickly I was surprised not to see an iguana in it.

I sort of remember the first time I saw a cactus with flowers, it seemed so odd that those delicate and exuberant blooms emerged from something so treacherous. But isn't that how it always is, intense joy bringing with it the pain of its retreat.

That's how a lot of us felt today when we picked up our kids after their last day of nursery school. If we hadn't really liked the teachers much, it would have been a big relief to bid them farewell. That wasn't the case at all, and I'm one that will really miss having these loving, warm, careful, intelligent and down to earth people spend time with my daughter. She's been in a very testy mood lately, and I think I know why. About an hour after I picked her up, she was telling me that they were having a party at school and all her friends and teachers were there.

It's been a fantastic year. Thank you Aileen, Ryan and Carmen. You are too awesome for words.

Sandy's Internet Coffee Shop

I love this tiny coffee shop on 16th St. just up slope from 5th Avenue. For some reason it's a very comfortable place. Perhaps it's the yellow walls, and the friendly people who run it, who I suspect also own the computer repair business next door.

I didn't realize they had computer access there. Now I know where to go in a pinch.

Laundry Karma

This is what a tube of Burt's Bees lip balm looks like after it's been through the wash. Guess what? There's no more lip balm inside. It's on the brand new $50 Drifter T-shirt I just bought at Neda's. Smeared over the spot that drapes the left clavicle.

It wasn't my fault this time. Sometimes a request for help backfires, and you become even more convinced that you have to do things yourself.

But I'm not sure I see a pattern. I think it's just an unfortuante circumstance, one reminding me that instead of admiring the elegant way the inverted darts on the designer T added umph to my sagging bustline, I should have been considering other people's harships. After all, it was May 13.

By the way, I wear the shirt anyway since I love it so much. I just hand washed it with (ahem, Burt's Bees) Citrus Ginger bodywash, which smells amazing. The stain is a reminder of, um...the imperative of a control freak to come to terms with an imperfect world.

6th Avenue Makeover Materials

At one point today I had a feeling it would be a better idea to walk to the doctor's office the long way (Nora has croup) and it turns out I was right. Because I came across an amazing collection of fashion options just right for someone long overdue for a new look. But where to start? Taking account my performance in the Blue Barn video about Brooklyn bloggers, I can just skip all this stuff, even the That Girl dress, and put a brown paper bag over my head.

Offense Taken

So, they get to park for free, as I've said before, but did this pup tied up in front of Pizza Plus really have to rub it in?

Poor captive subject.

dogs park for free in s. slope

This dog was tied to one of the new meters on 7th Avenue waiting for its owner to finish shopping at Union Market. Some dogs seem anxious when separated from their masters but this one was perfectly comfortable, lying with its rear in the sun and face in the shade. That would be my choice as well. But unlike this dog I had to feed the meter to park, which I don't mind so much because it means that I can shop at some of these places without facing the likelihood of the double parking fines.

It used to be that I could only shop lower 7th avenue if I had ample time for the long walk there and back, now I can shoot over and perhaps find a space. But I feel guilty about enjoying this because of my S. Slope friends for whom parking has gotten that much harder. I took a very informal survey, asking Pizza Plus and Toy Space what they thought of the meters, and if they thought their business would improve. The people at Pizza Plus were not happy about the meters, but the woman working the register at Toy Space seemed very relieved that her customers would no longer have to park illegally to buy that last minute birthday present or whatever.

The day I met up with this golden retriever I shopped at Union Market for the second time. I got fresh salsa for $3.99, which was all I wanted it to be, but the roast chicken for $8.99 was drier and less flavorful than what I've gotten from Key Food for about 3 dollars less. A little surprising. The tall registers with prominent computer screens at Union Market are completely bizarre and slightly intimidating, but they make it easy to see if you're being overcharged.


If this dog were my dog he'd have had my dry chicken for dinner. I'm sure Union Market can do better.

The Entrance to the Recreation Center in the Armory

This is the 14th Street entrance to the armory's new Recreation Center. I noticed this banner that advertises an open house there too late, I would have liked to go. It took place yesterday at 10am. I peaked through the door, it looks very nice in there, I saw a stack of those very thick gymnastics matts that was about 20 feet high. Will world class gymnasts ever train on those?

The entrance seems welcoming, I'm glad they have glass (or plexiglass) above the doors to let in the natural light.

So, what will happen now? This place seems poised and ready to become a great asset to this community. I was glad to find out more from posts on OTBKB and the GL

Molded Ornaments on Prospect Avenue

Living in Brooklyn is like living in a museum. Details like this are common and yet rare and precious, you won't find them available at Home Depo. It's amazing how differently things were made in the past. I get the sense that builders' pride rested in the artisans' graceful hands. These pressed metal ornaments are lovely by today's standards but back in the day perhaps people saw them as inferior to the kind of carved stone ornamentation you see on brownstones North of this apartment building, which is on the corner of Prospect Avenue and 7th.

Pragmatism trumped Grace long ago. It confounds me. How is it that back when life was so much harder for people, the things they created had so much more appeal? I guess these days we are artists of convenience.

If anyone can give me a vocabulary lesson regarding these motifs or techniques please shout. I know I don't know the correct names for these materials.

Going..Going...

This old house on Prospect Avenue by 7th demands my attention whenever I pass it. Maybe it's the high chain link fence surrounding it, maybe it's the way it looks like a remnant of a ghost town. It's easy to imagine a gun toting cowboy with bowed legs strutting across that porch to his mount, ladies in big skirts and red lips waving goodbye.

There are very few houses like this around here. There's one near Prospect and PPW, which looks very different, the basic shape is the same but it's been covered with white siding and all the original details have been erased. This one still has it's original style even if much of it is partially decayed.

I wonder why the fence, has it been abandoned and dangerous for that long? What was going on in there? It's very unusual for a residence to be surrounded by chain link. We have many other more gracious kinds of fencing here in Brooklyn. The fence may have been put up by that demo company, Demo Deluxe, that used it to hang their sign. I wonder what makes their services deluxe, I can see it's not the style of fence their sign is mounted to. Maybe it comes with fries.

If you can see beyond the fence, it looks like this place has potential. But you never know how deep the rot has worked its way in.

Sign Troubles at Royal Supermaket

I noticed the new electronic sign installed in the window with dismay because it hits the quiet corner of 8th Avenue and 15th Street in South Slope like a swatch of Times Square. It's small, but it moves light and pattern with a degree of intensity you don't want to go near if you're an epileptic. It lets you know without a doubt, if you had any, that you can in fact buy BEER and LOTTO tickets in that store. The words turn cartwheels, dissolve into animated patterns and reappear as another choice vice designed to jackhammer it's presence into your brain.

The other day I was in there and asked if they thought the sign was helping business. They said yes. Then I asked them if they were sure. This is a new skill I've developed, planting seeds of doubt in unsuspecting store owners. Wouldn't it be great to know for sure? If they could only turn it off for a week and see if it changes anything.

But they won't have to do that because it looks like the sign's been going on the fritz. Last week I noticed that the circus of light seemed to have unwanted streaks going through it. According to the shop owner, the lines had appeared, and when they went to take the sign in to be fixed, they disappeared. Later, they were back. Haunted sign, cool.

Today the only thing happening with the sign was a small vertical line on the right side and one little dot in the middle flashing red and green. I kept looking at it to see if I could figure out what it was advertising. Not lotto, not beer, not today. Looks like something fairly nonconceptual. Did God take over the sign to advertise spaciousness? Did Buddha take over the sign to advertise the emptiness and bliss at the root of all things? Maybe Kali, in her impassioned mission to kill every demon in existence, hacked at its wiring with her blood-drenched sabre. Who is controlling that sign now? I don't know but looking at the disabled thing is a huge relief.

So run, run in people, go see the miracle sign. And be sure to tell the cashier that the reason you decided to shop in their store today is because that damn sign is broken. Unless you loved it, in which case, I'm sorry.

UPDATE: Yesterday morning, the sign was unplugged. Nevermind...

Leonora the Dealer

According to Leonora Stein, many who frequent her shop, Babbo's Books, which opened a little over a year ago on PPW, are self described book junkies. Well, they go to the right place, 'cause she can hook you up. As the bookseller who currently holds the monopoly on used and new books in a large chunk of South Brooklyn, she brings something crucial to Windsor Terrace and South Slope in the form of her well selected and affordable literary offerings. True to her slogan, "used and new books for everyone" she strives to reflect the desires of the neighborhood and wants to hear what you want. She'll work with you.

Just as she's been working to bring the community together in her way, in the various activities offered at Babbo's, which is named after her father, a book binder who died in a car accident 4 years ago. On Thursday night a writing group meets on the premises, on Sunday Matthew Reichers teaches about Buddhism and every Saturday at 11:00 she offers the Ezra Jack Keats story hour at no charge. A book club meets the first Friday of every month, and a plan is in the works to host a reading of The 30 Day Diabetes Miracle, a method of curing Diabetes through diet and exercise which was written by her cousin, a diabetic whose survival formerly depended on three doses of insulin per day.

She says she sold out when she opened Babbo's. What, what did you say? Well, she originally dreamed of opening a book store geared to the cause of social justice over in the Flatbush/Prospect Heights part of Brooklyn where she hoped to host lectures and discussion groups with the potential to unite diverse communities. Then one day when walking down Prospect Park West on the way to her home in Windsor Terrace she noticed the retail space available, felt a tug, and before long Babbo's came together. She expanded her target niche from the socially disenfranchised to everyone. I for one can forgive her. Perhaps she can franchise later if she's not satisfied with her choice. Perhaps I'm selfish, but I'm very satisfied with it.

She must be at least a little content, considering that her dream of owning a bookstore goes back to the age of 9 or 10, when she was a student at PS 321 in Park Slope. During middle school at Poly Prep, where her mother teaches history (ka ching, thanks mom!) she briefly entertained a career in law after winning a mock trial in which she played prosecutor. But by the end of her years at Midwood High School she felt more inclined to become a writer, and at 17, the dream of the store reemerged. After graduating from Bard she spent a year in the Citiyear program helping out in a 4th grade classroom at PS 137 in the lower east side, which led to the opportunity to participate in business training courtesy of NFTE. In particular, she credits her teacher Katarina Zacharia, who mentored her through the process of creating a business plan, with teaching her the lesson she values most: be flexible.

Other businesses on the strip have been very supportive, especially Diane from the Hallmark as well the folks at Krupa. Local book seekers tell her they always try to buy from her before buying online or heading to B&N, which I was very happy to hear considering it's not exactly easy to stay in business with rents as high as they are. She's says business isn't bad, she happily reports that people have been very generous in turning in their cast offs, and I can tell you that I've been bewitched by several finds I've come across at Babbo's. She sold 80 copies of the latest Harry Potter book, whatever that was, and impressively, 16 copies of Siddhartha, which she finds she can recommend to just about anyone. Someone says, "I just read something really long and involved and I'm looking for something short and beautiful." Leonora says "Siddhartha." Or someone says "Can you recommend something for my teenage daughter?" "How about Siddhartha?" Soon WT is going to be one of the most Buddhist by way of Germany communities in existence. Can Keanu move in soon?

But not into the store! It's pretty small, Leonora perpetually shifts things around to fit new arrivals, never appearing daunted by the long row of boxes lined up for sorting on the left side of the store. I know I'm not supposed to go through those boxes, those books haven't been priced yet, so I have to restrain myself. Which is hard, because for some reason I find when I'm in that space, books seem to come alive, they seem to ooze their history, varied perspectives, mysterious origins and brilliance as if she sprinkled them with some fairy dust.

Where she hides that stuff, I haven't discovered, although I've snooped around a little. I have a feeling that cat of hers, Holly GoLightly, knows the secret. I'm keeping my eye on that cat.

But enough about that show stealing cat, I wanted to write this because I'm so proud of Leonora, who at the age of 25 has started to irrigate this neighborhood with a river of premium words and welcome kindness. Let's continue to look out for her and watch Babbo's thrive.

Babbo's Books
242 Prospect Park West
718.788.3475