Remembering Elena ten years later

On January 15, 2012, my mother passed away in a New York City hospital. When I received the news that morning, I cried louder than I had ever cried before. Six days later, on the 100^th birthday of her late mother, Elena was laid to rest in Glendale Cemetery in Bloomfield, just a short walk from her mother’s grave. There has not been a day during the past ten years when I have not thought of my mother. 

I’ve thought about how resourceful she was raising my older brother and me in our apartment in a public housing neighborhood in New York City, squeezing fifteen or twenty cents out of every dime and making sure we ate and dressed well and had some fun growing up. I’ve also recalled how, as a young divorcee, she saw to it that her essentially fatherless sons went to good schools and did their homework every day. 
 
I remember how my mother’s life changed when she remarried and our family moved to New Jersey, where she faced new challenges. I recall her happy smile at times, and the sad look in her eyes on other occasions. I’ve thought about how happy she was on some special family occasions, and many moments years afterward when she enjoyed being with her grandchildren. 
 
I’ve thought about how she insisted on helping take care of me one day when I was in my 40s and had routine surgery, and how she might’ve wanted to help me less than a year after her fatal surgery when Superstorm Sandy knocked the power out of my beachfront condominium for over a week. I’ve imagined how happy she would’ve been at my eldest son’s wedding in Central Park, not far from our former New York City home. 
 
 
I never doubted my mother loved me. I knew it was unconditional love, like the love she felt from her own mother. And I loved her the same. It’s a love I’ve sorely missed sharing for ten years now.

Fatherlands: Identities of a Cuban American

My debut book, Fatherlands: Identities of a Cuban American, is now available in print and digital formats! This memoir -- the most challenging writing project I've undertaken since first learning the English language -- is the book I was meant to write. It includes a few excerpts from my 1400 Characters blog and Facebook posts over the years. Comprised of 21 photos and 57,470 words spread over 200 pages, many English-language readers around the world will find this "memoir with a twist" interesting and informative, and perhaps more.

For more information about my book, including how to obtain a paperback copy or digital download, go to www.charleslopezbruns.com.

Moving To The "Country"

Clockwise from top left: Charley's first communion portrait; wearing his Little League uniform; in front of former childhood home. 

a poem by Marshall S. Harth

Moving to Bloomfield, to the "Country"
Was like entering another country
Everything was not the same
I even had to change my name!
Why was that, because of shame?
Who's responsible, who to blame?
I missed my friends, my neighborhood
I had to lie, do what I could
Not my choice, only what I should
But, being me, I held my own
I recognized how I had grown
New vistas opened up to me
I saw, eventually, who I could be,
And that's the tale of my "Identity"!

Copyright Marshall S. Harth 18 October 2019

After reading my autobiographical account about moving from New York City to Bloomfield for a book project, my friend Marshall wrote this poem for me. A Jewish German/Lithuanian-American who was more fortunate than some of his family members who perished during the Holocaust, I am grateful to Marshall for understanding the twisting and turning journey of people's identities through immigration, separation, condemnation, and assimilation.

The Bard at the Hard Rock

He needs no introduction. Sure enough, Bob Dylan did not get one last night. Neither did his band from him, for that matter. The audience at the Hard Rock Hotel and Casino in Atlantic City, in fact, did not get a hello or any acknowledgement from The Bard as he went through his 20-song setlist in under two hours. What they did get, however, was an exhibition of American music history from a 77-year-old legend on the latest leg of his Never Ending Tour, which began 30 years ago and someday will end.

As he always does, Bob breathed new life into his old songs, including “Like a Rolling Stone” and “Blowin’ in the Wind.” He also gave new life to his 21st century songs, including four selections from his most recent album of original material, Tempest. Nearly all the songs were performed slower and softer than originally recorded, often crooned, always in his unique voice. Bob covered many of his songs like it was a poetry recital, which makes some sense from a Nobel Prize in Literature recipient whose words are considered poetic. The sound and song selection, including “Make You Feel My Love” and “Love Sick,” at times made it feel a romantic evening for many in the crowd who still can find romance in spoken words.

When the last note of “All Along the Watchtower” faded away and the Etess Arena lights went on, Bob and his band were back on the bus for their next one-night stand in Springfield, Massachusetts, leaving everyone in Atlantic City to settle for the various artifacts from his career on display at the Hard Rock. Eventually, the tour will make its way to New York City for seven shows at the Beacon Theatre and its last stop in Philadelphia. If you haven’t seen The Bard and his band in concert, don’t you dare miss it. 

Subway lovers

She burrowed her weary hooded head

on his chest as the train left the station.

Across the aisle he closed his young eyes

while she cushioned his head on her chest.

A cold day in the big city didn’t faze

busy Christmas shoppers and tourists.

The sounds and crowds of a packed train

didn’t faze lovers underneath the hustle and bustle.

Greenwich Village, 2016

Things are the same
and things change.
Porto Rico is still
where it’s always been,
But Old El Paso
has gone Italian.

Caffe Reggio on Mcdougal
since nineteen twenty-seven
hasn’t changed one bit
except for the prices,
of course.

Students walk by
in the late afternoon,
as young as ever,
perhaps as ambitious
and idealistic as ever.
Certainly, more diverse
than ever.

Today, Greenwich Village
reflects the constant
and the changes
in New York City,
perhaps the US
and our world
as well.

May it ever be so.

Ballad of the 59th Street Subway Station

by Lou Bruns

Deep to the bowels where the smells and stench reek,
go the strong men and women, the fools and the meek.
But the scene here unfolds, like a madman's nightmare,
and if you are sane you'll just stay away from there.

The stage is New York, and the actors are men,
with strong supporting roles from the dead and the damned.
The setting’s all perfect...a bum’s at the door,
and then from a distance, you hear a dull roar.

The station is cleared for the coming onslaught,
the transit cop waits, his nerves tied in knots.
And then from the earth comes the five o'clock train,
rolling and rocking like an old drunken lame.

Hundreds and thousands (and then maybe more),
were squashed in that train, right up to the door.
The train grinds its wheels to force itself halt,
and then from the cars came a flash and a bolt.

Hundreds and thousands crammed fighting for space,
it mattered not who you were or what was your race.
And then from the lungs came a cry of despair,
it seems that another train had pulled up in there.

Fat ladies and models; yes even the meek,
the hippies, the hardhats, the cops and the freaks.
They all pushed and shoved to get down the hall,
and out through the gates where the smog greets them all.

For some odd ten minutes, this scene here went by,
and all that I've written is not just a lie.
The screams of the infants, whose mom’s breast they wish,
the odor of armpits that smelled like old fish.

Then suddenly, as if God himself heard our call,
the station went quiet; you could hear a pin fall.
And the wino; whose eyes have just witnessed this scene,
swore off of the bottle, to prevent more DTs.

Written by Lou Bruns with pen on paper in spring of 1972, now published digitally for the first time.

Voice of Amsterdam Houses:

“I was here first, Lincoln Center.
And I housed many New Yorkers
of all shapes and colors
long before all the other
tall new buildings in the ‘hood.

"So, show me and my people respect
as you’re entertained.
Be kind as you go to and from
cafes and restaurants,
stores and offices around town.

"It’s a great big city,
and it can be a good place
for all of us, poor and rich.”

Little Lewie, the gentle giant

When he was just a teenager in New York City, the man who became Kareem Abdul-Jabbar was affectionately known as "Little Lewie" in the neighborhood around Power Memorial Academy, the high school that once stood on Amsterdam Avenue and 61 Street. 

It's been over 50 years since Kareem, named Lew Alcindor at the time, graduated from Power (which closed in 1984), but many people who lived in the neighborhood still have fond memories of the gentle giant who went on to stardom on three UCLA national championship teams and became the NBA's all-time leading scorer.

Flipping through the current issue of Esquire, this picture caught my attention. Besides recognizing Kareem when he was still Lew, I also recognize the setting for the photo — it’s the P.S. 191 playground on Amsterdam Avenue between 61-60 Streets.

When this photo was taken in 1963, I lived in the Amsterdam Houses neighborhood at 40 Amsterdam Ave., across 61 St. from P.S. 191. Just a first grader at St. Paul the Apostle School on 60 St. between Amsterdam and Columbus Aves., I only vaguely recall Alcindor walking with friends to/from school directly across Amsterdam Ave. from me. Of course, his height made him stand out. I recently asked other St. Paul students on Facebook if they had any recollections of him walking past the school or around the neighborhood when he was at Power. 

They sure did!

"I was with Lew when the photographer was taking the pictures and also have this picture and others of that same day. I was just thinking about the few dances we went to together," wrote Eva, who also lived across the street from Power at 40 Amsterdam Ave. 

"Lew used to visit us," wrote Enid. "He and my sister Eva were good friends. He was a nice person. Very humble and respectful. When he would sit down on the sofa, my father and he would be eye to eye level!"

Enid added that Kareem was "a shy person" but trusted her sister, Eva.

Constance shared a similar memory: “I danced with Lew when I was 15-16 years old at the 'Rooftop' club, ages ago," she wrote.

"I remember him dipping his head to enter the door of Fisher's Grocery store," wrote Linda H. "He bought a soda and it looked so tiny in his hand. Little Lewie showed up for a Power dance with a cute little gal that was about my size. The contrast made me smile." 

Andrew wrote with similar memories of the tall teenager. Nancy also recalled him at the Power dances.

"Lew was friends with my brother John (my brother was on Power's basketball team too!)," wrote Nora. "He was at our house a few times too. But my fondest memory is he and my brother tossing me back and forth at the pool. I never hit the water! (I always joke that I made him a better player.)"

"I remember he wore a tan raincoat, similar to one my father had," wrote Linda O. "He was on Amsterdam Ave., walking either to or from Power, in front of that Palisades Amusement Park poster that was on the construction site in front of what would become Fordham, I think." 

"I used to be scared of the 'giant' until one day he said hello in such a gentle voice!" wrote Diane.

"When i saw him I used to say 'hi Little Lewie'," wrote Andrea. Kathy and Karen also wrote that they remembered him as "Little Lewie."

"I will never forget the time he gave me a ride on his shoulders," wrote Tara.

"He used to play with me when I was in my carriage and pick me up and toss me in the air," recalled James C., who is probably grateful the future basketball great did not use him to practice his sky hook shot.  

"He walked past St. Paul's every day on his way to the subway," wrote Pat. "My brother played basketball with him at Power. I have his autograph signed Lew Alcindor." 

Theresa also wrote recalling him walking past St. Paul's as she was walking home, as did Helen.

"We would pass him all the time when we were on the way to the subway," wrote Helen. "Never had a clue as to who he would become."

“All the kids had talked about him and I remember finally seeing Lew Alcindor for the first time probably when I was in the fifth grade," commented Saida. "Lew was walking past St. Paul's toward the subway. I had never seen anyone that height before and I was also impressed by his dignity and seeming determination. He was dressed in a wool jacket and carried a briefcase."

"My mom told me stories about him when she worked part-time at Power," wrote Angelica. "At 4'11" she was amazed by this teenager's height."

"I had the privilege of seeing him play at Power Memorial as a young girl going to St. Paul's," wrote Terri H. "I knew then he would grow (no pun intended ) to be someone special. It was fun watching him not even have to leap to make a basket."

“I lived at 50 Amsterdam and saw him all the time," remembered Catherine. "Went to many of his basketball games. He was a little uncoordinated in the beginning and soon became a great player.”

Hilda wrote that she remembered seeing Kareem "many times around Power."

Robin wrote that she "also saw him a few times at (the) P.S. 191 night program."

"I was very little but my mother would point him out to me and I do remember that," wrote Bill.

Still, boys will be boys, whether they're elementary school children at St. Paul's or high school students from Power.

"Some of the boys playing in the street, waiting for St. Paul's line-up bell, used to throw snow balls at him as he walked down 60th street towards Amsterdam Avenue," wrote Gina. "I think he retaliated a few times."

“Many times my siblings and I walked alongside him as we went to St. Paul's and he went to Power Memorial," recalled Velda. "Sorry to say, we use to tease him about his height.”

Hector summarized the feelings of many people from the neighborhood when he wrote, "Basically anyone who lived in the projects at one time or another saw him. I lived in 70 Amsterdam and saw him quite frequently."

Please feel free to comment on your own sightings of Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, either as a youngster, professional basketball player or author. It's unlikely you've forgotten him if your paths ever crossed in New York City or elsewhere! 

(Photo of photo from Esquire March 2016 issue copyright The Richard Avedon Foundation)

Carly Simon and Patti Smith: So different, yet similar

They were born only 18 months and five days apart, one in the biggest city in the U.S., the other in the second largest at the time.  But, the differences between Carly Simon and Patti Smith have always seemed so significant, they might as well have arrived on the popular music scene decades and continents apart.

Yet, their similarities, as revealed in their recent best-selling, critically acclaimed autobiographies, are surprisingly as significant.

Carly Simon was born to a wealthy family and had a privileged life growing up in the New York City area.  Her parents hosted the rich and famous in their home, often getting away to their mansion in Connecticut and, each summer, vacationing in Martha's Vineyard.

Patti Smith grew up in a working class family in a modest New Jersey suburb of Philadelphia.

Carly graduated from a private girls high school in Westchester County and went on to Sarah Lawrence College.  She dropped out after one semester in order to concentrate on her music career as one-half of the Simon Sisters.

After Patti graduated from her local public high school, she went to work at a toy factory.

After a few twists and turns, however, their different paths began converging in New York City by the time they were in their early 20s.  Carly found fame as a solo singer in 1971 with her song, "That's the Way I've Always Heard It Should Be."  She had a succession of hit singles and albums over the next several years.

Just as Carly's fame was peaking in 1975, Patti released her first album, Horses.  The differences between their music could not be more pronounced.  Yet, at least one New York radio station, WNEW-FM, saw nothing strange about playing songs from both of their new albums.

After reading Boys in the Trees, Carly Simon's 2015 book about the first three decades of her life, and M Train (2015) and Just Kids (2010), Patti Smith's books recalling events in her life, it's startling to learn how similar many of their experiences have been.

They both worked hard to achieve their success.  Despite her background, the music business gave little to Carly.  She earned her fame with determination, using her singing voice to deal with a stutter that for years undermined her self-confidence.  She also overcame stage fright, triggered by depression and anxiety, to bring her recordings to the attention of more people.

In spite of her humble origins and need to constantly work odd jobs to support herself, Patti found her muse and would not let it go.  She wrote constantly and, eventually, found the right kind of sound to accompany her words.  She sought opportunities to showcase her talent and, when they came, vocalized her poetry in a unique way that caught on with an increasing number of people.

And then there were the men in their lives.

For Carly, the main man was James Taylor, of course.  Both of them already successful, they married in 1972.  Even though they've been divorced for over 30 years, he remains the most significant lover of her life.  But, certainly not her only.

In her autobiography, Carly sheds a lot of light on many other men.  But, she's holding on to some secrets.  Following is her explanation of "You're So Vain," her 1973 hit:

And no, the song is not just about one person. Let’s just say Warren Beatty played second base in this particular infield, which he knows so well, but as for who manned first and third–ask the shortstop. In all seriousness, the subjects of the first and third verses don’t know that this song is also about them, so it would be inappropriate and a rude awakening to disclose their identities until they, them (vain) selves, were notified.

For Patti, the main men were Robert Mapplethorpe and Fred "Sonic" Smith.  She devoted Just Kids to chronicling her relationship with Mapplethorpe, an artistic photographer she befriended shortly after arriving in New York City.  They remained close until his death from AIDS in 1989, by which time she had been married to Fred for nine years.  Fred passed away in 1994.

Broken-hearted but far from broken, both Carly and Patti carried on with their careers and continued raising the son and daughter each of them had with their husband.  Patti reflected on this in M Train:

We want things we cannot have. We seek to reclaim a certain moment, sound, sensation. I want to hear my mother’s voice. I want to see my children as children. Hands small, feet swift. Everything changes. Boy grown, father dead, daughter taller than me, weeping from a bad dream. Please stay forever, I say to the things I know. Don’t go. Don’t grow.

Carly and Patti are both grandmothers now and sharing their life experiences with music fans, some who realize that, like many other things around the world, the similarities of people are often as significant as their differences.

Humans of New York

“She’s a life-long Jersey girl.  I’m a native New Yorker who’s lived across the Hudson River most of his life.  Our first date was an Elton John concert at Madison Square Garden.  On our second date, we just walked around midtown.  I remember buying her a hot dog from a street vendor. The meat fell out of the bun and to the ground after she bit into it, but I didn’t buy her another one.  She still liked me, though, and we got married five years later.”

Inspired by by Brandon Stanton, Humans of New York: Stories; 2015

A belated birthday wish for a friend

More than 30 years after we had last spoke, the sound of his voice brought a big smile to my face. And, joy to my heart.

"This is he," is what the voice said when I asked if he was the same Kevin Chisolm who went to grade school with me in New York during the mid-1960s. We proceeded to speak about the stations our lives had passed through since we last got together.  It was as if we were reconnecting after almost 33 days, or 33 weeks, not almost 33 years.

We agreed to get together a few weeks later, in the same neighboorhood in which we both grew up. I met his family and he met mine, which included a son who I named in fond memory of my childhood friend. We visited our playgrounds and walked past the apartment buildings in which we previously lived. When we stopped at the very spot in which he taught me how to play baseball, he astonished me by pulling out of his pocket a self-portrait I had sketched and mailed him shortly after moving to New Jersey while we were in sixth grade.

It was as if an old friendship had been rekindled. In truth, it was more like the continuation of a young friendship that had been interrupted by the nature of life in the pre-Internet age, when frequent phone calls to a different area code were beyond the means of most people.

In the 12 years since our reunion, Kevin and I have stayed in regular contact. We've met for coffee several times, enjoyed a few basketball games, a concert, and taken a ferry ride to a baseball game. We hooked up at a reunion of former classmates at St. Paul the Apostle School.  Our families have gotten together for visits. Mostly, we've spoken on the phone about the ups and downs of our lives, his happy times and challenges and mine.

I learned that while I was completing my high school and college studies in New Jersey, he was doing the same in the Bronx and Maine, respectively. As I was launching my communication career, he was starting his career in biology in New York City. He was also acting on television daytime dramas and in commercials.  I married and raised a family in New Jersey. Several years later, he did the same. In hindsight, our paths were destined to converge again.  Fortunately, our friendship has stayed on track as our careers have taken a few twists and turns and lives have gone through some other changes.

Just as he was a positive part of my life during our grade school years, his thoughtfulness, ambition, patience and positive outlook are an inspiration for me today.  His focus on being present in the moment, free from distraction, while we're together is refreshing in this age of smartphones (and watches). After we talk, even about some difficult topics, I feel a better person.

A day after his birthday, I thank Kevin for his good friendship -- before and after its 33-year break -- and wish him many more years of happiness and health.

Christmas rapping

A mother of two young children rolled her eyes recently when I asked if she was almost ready for Christmas.  She seemed stressed at the thought of what still needed to be done to make the holiday special for her family.  I said to her that these Christmases with her starry-eyed children should be the best of her life, and that one day she would actually miss all the craziness leading up to the holiday.

The young mother smiled, possibly thinking about her beautiful children's happy faces on Christmas morning, perhaps also about her own childhood and mom, and didn't seem stressed any longer.  It's interesting how the cycle of life plays out in front of our open eyes, open minds, and open hearts at Christmastime.

***

It must have been hard for my mom to get the gifts that my brother and I wanted most when we were growing up in New York City. But she somehow always managed to do so, sometimes traveling a good distance around town get a particular toy that was on sale or hard to find.  Come Christmas morning, those gifts awaited my brother and me under the silver artificial Christmas tree that lit up the living room of our apartment every December.

Gracias, madre.

* * *

Christmastime is one of the things I miss most about working in New York.  It truly is the most wonderful time of the year around midtown Manhattan.  While some people complained about the crowds, I found it fascinating to see people from all around the world enjoying the sights and patronizing the stores of the city in December.  I remember lots of smiles on happy faces and gloved hands holding many shopping bags on and around Fifth Avenue.

For a few years, I was lucky to be able to see part of the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree from my office window.  I constantly looked over at it, I guess just to make sure it was indeed the famous tree.  A couple of times the company I worked for held a party on the night of the tree lighting ceremony, and we would go to the roof of our building and look down at the huge crowd just as the lights went on.  I never took the tree for granted, and knew that one day I would miss having it such a part of my life.  Indeed, I do.

* * *

During the holiday season, I enjoy indulging in a glass or two, perhaps three, of egg nog.  Since I lived in the Trenton area for 18 years, however, I now hesitate to settle for anything less than the Halo Farm brand of egg nog.  To my tastebuds, it really is a cut above the others, tasting like the world's greatest milk shake.  Spice it up with a little rum and I'm ready to drive around with Santa Claus and help him deliver toys to homes with chimneys.   

Now that I don't work in New York and frequent its Latin cafes, the holidays are usually also the only time I indulge in stewed salted cod, a.k.a. "bacalao."  A sure sign of the season in our home is when the dead fish sits in a bowl filled with water on our kitchen counter for days leading up to Christmas.  When it's sufficiently softened and desalinated, my wife will season it with onions, peppers and garlic, and cook it in a light tomato sauce with potatoes, celery and Spanish olives.  It goes great on a plate with white rice and black beans, or alone in a soup bowl!  

* * *

One of my favorite Christmas pop songs is "Christmas Wrapping" by the Waitresses.  It was recorded in 1981, when my wife and I celebrated our first Christmas together while living in an apartment in Clifton, NJ.  I often think of those days when hearing that song -- although I try to forget my frustration with trying to put up a real Christmas tree for the last time in my life.  

Many people may not recall the Waitresses had another popular song, "I Know What Boys Like," that did not at all evoke the holidays or the spirit of giving, for that matter.

* * *

I'll always remember when we drove through the streets of Philadelphia to take the interim pastor of our Lawrence, NJ church to his home when he missed the last train from Trenton after preaching on Christmas Eve.

My wife and I and our two sons, who were 15 and 11 years old at the time, were exhausted after hosting almost two dozen family members at our Robbinsville home for Christmas Eve dinner, cleaning up while saying our good-byes, and then dashing off to church.  We couldn't, however, just leave our pastor to sit at the train station for hours or pay a king's ransom for a taxi ride home.  So, without thinking twice, we extended our night a few more hours and took him home to his family in our minivan.

We were quite tired that Christmas morning after just a handful of hours of sleep.  But, at the same time, we were energized by helping someone who traveled a long distance to remind a group of Christians about the true meaning of Christmas.

Ultras, metropolitan New York style

In cities across Europe and South America, they're sometimes trouble -- occasionally terrorizing players and administrators and keeping police on edge.  In the U.S., however, players warmly acknowledge them from the field, officials embrace their support and security personnel largely ignore their presence.

I'm referring to groups of hardcore fans, those loyal bands of supporters also known as "ultras."

New York City/New Jersey-area sports fans first took notice of them in 1996, when the Empire Supporters Club began sitting behind a goal during MetroStars soccer matches at Giants Stadium. Actually, "sitting" isn't accurate. These fans of the new Major League Soccer team rarely sat during matches. They typically stood most of the time, singing and chanting their support for the home team as many supporters of overseas soccer clubs have done over the years.

When the MetroStars were purchased and rebranded by the Red Bull energy drink company 10 years later and moved to Harrison in 2010, the ultras followed them. Team management essentially made three sections in the "south ward" behind a goal available for members of the Empire Supporters Club and other fan groups each match, negotiating an understanding to tone down some of their salty language. During the first match at the new stadium in 2010, however, a new chant from the ultras was heard: "You can't say f**k in Red Bull Arena!"

After the Mets moved from Shea Stadium to Citi Field in 2009, a group of fans dressed in identical t-shirts began making their presence known in seats behind center field a few times a year.  Known as the The 7 Line Army after the subway line that stops by the ballpark, these fans would loudly root-root-root for the home team all game long. Eventually, they would make a few trips to road games each season while increasing the number of games in which they would assemble next to the big apple at Citi Field.

Today, tickets for the three sections occupied by The 7 Line Army each month sell out quickly. At the season finale last month, over 400 of the faithful took only about an hour to devour a whole 70-pound pig that was roasted overnight in the parking lot by the elevated subway. Proving how considerate true Mets fans can be, they left the head of the pig for latecomers to gnaw at before the game. After cheering the Mets to a win, many of the The 7 Line Army met for a very happy two-hour open bar at McFadden's by the center field entrance to Citi Field.

High-definition televisions and rising ticket prices may make watching your favorite teams from the comfort of your home more attractive than ever.  Ultras, however, help make the in-stadium experience more interesting and fun for their members and everyone else around them who want to express passion for their favorite team.

Mom, a Bloomfield pioneer

A conversation with a friend about Milbank Park and the southern part of Bloomfield, New Jersey, recently brought back some fond memories of my mom, whose birthday it is today.

When I was in sixth grade, my mom and her new husband and three children, one of whom was just two months old, moved from our apartment in the Amsterdam Houses neighborhood of New York City to a two-family house in the southern part of Bloomfield, "the country" as I inaccurately described it to my Manhattan classmates.  Leaving our friends and familiar environment was challenging for my older brother and me, but was even more difficult for my mother.

After over a dozen years of living in in New York, where she was able to walk to Spanish grocery stores, ride a bus or subway to visit her mother who lived just a few miles uptown, go to Spanish-language theaters and interact regularly with Cubans, Puerto Ricans and other Hispanics, my mom found herself in a completely different  environment.  While her husband worked a few miles away in Newark and her two oldest children attended schools in Bloomfield, my mom stayed home during the day with her infant son, missing her mother--frequent toll calls were beyond our economic means--and many of the things she took for granted in New York.

The neighborhood in southern Bloomfield's Carteret School district was predominantly Italian-American, and there were no Spanish grocery stores or other evidence of Hispanic culture to be found within walking distance for my mother, who didn't drive at the time although she was already bilingual.

One day in 1968, anxious to step out of the house, my mother placed her youngest son in a baby carriage and walked to Milbank Park, which had a small playground.  While there, to her surprise and delight, she heard a woman speaking Spanish with two young children. My mom approached the woman, and a friendship that lasted the remaining 44 years of my mother's life was born.

It turned out my mom's new friend, Herminia, was a Venezuelan who lived with her husband and their two children across Bloomfield Avenue from Milbank Park.  Elena and Herminia would meet often at the playground, speaking their native tongue and finding comfort with a kindred spirit far away from their homes, figuratively, near their homes, literally.

A year later, our family moved to a house off of Broughton Avenue in Bloomfield. Lo and behold, a Spanish family moved in across the street shortly afterwards, and my mother had yet more Spanish-speaking friends.

By the time I was a college freshman, there were just enough Hispanics in Bloomfield for the public library to host a Latin heritage event. My mom proudly brought a pot of arroz con pollo (yellow rice and chicken, a staple in Cuba) to the affair, and enjoyed speaking Spanish to some of the dozen or so other people there.

Times have changed.  According to the 2010 census, a quarter of Bloomfield's approximately 47,000 inhabitants are Hispanic. Many of them live in the southern part of town, in the area between Grove Street and the Newark border in which Milbank Park is located. A current town councilman is named Joseph Lopez, my surname before moving to Bloomfield and taking on my stepfather's last name.

I imagine Spanish is often heard in Milbank Park these days.  As I think of my mom on her birthday, I can almost hear her there excitedly speaking her native language, a pioneer of sorts in her new Bloomfield neighborhood.

Photo by Billy Mathias, a friend who inspired this writeup.

“Everyone knows it’s…”

Hearing "Windy" on the radio reminds me of the rhyme about a former mayor of New York that some of us would sing as schoolboys:

"Who's walking down the streets of the city
Smilin' at everybody he sees
Who's reachin' out to capture a moment
Everyone knows it's Lindsay"

John Lindsay was New York's John Kennedy, bringing a sense of optimism and charisma to a city that was in desperate need of it by the mid-1960s.  He weathered the worst of changing times in urban America, experiencing both victory and defeat during two stormy terms, but ultimately leaving City Hall with his head high.

Hearing the Association's 1967 hit on the radio also reminds me of the interesting book edited by Sam Roberts, "America's Mayor: John V. Lindsay and the Reinvention of New York."  If the city's history fascinates you, I highly recommend you read this book.  It’s comprised of a series of write-ups by people who were there, and includes lots of great photos.  The book is available from Columbia University Press and Amazon.

If you just have an ear worm for the song, check out the video on YouTube.

The bicycle rack

They're built by people in shops around the world,

often by those who use them for daily transportation.

They're shipped to ports in different countries,

and sold in stores in cities, towns and villages.

Some buy them to get to work every day,

others to do their shopping and errands.

Some have them to get serious exercise,

others for leisurely rides through scenic paths.

Bicycles find themselves together in racks

at places like New York City or Long Branch NJ.

They can sit idle for hours or just minutes,

and sprint through traffic or roll slowly by the sea.

Some have thin tires, others fat.

A few have baskets, occasionally a bell.

Some are black, some are white,

they are also red or yellow or pink.

But they're all just bicycles,

sharing space, co-existing on roads,

getting people to work, on errands,

helping some get exercise, have fun.

Toast for a son and his bride

Following is the toast Charley made for his eldest son and new daughter-in-law at their wedding on Friday, July 5, at the Loeb Boathouse in New York City's Central Park: 

It's great to see everyone here tonight to celebrate this wonderful occasion, the wedding of Steven and Rachel.  It was also nice to see so many people in New York City last night celebrating the Fourth of July, the birthday of our great country.  Steven and Rachel are indeed very fortunate to have found each other and fallen in love. I can't help but think that the relationship they've developed and the future they are about to lead together are truly part of the American dream.

Nearly all Americans are here because, sometime in their family history, someone dreamed of having the opportunity to lead a better life.  Interestingly, both Steven and Rachel have paternal grandmothers who spent years of their youth in Cuba and migrated to this country as teenagers to pursue their dreams. Steven's family settled in the New York area, Rachel's family in the southern and western parts of our country.

Our families were fortunate to able to provide Steven and Rachel a chance to chase their own dreams.  For Steven, it was to be a musician.  For Rachel, it was to dance.  After growing up a continent apart, they both enrolled at Purchase College, and excelled in their studies.  Like their grandmothers before them, however, they realized they needed to change their future direction.

Fortunately, Steven and Rachel had already found each other on the Purchase campus by this point. The strength of their relationship, along with the opportunity to dream of a better life -- something that is still easier to do in this country than in virtually any other part of our world -- has kept them moving forward together, Steven as an accountant, Rachel as a medical student.

In my travels and interaction with people from different parts of the world, I've heard that a defining characteristic of Americans is their happiness.  Yes, we smile more than most people, and we have a more positive view of the world and our lives.  It truly would be a fulfillment of my dream, as a parent and an American, and for our families who first ventured into this great land, for people around the world to see Steven and Rachel years from now and say, "Look at how happy that couple is.  They must be Americans, in love!"

Steven and Rachel, we toast to your joy today and your dreams for the future. And when you look into each other's eyes, may you continue setting off fireworks like the ones over the Hudson River last night!

I ♥ NY

When I began working in New York 3½ years ago and told my new boss how much I liked being in the city, he said to me, “It’ll get old fast.” As a New York native with fond childhood memories, I didn’t think being in the city could ever get old.

I was right. In fact, I fell in love with New York all over again.

I fell in love with the diverse group of fascinating people in New York, each with their own stories and reasons for being in the city. I sometimes stopped to talk to a few of them, including the Mexican man on 48th Street and 6th Avenue holding a sign advertising a nearby Irish bar, and the African man wearing a sandwich board for a discount clothier on 5th Avenue near 49th Street.

I became familiar with some of the people behind the counters of many of the inexpensive eateries in midtown, including the Asian-featured man with the Spanish accent who takes pride in the salads he prepares at the deli on Madison Avenue between 48-49 Streets, or the cheery group of Latinos at Margon on 46 Street between 6-7 Avenues who always seemed happy to see me when I stopped in for lunch once or twice a month.

I fell in love with the buildings and scenery of Manhattan, which makes a fascinating backdrop for the workers, residents and tourists that occupy it. I enjoyed walking around Rockefeller Center, watching the ice skaters and seeing the Christmas tree, rarely being annoyed with the crowds. I was wasn't bothered by tourists in Grand Central Terminal standing in the middle of rushing commuters in order to take pictures of the historic ceiling.

Bryant Park, a chameleon of an oasis where sun worshippers relax in the summer and ice skaters glide through the chill in the winter, was often the highlight of my walk back to the Port Authority Bus Terminal at the end of the day. Other times, it was Times Square or the theater district, both of which looked like oil paintings after a rain, that punctuated my day. If it was pouring at the end of the day, the crowded subway, with its own subculture, was a fascinating option.

I took advantage of being able to stand in the back of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral on 5th Avenue, or sit in a pew of the Church of Saint Paul the Apostle on Columbus Avenue and 59th Street, and quietly thank God for all the blessings in my life.

Working in the city enabled me to watch Mariah Carey, Katy Perry and others perform outside the Today show studios, take in a few more Broadway shows than normal, attend some midweek Mets and Rangers games, participate in a few Jets playoff rallies, and stand a few feet away from Bono and Henry Kissinger, Mayor Michael Bloomberg, former mayors David Dinkins and Ed Koch, Governor David Paterson and former governor George Pataki. Actually, I’m sure I crossed paths with many celebrities – I just didn’t know who they were. I doubt, however, they were much more interesting than the countless working people who found themselves with me in the city, by choice, by birth, or both, most days.

It’s these kinds of people, and the gorgeous landscape in which they operate daily, that I will miss most when my current work situation officially ends next week. New York isn’t going anywhere, though, so I’ll look forward to returning to play, eat, sightsee or, perhaps, work…and certainly, I'll be reminded what it is about the city I love so much.

Through the past with the Rolling Stones

Struggling through the first half hour of a cardio class on a stationery bike in a local gym, I suddenly feel a jolt of energy when hearing the distinct guitar sound at the start of “Paint It, Black,” the Rolling Stones hit from 1966. I smile, and pedal faster.
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Just days earlier, while riding an elevator with a co-worker known for his liking of the Rolling Stones, a middle-age businessman asked if the band might be touring again this year.

“I don’t think so,” his colleague, a white-haired attorney, replied. “I don’t think the four of them will be able to do it until 2013.”

“But, they’ll be a year older,” the man remarked, disappointed.
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A New York City boy first heard “Paint It, Black” on an AM radio station, and went to a music store on Broadway to look for the single. A year earlier, in his neighborhood’s recreation center, he and his friends enjoyed listening to “Get Off My Cloud” over and over and over again.
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Shortly after the first Super Bowl telecast ended one Sunday in January 1967, the Rolling Stones appeared on the Ed Sullivan Show. They sang “Ruby Tuesday” and, in deference to Mr. Sullivan’s wishes, a slightly different version of the flip side of the single, “Let’s Spend the Night Together.” It was better than the game, and soon a young New Yorker made his way to a local Woolworth to buy the disc.

Almost 40 years later, during halftime of another Super Bowl, the Rolling Stones performed a 14-minute set that, again, turned out to be more entertaining than the game. Proving some things just never change, two of the three Stones songs had lyrics censored by the television network.
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The album with the zipper on the cover, “Sticky Fingers,” couldn’t make it past the censor of a Bloomfield, NJ family in 1971, around the same time the famous tongue graphic became synonymous with the Rolling Stones and started appearing in shirts and other clothing.

Four years later, in Madison Square Garden, the band’s on stage and it’s one of those nights. As the opening licks of “Honky Tonk Women” sounded, the stage opened slowly with a band member at the tip of each point of a star-shaped structure. Life was never quite the same for a college student.

In 1981, at a Meadowlands Arena concert, Mick Jagger dashes up the aisle during a song, just feet away from a newlywed couple. Nearly everyone is up from their seats at the new arena, excited.
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New Rolling Stones discs have come less frequently since the mid-1980s, as have concert tours, as Mick Jagger and Keith Richards occasionally bitch in public like siblings or lovers and do their own things. The quality of Stones recordings and performances, however, have never abated – their discs and tours during the past 25 years stand up well to their earlier work.

One more Rolling Stones concert remains on my bucket list. No doubt, it will make me smile and feel like that young New York boy at the neighborhood recreation center, at the Broadway music store, in front of the TV after the first Super Bowl, or the young man at Madison Square Garden or Meadowlands Arena.