Home, Home On The Remains.

A week or so after I announced that I was leaving, apart from my family I told some close friends, several of whom I have known close to forty years. My one friend Sam (not his real name), urged me to come on back home to NYC so that we could talk. Sam and I go back to ninth grade, and shared many a - ahem - youthful escapade together. he is a NYC detective, and basically threatened me with physical harm if I didn't come down. Of course, that's his way of showing he cares, especially in light of the fact that he has been down this road, and in a very bad way, I might add.

I left last Wednesday, a little later than I wanted to, and got into New Rochelle where my brother lives at about 10 pm. He already left for work, and after settling in, I decided to go see him down at his EMS station in the South Bronx. I have never seen where his command is, and he being a paramedic Lt. with FDNY, I was curious to see the place where he held court. I also had the opportunity to meet a mutual friend, another paramedic that is an old timer like I was, and like my brother is.

I had a good time, got in the door at about 2:30-ish, and then got up to move my car at 8:10 am, as New Rochelle suffers from the same malady that plagues NYC - that of alternate side of the street parking. Unfortunately, I overslept by a few minutes, and got tagged with a parking ticket. My brother however, seems to be friendly with many in the parking bureau (I don't want to know why), and he thinks he can get it squashed, or substantially reduced. I'm waiting to hear from him later this week.

Friday was a great day. My cousin and I went to lunch at this kick-ass restaurant in Little Italy, Forlini's on Baxter St. the food was terrific, and when inside, it looks like something out of mob movie. I half expected DeNiro, Pesci, and maybe John Gotti - if he wasn't already dead - to stop on inside. I had this terrific chicken dish, with sun dried tomatoes, bow tie pasta in a light cream sauce:


Their house red wine was excellent, as was the cheesecake.

My cousin and I hung out for about 90 minutes, talking about everything under the sun, and it was good to reconnect with her. We hadn't seen each other in about two years.

I then got on Metro-North, and headed up to Mamaroneck to see Sam. It had been a while since I traveled the subway and commuter railroad, but I remembered how to get around as if I never left. I arrived here at the station after leaving Grand Central:

Sam took me out to dinner, along with his new neighbors from France, Vincent and Corali. They just arrived about a week ago, and are teachers at the FASNY, the French-American School in Mamaroneck. (http://www.fasny.org/) they are a young married couple, and while his English is very good, hers is not so much. She works mainly in the science lab, while he is a math teacher. we had a great time, and I played English teacher, as I was asked to explain the difference between "neither," and "either" looks as though I have a place to stay in the south of France any time that I want.

I spent Saturday in part with my mom, after taking my niece out to breakfast, and then spent Saturday night in the company of my old paramedic partner, Tony. He's still out there, fighting the good fight, but has decided it's time to retire. Of course, the skull fracture he suffered on the job a few months back hastened his decision to retire soon, but I think he should have retired five years ago.

All in all, it was a good trip, but now I'm home, and facing the reality that is packing up the rest of my life, and getting ready to move into my apartment later this month. I think I may need another vacation when that is all said and done.

Because I was there.

I was in NYC 8 years ago on that Tuesday morning. I was in for the wedding of my former paramedic partner the Saturday beforehand, and it was the morning Mrs. N. and I were due to leave. I remember the confusion at first, as no one was quite sure what exactly happened when the first plane hit, but then watching the second plane hit, I knew right away this was no accident. We were staying with my mother in my old neighborhood in the Bronx. Immediately, and with a sense of dread, we tried to get hold of my brother, also a NYC paramedic. He works the overnight shift, and we were afraid that he might be on overtime, or was called back on duty and sent down there.

It turned out to be the latter, but fortunately, they kept him in the Bronx, and did not send him down to Ground Zero. Next, we tried to get hold of my cousin, who worked at Federal Plaza, which is a stone's throw away from the WTC. That took longer, as all the cell phone lines were jammed, but we did eventually find out that she did make it out of there and was headed back to her home in New Jersey.

I grew up in the northernmost end of the Bronx, so getting out of there was easier than in other parts of the city. We tried to go give blood at one of the local hospitals, but the line was so long for that, and we had a 6 1/2 hour trip ahead of us. We decided that we would give blood once we returned to Rochester. On the way to that hospital in the Bronx however, I encountered an eerie sight, as 2 F-15's screeched overhead of us, part of the aerial the patrol that wound up encircling the city for that day, and several more afterward.

We kept the radio tuned to whatever news stations we could find on the way, even trying to get whatever information we could going through the mountains and constantly picking up and losing stations. There was no music playing that day. Wherever you tuned to, there was only one story. We made it home, stunned, shocked, but relived.

We also realized how close it could have come to being victims, as we were not far from the WTC the day before, taking a day trip into Manhattan to revisit some old haunts.

So when you stop to think about today, think about the lives that were lost, both civilian and rescuers. Keep one rescuer in mind: EMS paramedic Ricardo Quinn, a former colleague. He died when Tower 1 collapsed. You can read about him here:

http://nosheepleshere.blogspot.com/2009/09/project-2996-remembering-ricardo-quinn.html


Because I was there, I cannot help but remember...

Evil spirits come OUT!

I've finally been able to mostly exorcise myself of the demon virus that so willfully and mercilessly attacked me on the shores of Robert Moses State Park beach about 10 days ago. I mean, there I was, enjoying my time with my old paramedic cohorts, recalling past days, and marveling at how much some of us have aged (in a good way). It seemed to creep up on me at first, a little tickle in the throat, some sneezing and coughing, and then the next thing I knew, my voice had bailed on me. It wound up staying away more or less for about four days, causing me to miss some work, and making me feel generally miserable. I finally broke down and went to the doc, though I had actually started feeling better at that point. The problem was a productive cough that would not go away, and phlegm that was looking a little suspicious in my book.

As it turns out, I probably had a small, underlying bacterial infection so some antibiotics were prescribed, and I'm doing far better.

Now, as for the NYC trip: It was a grand time. We got down there on Thursday, and spent most of that day with my mom. She made dinner for myself and Mrs. N., and we just chilled a bit, especially after a 7 hour drive. We left a little later than planned, and ran smack into NYC rush hour traffic. Oddly enough, I was okay with it, took it in stride, and didn't lean on my horn. The only thing I had to adjust to, as is always the case when I drive down there, is that I become more aggressive in my driving. It's like riding a bike. You don't forget how to cut the other guy off with aplomb, and give the finger to the asshole that cut you off, all at the same time.

Friday was a great day. We met two friends, Ben and Susan, that moved to NYC about two years ago from Rochester. They live in Brooklyn, in an area I'm familiar with, in a brownstone building. Susan is a web developer with a small company near the South Street Seaport in Manhattan, and Ben is an audio/video exhibit designer at the American Museum Of Natural History on Central Park West. We met Susan for Lunch at Yatagan, the small but wonderful Turkish kebab house in Greenwich Village. I have been going there since about 1978, a little hole in the wall with wonderful food. As Susan is a vegetarian, there was something for all of us there. She was head over heels with the food, and as we left to go meet Ben at the museum, I showed her some of the other eateries that line MacDougal Street between Bleecker and West 3rd St.

We hopped on the subway at the West 4th St. station, right under what was the old Waverly Theatre, home to the Rocky Horror Picture Show, when it first came out as a movie in the mid-70's. We rode uptown to the museum, where Ben secured us tickets to see a show at the Hayden Planetarium/Rose Science Center, which is part of the museum. It was all about cosmic collisions, and it was the first time I have been to a show at the Hayden in quite a while. I have very vivid memories of going down there on Friday nights back in the late 70's with my friend Cliff, smoking a few joints in the park next to the museum, and then going to the Hayden for the Pink Floyd laser show. (Wait, I can remember those times? Obviously I didn't smoke enough!)

After the show was over, we met Ben, and he gave us a guided tour of some of the new exhibits in the museum, especially those he was involved with designing. As it was about quitting time for Ben, the four of us hopped over to a wine bar that was nearby, Riposo72. Not a big place, but lots of atmosphere, and an incredible wine selection. We shared a bottle of Septima Malbec, and a large plate of assorted fruits, cheeses and bread. We stayed for close to 2 hours, talking and then started walking back downtown towards 32nd and Broadway, where Mrs. N. and I were going to meet my cousin and his wife for dinner at a Korean restaurant that Mrs. N's hairdresser recommended.

We strolled down Broadway from the 70's on down, and for a brief moment, I began to wonder why I why I ever moved away from here. I sheepishly admitted to myself that I missed the energy and drive that New York generates. As we walked closer to Times square, the mass of people seemed to double, then triple within just a few minutes. For a time, I felt right at home again, but then I realized that while I was enjoying the moment, it was not something I craved as the everyday anymore. I just soaked in the energy and the moment for what it was. Just at Times Square, Ben caught this great pic of 42nd Street, looking west at sunset. It had been raining just a short time before, a torrential rain, and the sky was left as you see it here:
Rather recently, within the last few weeks, a portion of Times Square on Broadway was made into a pedestrian walkway. No cars coursing through the vein-like, snaking thoroughfare, that is one of the oldest in the city, if not the oldest. There is only a small break where 7th Avenue crosses Times Square, then the pedestrian mall starts up again, down to at least 40th Street. It is an eerie sight, with folding chairs that the city has provided there for the pedestrians to allow for relaxation if needed. It is an interesting idea, but we'll see how long it lasts, based on what effect it has on the traffic flow.

We get to 32nd, and make the left turn off Broadway, and right there is our restaurant. it's strange how you can live in a city your whole life, and not know that there are pockets of ethnic fare and businesses in a particular area. As it turns out, the area of 32nd St. between 5th and Broadway is known as "Korea Way." Who knew? Certainly not me, and I grew up in NYC. It's all Korean businesses and shops and restaurants.

The restaurant that was recommended to us was Kum Gang San. I have to say, that it was without a doubt the best Korean food I have ever tasted. The portions were plentiful everything was very fresh, and the staff were terrific. It's also open 24 hours, so if you have a craving for kimchee, Bul Go Ki, or marinated beef short ribs, (which are to die for ) then this is the place for you. It is also incredibly reasonably priced for a Manhattan restaurant.

We had a nice time with my cousins, and they graciously offered to drive us back up to the Bronx, especially since it was on their way home. They parked more towards the east side, so we took a leisurely stroll down 32nd St, and found their car near 2nd Ave, and made the 30 minute trip back up to the Bronx.

Tomorrow, the tale of the reunion, and demon that made me speak in whispers.

The past is calling.

Tomorrow morning at 9 am, we're leaving for NYC on a trip to see family, but for me, it is a long awaited event that I'm looking forward to.

Ten years ago this month, we made our move up here to Rochester, leaving friends, family, and a way of life behind. It was also the end of my career in emergency medical services. It was one of the hardest, if not the hardest decision I ever had to make, leaving a life and a career that I loved so very much. The problem was that the job was simply no longer any fun, and it was obvious to me that I needed to get away from it. I spent 22 years in that field, with a lot of amazing memories, many good ones, many bad ones, and a few that were flat out horrific. All-in-all, I would never have traded it for anything in the world. The greatest title I will ever have will have been that of New York City Paramedic. The subtitle of this blog, "I've seen things you people wouldn't believe," is not only a line from Blade Runner, but it perfectly sums up the job. There is also another quote from the movie "Bringing Out The Dead," that also summarizes that job. the original novel was written by NYC paramedic Joe Connelly, who I remember, though I suspect he may not remember me.

I have never seen the movie, or read the book, and I'm I'm not sure I ever will. I lived too close to it, and don't need certain memories revisited. I did however, find this quote from the movie that made me shiver, as it was so frighteningly accurate:

"I realized that my training was useful in less than ten percent of the calls, and saving lives was rarer than that. After a while, I grew to understand that my role was less about saving lives than about bearing witness. I was a grief mop. It was enough that I simply turned up."

Now, that said, what made the job so worthwhile were the people I worked with, and none more so than at the place I spent 11 years at, St. Mary's Hospital in Brooklyn. The people that I worked with there became my extended family, were there for me at all times, especially when I was sick and waiting for my transplant. While we have all gone our separate ways, especially since they closed the hospital 3 years ago, many of us still keep in contact through Facebook. We called ourselves "Mary's Mercenaries," as we were paid to work in what was ostensibly a combat zone. Such was Brooklyn, and indeed NYC as a whole back in the mid-80's t0 mid-90's. I wore a level III-A Kevlar vest under my uniform shirt, and was shot at on occasion. We were proud of being the busiest ambulance garage in all the 9-1-1 system in NYC at that time, so much so that we had these off-duty shirts made:

(Front - I don't know why Blogger is rotating this pic this way.)
Rear:
Now for the best part: In addition to seeing family, I am going to a St. Mary's Mercenary reunion out on Long Island at Robert Moses State Park and beach. There are many people I have not seen in almost 10 years, some a little longer, so this is going to be a lot of fun. I also have not seen the ocean in a long, long time as well. It will be great to be together again with people that mean the world to me, and a little sad remembering some of them that are no longer with us. We lost a few people over the years from my dept., either to accidents or disease.

Time for a lot of laughs, a lot of memories, and reconnecting with old friends.

This just in...

Okay, some updates, and a request. First, the shoulder is completely healed. Lots of ice and Ibuprofen did the trick, plus being careful when using it. What made this a little more annoying is that it was my left shoulder, and I am (very) left-handed. The biggest pain in the ass was sleeping, but I found a way to lay down to get to the point where I could get into a deep enough sleep.

Second: I got into the improv group! I won't be performing for at least a month, as they have a policy of seeing how newcomers mesh with the established troupe. Sounded reasonable to me. I am truly looking forward to this experience, and already feel good about the first two rehearsals I have under my belt.

Third, and most importantly: A very good friend, Brandie, has established a new blog. She did this as a way to help her deal with the illness of her father, who just underwent a stem-cell transplant as a treatment for an autoimmune condition that has been plaguing him for several years. I think she would love to have people visit, and also if anyone else out there has undergone, or knows of someone that has undergone stem cell therapy, it would be good for her to talk with people that have been through the experience. Her blog addy is:

http://wherethehellsmysunshine.blogspot.com/

I'll be in NYC in 2 weeks for a much anticipated reunion of my other family, namely the paramedics and EMT's I worked with for so long in Brooklyn. They closed St. Mary's, the hospital I worked at for 11 years over three years ago, and this will be a great time to catch up with a bunch of old friends. I actually have not seen some of them since I moved to Rochester 10 years ago this month. Others I have been fortunate enough to contact on Facebook. We'll be going to down for 5 days, a mini-vacation of sorts, and also will be getting together with some cousins I have not seen in a while.

Lots to do in the coming weeks.

Death needs to take a holiday.

Well, it was an adventurous trip downstate, to be sure.

Thursday morning, I had to go lecture at an undergraduate director's class at the RIT (Rochester Institute of Technology) School of Film and Animation, which was something that had been planned about 2 weeks prior. It went very well, and I have been asked back for next semester.

I went home, and finished packing for the trip down, but realized that I had to stop at work first to drop off some paperwork related to my health care coverage for next year. While getting all this together, I was listening to the weather report, and to my concern, kept hearing the words "ice storm" in the forecast. Great. Just what I need.

I logged on to the Weather Channel, and it looked as though this ice storm was barreling right up through Pennsylvania, and was going to cut through the southern tier of NY, right where I was going to be traveling. Sizing up my options, I decided that my usual route down I-390 might be worse than heading across the Thruway, and then going south down I-81 past Syracuse. As it turned out, you couldn't get there from here no matter what road you took. The ride to Syracuse went just fine, and then about 10-15 minutes past it, all hell broke loose.

A snowy blast that started as a trickle came down on me as I traveled further south. While I was able to keep driving the speed limit for a fair distance, I had to eventually slow it down, as more of the road went the way of the dodo. The snow became thicker, and it became obvious that there was ice building up. How did I know? Well, the number of vehicles I began seeing in the ditch on the left, or into the right guard rail began increasing exponentially.

I was going about 25 mph, with idiots still passing me doing 50, when I started fishtailing. The old emergency vehicle operation responses kicked in, but the car was having none of it. I started to pull out of it, but then the rear of the car got away from me, and I started doing a 180. Somehow, I didn't hit anyone or anything, and just pulled myself out of the spin in time to have the rear wheel of the car perched about a foot from the ditch at the left shoulder.

I took a deep breath, made sure that no one was barreling down on me, and pulled away, just happening to notice that there was another person that had glanced the guard rail on the right shoulder. He seemed to be okay, we waved at each other, and I continued on my way.

Things finally started letting up, the snow changed to rain, and I pulled into the gas station in Binghamton that I had been using as a stopping point since I started going to college in Buffalo in 1981. I called up my friend Sherri who lives in the Catskills. I was going to have to follow Route 17 through it to get home. The word was not good. Ice. Lots of it. I decided that staying put was a better option, but getting a room was going to be interesting. After the $142 rate at the Fairfield Inn made me wince, I found a recently renovated Super 8. It was clean, didn't appear to have any denizens lurking about, so I plopped down $50 (on plastic), and settled in for the night.

I made some phone calls home, and mom was especially relieved that I decided to abort the trip for now. Of course, it meant getting up at oh-dark-thirty to hit the road in order to make the funeral at 10:45. The bed was fairly comfortable, the room warm, so at least one thing on the trip worked out okay.

I hit the road at a very dark 6 am, and made it down to my friend's home in White Plains at 9:30. Slugging down a cup of coffee, we carpooled with another friend down to the Castle Hill Funeral Home in the Bronx. My friend was there, putting on a very brave face, very happy to see me. She had flown in from Arizona the day before, and must have been mentally and physically exhausted.

My friend's dad was a very well respected and liked man, as was evident by the turnout at his funeral. The service lasted about 30 minutes, and we followed the procession out to the cemetery in New Jersey. This was the hardest part of all, for my friend, her mom, and the rest of their family. This was an Orthodox Jewish burial, and as such, the family was expected to begin the burying of the coffin just to the top of it. I did put in a few shovel fulls, but it only made me more determined to make sure I am cremated. This is not what I want for myself, with people gathered around, already in shock, having to bury my body. my feeling? Burn me, spread my ashes (in a place to be determined) and have a party.

Personally, I think the Irish go about it the right way. Celebrate the person's life, and get drunk in the process.

I went to the shiva call Sat. night, (you can't sit shiva on Shabbos) after spending the day with my neice, who is gorwing up so fast, and while the circumstances were not he best, it was a reunion of sorts with some old friends that I have known for 30 years. Hopefully, we will all meet again under far better circumstances. I started for home Sunday morning, with just over a dozen bagels in tow, and heading back west on Route 17, came across beauty on the side of the road:
Branches encased in melting glass, the sun casting prism broken light onto the road. I pulled over, and just wanted to get the moment. Fortunately, it stayed off the pavement, and made the trip home easy.

Exhausted, I had little time to unpack, and then I had to work.

While scanning my e-mails, I went to reactivate my e-mails for the liver disease support group that I hang on, and while doing so, almost fell out of my chair. One of the members of this group for 10 years was found dead the day before. I helped start this group, and Joe had come on board not long after it was started. He battled Hep C, got transplanted, survived the Hep C combo therapy that rid his body of the virus, only to be brought down by what appears to be lung cancer. Joe and I were not close, and at times, were down right adversarial. Over the past few years however, we communicated privately more, and had developed a respect for one another.

This has been a true hell week for me. I think I need a holiday. Death can stay home and bother someone else for a change.

...and the week just keeps getting better.

As if enduring the interview-that-never-should-have-been wasn't bad enough, I got the phone call yesterday that I knew was going to come. My friend who I wrote about that just put her dad into hospice called; dad died yesterday. I am hurriedly getting things together, throwing stuff into the car and will be running down to NYC later today. I'll be staying with my brother and his family, and while it will be nice to see them, I wish it was for a far happier occasion.

I'll have my laptop, and I'm pretty sure my brother has a wireless modem, so I'll see about posting when I'm there. In the meantime, think of my friend's dad; he endured a lot, and is no longer suffering.

The Road Well Travelled Pt. 4 - The Food's The Thing. (En Fin)

So when we last left your intrepid traveler, he was just leaving his old place of residence, feeling both mentally exhausted, but better for the experience. Of course, it was not quite as adventurous as Quarsan, Zoe's favorite twat, (see his recent post on her blog regarding Tanzanian butchers for further details) but the one thing we had in common was the search for food.

However, continuing my walk back to my mom's building, I came across a sight that pushed my spirits up. You will recall that I found the site of my old "thinking tree," the enormous willow that stood in the empty field across the street from my building. Apparently, there was more than one willow that suffered the same fate. I came across one such willow, right next to the former baseball field where I played Little League baseball as a kid. It is now paved over, the big field known as "the Greenway" being used as a parking lot while all the parking garages were being rehabbed. The word is that since the garages are all opened again, that the Greenway will be returned to its former state at some point. One can only hope.

This tree however did not suffer quite the same fate as my willow. It was still intact, rooted in the ground, but only a small fraction of its former grandeur. That said, looking at I had a sense of hope. It was coming back from the near-death experience it seemed to have suffered. There was life sprining forth from it, and the branches that came out of it formed a small canopy that maybe, with time and caring, will envelope another kid, and let him or her think underneath it.



A small explanation is in order. (Claudia, you may wish to take your anti-emetic before reading further.) White Castle. Home of the "murder burger," the "belly bomber," or my personal fav, the "rectum rocket." All misnomers. A storied hamburger. One only need rent "Harold and Kumar Go To White Castle" in order to understand its appeal. Before McDonald's, Before Burger King, before Wendy's, there was White Castle. Small burger, you can eat 2 or 3 at a shot. Some of the best onion rings around, and their vanilla thick shakes are heaven. I don't eat a lot of junk food. If I go every 2-3 months, that is a lot. This however, was a trip down memory lane, at least those that involved copious amounts of recreational pharmaceuticals. My personal best is 8 cheeseburgers at one sitting. Ah, those were the days.

Food is an important part of any New Yorker's upbringing, that is to say, knowing where the best places are to eat out. There are so many eateries, restaurants, etc. in a city of almost 9 million, that one needs to be choosy. Growing up in the Bronx however, one has an extra added benefit.

Off the mainland of the Bronx is City Island. Originally a small fishing village, it is now a mecca for seafood lovers all over NYC. The only section that rivals it, IMHO, is Sheepshead Bay in Brooklyn. The island is crammed with seafood places up and down, from begining to end. My personal fav, and known to all in the Bronx, is Sammy's, a City Island institution. We took my mom there last year for her 75th birthday, and it had been a number of years since I was there. The food was as delicious as ever. However, as Sammy's is on the expensive side, and I was treating my brother to lunch, another place two doors down filled the bill.

Tony's is the last restaurant on the island, and was one of the more inexpensive places. Still, it was cheaper than Sammy's and the food was good, though not as good as I remember it. Back in the day, the boats use to pull up to Tony's and dump their catch right on the dock next to the restaurant. Talk about fresh catch of the day! My brother and I dined on some excellent New England chowder, frogs legs and clams.
City Island also does not feel like NYC. It provides a bit of a respite from the high energy that one usually finds in other places in the city. From the gulls that amasse on the pier, to the sailboats that lazily make their way to the mouth of Long Island Sound, this is a quiet place in a very noisy city. I do miss it.

And that, as they say is that. All-in-all, a good trip, mixed with good and bad, joy and sorrow. Let the next time be all joy.

It's coming, I promise......

Pt 4. of my NYC journey is coming...I swear. I've just been running about everywhere this weekend. I'll finally settle down some tomorrow, but after I've cleaned out my garage which needs it desperately. Until then, a little tease:

Got these where you are?

The Road Well Travelled - Pt. 3 - "Do...Or Do Not. There Is No Try."

Zen breathing...Zen breathing....


I can feel my heart pounding as I make my way underneath the portico of my former building towards the front entrance. More memories come flooding back. The day I moved in; October 19, 1970. We were one of the first families to occupy the building, as they started having the top floor, the 33rd, move in first. We came in a week or so after, living on the 29th floor. I still remember the moving truck, Vermont Movers and Storage, a silver truck with red lettering. (We weren't moving from Vermont, so how they got that name is beyond me. Go figure.) Amazing how I can remember that after all these years and not remember what I had for lunch yesterday, or if I even had lunch. I remember the chaos in the main lobby, with different movers coming and going. The walls of the lobby were unfinished, still exposing their stone finish, and all over them the movers had written the names of families and their apartment numbers that were being moved in that day.

The main entrance to the lobby is locked by a magnetic security system, so I wonder how I am going to get in. As luck would prevail, there is a person coming out of the building, and they hold the door open for me. I don't recognize her. She is older, but not someone I even remotely remember from my days when I lived there. The lobby seems frozen in time to a degree, as it really hasn't changed. The faux wood paneling is still the same, the banks of mailboxes, and the four elevators that, like the NYC subway, have express and local service. I grab one of the express elevators that run directly from the lobby to the 18th floor, and then locally to every floor up to 33. I am alone in it, and press the button marked "29." Another deep breath as the door closes, a smooth movement upwards, and I am speeding towards the source of my anxiety. This is a new elevator, the old one finally replaced only about 4 years prior.

The computer announces my floor as the elevator car eases its upwards flight. It stops, the door opens, and I step out into the familiar; or the not so familiar. Was the hallway always this narrow? Maybe it was, but for some reason, it always seemed wider in my memory.

So I now have a choice: Move on, or get back into the elevator. Luke Skywalker faced his fears in the cave with the image of Darth Vader before him. I could use a lightsaber about now, but I'm sure Yoda would admonish me. I want to try to do this, to face it. Then again, Yoda's words are ringing in my ears; "Do. Or do not. There is no try."

I do. (Yeah, and I remember what happened the last time I said that!)

I make the left turn towards apartment 29B. I'm trying to remember the neighbors names. The Willams's, the Adelberg's, the Albert's (No, that's not right. The Albert's lived on 12.) The Bloom's. (My mom's best friend and mah jong partner was Mrs. Bloom.) The others, I just can't seem to recall. Suddenly, there it is:

I start laughing inside my head, really loudly. I can't believe what I am seeing in front of the door. A shopping cart! A folding, shopping cart, the kind that I would use as a kid when I would go shopping for my mom, or what she would use when she went shopping. They are as much a part of NYC as yellow cabs, and I have never seen one here in Rochester, ever. Now, when I was growing up, they were always silver, and didn't have front wheels, so this was a much sleeker version of the ones I used. Boy, if you wanted to plan to bring back some really great memories, you couldn't have picked a better device. Of course, we kids would use them to race around the hallways as well, much to mom's consternation.

I was tempted to ring the bell on the door, introduce myself, and ask to come in to see the old place, but common sense got the better of me. It probably would have been inappropriate anyway. I got a little closer, just touched the door, and turned around.

As I made my way back, I saw this on the wall near the stairwell:
It took me a second to realize what that plate was covering. That was the old fire alarm pull box that each floor had, and was a source of aggravation to the local fire station, as false alarms were plentiful way back then. You see, as a right of adolescent passage, you were goaded on by your friends to pull the fire alarm, then run away. this had the effect of having these very loud clanging bells going off in the hallway, with all the residents of said floor coming out of their apartments to see if there really was a fire. (Which did happen from time-to-time.) Once you performed this act of anti-social behavior, you were accepted into the fold as "one of the gang." God help you if your parents caught you.

I made my way back to the elevator, and decided that maybe my blog friends would like a picture of me on this grand adventure into the past.

Nyah, nyah...A little game of hide and seek.

While standing there, I am flooded with emotion, almost breaking down. My last memories of here were of moving my mom out, and as I mentioned before, of my father's death. I think though, that this was a catharsis of sorts. and as I called for the elevator, I left feeling better that I did come and let these bitter memories go.

I went back downstairs, exited the front of the building, and looking to my left, spotted the small rise on the side of the building that led to the main thoroughfare that looped all around the development. the hill was once populated by tall poplar trees that were beautiful to look at, but in the spring set my allergies off the chart. Fortunately, It would only last a week, and at that time, they were the only seasonal allergies I would get. Also set into this small hill are the graves of two parakeets, two hamsters, and a guinea pig. Of course, they had to be buried at night, as the private security officers took a dim view of grave diggers. Hey, it's not like we're the Mafia, you know!

I took off back towards my mom's building, and along the way, found a sign of hope.

To be continued....

The Road Well Travelled - Pt. 2 - But My City Was Gone.

One interesting thing about going home is that it affords me a sense of perspective. The lens that we use to view the places where we grew up becomes altered as we become adults. I suspect that we tend to become more jaded with time. I know that this has happened to me. I'm sure of it. Change is an inexorable part of progress, and either you accept that and move on, or you wallow in the past. Still, I am always taken aback by what is an apparent contradiction in what I see when I arrive home, what I expect, and what the reality of life in Co-op City, the Bronx, and NYC in general is these days.

I had a pretty restful night's sleep on the air mattress on my mom's living room floor the day I arrived. She only has one bedroom, and the couch is not an option. While it is not all that uncomfortable from a padding perspective, it simply isn't long enough to accommodate my 6'2" frame, and sleeping in a perpetual fetal position for 3 nights was not something I wanted to do. Since mom is a diabetic like me, she had a variety of foods that I could have for breakfast that would not cause my blood sugar too many problems. Screw that, I'm on vacation. I jabbed myself with some extra insulin prior to eating, and wolfed down the bagel and lox like it was manna from heaven.

The blood sugar didn't budge. I learned some time ago that control is the key. Pre-medicate with insulin from time-to-time, and you can cheat a little bit.

As I was not going to be getting together with my brother and niece until the afternoon, I decided to take a walk in the morning around some old haunts. I specifically had been avoiding it in the past. I simply did not want to relive certain memories. Then again, there were certain things I never came completely to terms with either. As Bina recently blogged about, bullying was a huge issue for me growing up. Oh I wasn't the bully; I was the bullied. While I eventually learned to stand up for myself and not put up with it, there was a lot of bruising along the way, both physically and mentally. Seeing some of the old haunts, while it flooded me with a lot of good memories, were peppered with bad ones that I would just as soon have erased. My "Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind" was not to be, so I simply needed to deal with it on my own terms.

"I was stunned and amazed/ My childhood memories..."

Mom no longer lives in the building I grew up in. She moved out in 1990 to another building in the complex, a smaller apartment. After dad died in 1988, it made no sense for her to live in the 3-bedroom apartment we had since 1970, especially since my brother and I were out on our own at that point. In all that time, I think I had gone back to that building maybe once. It was too painful. The last memories of that place were filled with sadness and loss. There was also no one there anymore that I knew. Still for some reason this time, I felt myself drawn there. I think I finally decided this was my Linda Blair moment. The sun was shining bright, it was warm outside.

It was an excellent day for an exorcism.

I made my way from her building towards mine, first coming to the shopping center that serviced my area of the complex. (There are 3 that were built to provide shopping and other stores, as this place is huge.) The first couple of things I came across made me smile.

Is there anything more NYC than a pizza shop and a diner? They are the ubiquitous hangouts for everything that makes a neighborhood a neighborhood. You had Sunday morning breakfasts there, or simply breakfast anytime if the diner was a 24 hour one. You took your date for pizza after the movie, and you showed what a gentleman you were by paying for that extra slice if she wanted one. The pizza was always the best. Thin crust that cracked down the bottom when you folded it. If you were in the mood, you had the Sicilian-style slice; big, square, and doughy. The diner always made home fries the right way, with the right amount of paprika and onions, and the potatoes always had just the right amount of crispness. These were staple foods that were an art form, and demanded that they be done the right way every time.

When I started working on my volunteer ambulance corps in 1976, the diner was the place to go to after the calls that were the toughest. A cup of coffee with your crew, discuss what happened on the call in between bites of bagel with a schmeer of cream cheese was the best decompression session one could have. The only thing that was more stressful was dividing up the bill at the end of the meal.
Leaving those two places behind, I walked on, past the old ambulance corps headquarters in another building, (they folded about 9-10 years ago) and came to one of my sacred hangouts.

You could find me here on just about any summer's day, and some winter's days as well. The basketball court was the city kid's equivalent of the Roman Coliseum. Battles were waged there for neighborhood dominance. Kids would come from various other neighborhoods in our complex to challenge us, to lay claim to being the best b-ball players in Co-op City. On weekends after school in the spring, it was not unusual for these games to start at nine in the morning, break for lunch and dinner, and go on into the night. They were played with a passion, and everyone there wanted to be a NY Knick. Our heroes had names like Dave DeBusschure, Willis Reed, Walt "Clyde" Frazier, and Bill Bradley. Before Air Jordan, before Shaq, when the game was played more like a team sport than an ego contest, these were our heroes.

The structure next to the court is one of the now renovated parking garages. Long before rock climbing walls, we had these. While it might be hard to see in this picture, the bottom level of the garage had cinder block walls, and the challenge for every kid was to see who was brave enough (or stupid enough) to scale all 6 floors in a free climb. I made it as far as the second floor, and then common sense, but mostly fear told me not to go any further. The renovation removed the cinder blocks from all but the bottom level, so I don't know if kids today have the guts to try what we did.

While reminiscing, I suddenly remembered that the big field that was just adjacent to the courts used to have an enormous willow tree that I would hang out under. My "thinking tree," as I called it, it was the place of calm for me. If I was upset I would sit underneath it while I calmed down. It was also the place, in the dead of night in the summer of 76, that I was first introduced to the joys that a girl could give to a guy. She showed me that mouths were good for other things besides kissing. You do the math.

Sadly, the tree was cut down many years ago, after I had moved out. I wondered if perhaps there was something, a remnant of it that might still be there. I looked around in the area that I seemed to remember where it was, and there below my feet, I found it:
If you look very carefully, you can see the round outline of where the stump was pulled out of the ground. While saddened a little, the memories of the good times spent underneath its blanket of branches made me smile.

I then turned my attention to my old building, that was just across the street from both of these places. I walked up to the rear entrance of the building, and found the marker amongst the scaffolding that surrounded the bottom of it:
I also glanced around and found the thing that kept groups of kids warm on cold winter nights. What is it, you may ask? Was it the opening to a hidden missile silo? A wishing well? Nope. It is the heater vents from the dryers located in the laundry room of the basement of the building. There were several of these, each with a heavy metal grating bolted just under the rim of them It was not unusual to see groups of kids sitting on top of them in the dead of winter, getting some needed warmth that would shoot up through them.

After snapping this picture, I took a deep breath, and moved on to the main entrance of the building. Once more unto the breach...

To be continued...

The Road Well Travelled - Pt. 1 - The View From Here.

It always takes a bit of mental preparation to make this trip. There is this transition that needs to be made that the road affords the time to make. Flying is more brash. One minute I'm in my familiar element, then an hour later, BOOM! I'm slammed down into a maelstrom of humanity, all hell bent on getting to where they need to be faster than me. Driving allows me to adjust, to cope, and to be put into the right frame of mind.

Who thought that the simple act of going home would ever be so complex?

I hit the road on I-390 south towards Corning at 9:30 in the AM, stopping first by Tim Horton's to pick up a bite to eat and a large coffee. (Tim Horton's is a Canadian doughnut/sandwich outlet, like Dunkin', only better, imho.) Large coffee is needed for this first part of the journey. I always marvel at the beauty of this part of the state. No large mountains, like in the Adirondacks, but the rolling hills and farmland are quite stunning.

Suddenly, off to my left about 1/4 to 1/2 of the way to Corning, this comes over the horizon, and I am struck by how it stands out from the tranquility that surrounds it:
A wind farm! I heard about this on the news, but didn't realize how close to the highway it was. I am not sure what to think about this. it is great that there is an alternate energy source being built there, but, there is also something disturbing about having these man-made monstrosities defiling what I view as a very beautiful landscape. Is this trade-off worth it? I suppose when they come on-line, which they are not currently, we'll find out.

Transitioning onto I-86 (NY 17), I breezed through Corning, home of the Corning Museum of Glass, a requisite trip for anyone within a hundred miles of it. Binghamton is my goal, where I can gas up, get some more coffee and continue on. I make it there about noon, and call my friend Sherri, who I grew up with. She lives in Pine Bush, about 90 min. further east in the Catskills. We're going to meet for lunch, and she is a prospective topic for an article, as she is a three-time thyroid cancer survivor. We meet at a nearby diner, with her 11 year-old daughter in tow. She is okay about talking in front of her about her experience, and we also catch up on things, and the doings of some mutual friends. She is quite the fighter. She is also damned lucky, as the type of thyroid cancer she had was the treatable variety.

With my car fueled up and now my body, I start the final leg home. I'm tuning the radio to the two all news, AM stations for NYC and the region. Old habit. Traffic is an all consuming passion with New Yorkers, and with good reason, as it sucks most days. So far, so good, as there are no reports of anything that is in my path. Of course, that could all change in a NY minute.

I make it down to my mother's at about 5 PM, and then starts the great parking spot hunt. Remember the one "Seinfeld" episode dedicated to discussion of parking? Well, that is about as accurate as it gets. Parking in NYC is an art form, a game, and a battle to the death all at once. after about 15 minutes of circling the block in a game of musical cars, I get lucky, and dive into a spot that another person was eying. You snooze, you lose buddy. Better luck next time. It is a little bit of a walk to the building, but it is mine all mine. I drag my suitcase and laptop into the elevator to the 24th floor, and knock on my mom's apartment door. I am greeted with a loving smile, and a typical NYC salutation:

"Did you get a good spot?"

Thanks ma, I love you too.

To be continued...

Phew!

Total gas (petrol) expenses for trip: $75.00
Lunch with my brother on City Island: $40.00
Dinner with a dear friend from childhood: $30.00
Time with the not-so-little niece: Priceless.

Just got home after a 6.5 hour trip...Will blog tomorrow...

In a New York minute.

Washing, packing, re-packing, charging phone, charging PDA, charging laptop, charging my credit card for my oil change and serpentine belt, checking the weather here, checking the weather on the way, checking the weather there, checking my checkbook (BREATHE!)

Ok, I think I am almost together. Going home to see the family for a short, but much needed respite, and soak in the kind of energy that only NYC can provide. I'll have the laptop with me, but I don't know how much in the way of posting I'll be able to do. Mom doesn't have a computer, and I'm not sure if my brother has a wireless router, so I will be forced to scour my old neighborhood in search of a WiFi signal that I can pilfer from somewhere. Of course, I could just go into Manhattan, where there are hotspots just about everywhere you walk these days.

I will have the camera to take as many pictures as I can because, if I don't post any NYC photos, I shall feel the sting of Claudia's lash. (Wear the boots baby, please... ;-) )

While this will be a short visit, only until Tuesday, it will be nice to see the family, especially my little niece, (well, not so little these days) who was born 36 hours before my transplant. ("Mr. Nighttime's Good Luck Charm.")

So at 9 am tomorrow, it is on the road again for the 6 1/2 hour journey to the land of my birth, real pizza, bagels that matter, and where people speak my language. ("Cawfee, light no sugar!) Oh, and now that I think of it, I might just need to get to Katz's Deli on Delancey Street for a decent kosher corned beef sandwich.

Oh, and if anyone wonders, below is where I grew up:
It's massive, and there are times it reminds me of Soviet-style housing, but hey, it's home.

Something to whet Claudia's whistle...

...as it doesn't take much to make her wet. (Ugh, bad pun, I know, couldn't help it.) I mentioned to her that I will be visiting NYC shortly to see my mom and brother, and I promised her some pictures, as she is a bona fide NYC'ophile. I remembered that I had some pictures from my last trip down, so, below is a small (and I do mean small, as in 4 tables.) Turkish restaurant in Greenwich Village that I have been frequenting since I was 19. I always go there when I go home to visit. They make the best doners on the planet, imho.





Mmmmm........I can taste the lamb and pita, and all the other stuff now. Location? MacDougal and Bleecker, just up the block from The Olive Tree Cafe/Comedy Cellar.

Creature feature.....

(Today's scribbling has been inspired by the ever so loverly Anna Pickard, (no relation to Jean-Luc) who recently played Pied Piper on the streets of Boston.)

Growing up in the Bronx, (pardon, da Bronx) the idea of "wildlife" usually takes on a vastly different idea than if one grows up in the country. A pigeon becomes a city boy's idea of a falcon, while squirrels and rats will often be big enough to challenge you to squatter's rights upon the ground which you might be standing. Of course, they have a serious attitude problem, and on more than one occasion, I could have sworn I saw some of them scurrying about with a Mohawk, mouthing the words, "You tawkin' to me?"

Pigeons, on the other hand, are simply rats with wings.......

So, it will come as no surprise that it took some adjusting on my part after moving here to the wilds of upstate NY, (yes, the real upstate, unlike most NYC folk who think that as soon as you step across the Bronx line, you are in upstate) to get acclimated to the far greater variety of fauna that populate these parts. Up here, I have been privy to animals that heretofore were simply pictures in a tourist pamphlet, or a page of National Geographic. (Yes, the same issue that would make you go blind, with naked pygmies on it......)

My first experience with what I only could describe at the time as a "rat on steroids," was not long after moving here in 1999.

The apartment we were renting had a laundry room at ground level, so one fine day I take my load of laundry to perform my spousal obligation, lest I feel the sting of the lash. There was a window that faced out into the courtyard of the apartment complex, and whilst I was loading my wife's unmentionables into the washer, something in the window caught my attention. I turned to my left, and saw something that, quite simply put, made me feel as though I stepped into the Fire Swamp. This was indeed a Rodent Of Unusual Size.

Struggling to keep my eyeballs from popping out of my head like a Warner Brothers Merrie Melody cartoon, I immediately looked for something with which to defend myself against this vile creature, though admittedly, I was fascinated by it. It was, to my estimation, the biggest rat I had ever seen.

The creature just looked at me, sniffed the air, and then ambled away. I was still standing there, terrified at the apparition from hell that I just witnessed, thanking the Buddha, Allah, Gilgamesh, Baal, and whatever appropriate deity I could call upon for saving me from what would surely have been a fate worse than death. Feeling my legs again, I ambled upstairs to the apartment. My wife saw the pasty look on my face, and with the caring, loving display of emotion she is famous for, inquired sweetly; "You did put fabric softener in, didn't you?"

All I could muster was a stuttering, drooling response. "Rat.....big.......really big......."

I was able to provide a description of the creature, hoping to regale her with a proud display of my manly bravery in driving off the beast. Her response was brief, and to the point. "That was no rat." she intoned. " That was a woodchuck."

"A what?" I said. (No clue what it was.)

"A woodchuck. You know, a groundhog."

"Wait," I said 'You mean those things that see their own shadow and forecast the seasons at the beginning of February?"

"Yep, same things." she said. (Unlike me, my wife did grow up in the wilds of upstate, and was infinitely more familiar with these woodland creatures.)

It was then and there that I knew I was no longer in Kansas. Well, or at least not the Grand Concourse.

This was the first of many a new experience in creature features. Not long before we moved to our house, I spotted a fox in the same courtyard, this time from the safety of our apartment window. I knew it was a fox, as I looked it up in the Boy Scout field manual I stole from the neighbor's kid. He didn't need it. The little bastard grew up here. He should know what a fox looks like anyway.........

My backyard now abounds with woodchuck, and as I came to find out, they are actually the largest member of the squirrel family. They like to dig holes. Big holes. In my backyard.

Oh, and looking at them headfirst, they also look as though they are saying, "You tawkin to me?"

Nice to know there are constants in the universe.

I am a killer diller.........

Back in the day, which would be BP, (Before Pong - the first video game) kids actually had to go outside in the fresh air, and play games that emanated from the 3 lb. hard drive called their brain. Growing up in NYC, there were a variety of street games to choose from: Johnny on the Pony, freeze tag, stickball, paddleball, and a whole host of others. Some of these games were entirely unique to NYC. You wouldn't find them outside of the confines of the 5 boroughs, and even then, not necessarily in all quarters of the city.

Skelly, (or skully, depending on what neighborhood you grew up in) was one such game. It required equal parts skill, luck, and just a modicum of ruthlessness. It also required a bit of skulduggery. The basic game was usually drawn on the sidewalk, or in the street in chalk as follows:


(There is usually a border drawn around the edges as well. Also, on some boards, the "2, 4, 6,8" around the "13" in the middle is not there, but the boxes surrounding it are, just not numbered.)

To learn how to play the game would take a bit of explaining. Fortunately, the web has provided a valuable resource, Streetplay.com that will tell you all you need to know about the game but were afraid to ask.

However, there was one aspect of the game that made for fierce competition amongst the kids on the block. Skelly caps were bottle caps, the kind you got from Coke (the metal ones, as the plastic ones did not yet exist.) or beer bottles, and you melted crayons into them. This not only was a source of pride with regards to what your skelly cap collection looked like, but it also served a practical purpose. The melted crayon weighted down the cap, causing it to move more smoothly across the pavement.

For true skelly afficianados, the best skelly cap was the bottom of your school chair. It was a heavier metal than the bottle cap, and its naturally polished surface made it glide nicely. It also made for some killer moves, as its weight could blow other players right off the board. The skulduggery part came in when trying to pry the bottom off the chair; teachers normally took an ill view of such things. Destruction of school property aside, it left a lot of chairs with a discernible list to either the right or left. One chair was one thing; a whole classroom full of them was quite another.

I first learned to play the game while living in Rockaway, Queens, prior to moving to the Bronx. In the projects where I lived, management was kind enough to actually paint a skelly board on the floor of the small park behind my building. My fondest memories were hordes of kids lined up to play, either against one another or in teams. Over the course of an entire day, you would hear shouts of "whoa," and "yeah, yeah." There was, however, one shout that everyone hoped to be able to do: "I am a killer diller!" The response from the rest of players was, in unison, "Yes you are!"

Ah youth...........


Kids up here in Rochester have no conception of this game. This year however, I am going to draw out a skelly board on my driveway, and get some skelly caps, and teach my neighbors what real fun is..........