My Brooklyn

Marty Miller

Going with my dad and brother Jerry, no matter the weather—sometimes my dad would sweep the snow off a handball court in Lincoln Terrace Park. He played there right into the late '60s. Jerry and Dad against me in three-man football. You never heard of three-man football? Paddle ball, fiercely fought games as tough as Forest Hills tennis. Sometimes in the '40s we played on empty lots near the White Castle . . . a dozen hamburgers for a dollar. Famous restaurant and its funny vegetarian dishes, but great bowl of rolls and mushroom barley soup that made a meal.

We moved to 233 Utica Avenue. I couldn't sleep unless the trolley cars went by. The Carroll Theater held me in its grasp. I even discovered that I was someone's sex-object when a female hand draped itself on my thigh while I held my breath at age 12. (My encounter did not go beyond that.) Elliot, Paula and Marilyn and I played spin the bottle (age 13). Those kisses were sweet and still remembered.

Pulling a little red wagon full of dirty laundry up Utica Avenue toward Fulton to get to the public laundry. Going to Schenectady Avenue and the market with a list of things to get . . . and admonitions like watch you get the same chicken that was plucked, don't let them do it in the back room. I hated shopping then. Now I love shopping.

I remember the violinist who played in the rear courtyard and Mother threw down a few pennies wrapped in a bit of newspaper. And the old rag man calling "alte zakhn, alte shikh". What a treat to go to Coney for hot dogs at Nathan's and Steeplechase. I was too chicken to ride the big roller coasters, the Cyclone; the horses at Steeplechase were quite enough for me . . . and the big slide . . . and watching the little clown use the air hose on girls who wore skirts. Walking on the boardwalk; watching my dad win coupon after coupon playing the big skeeball; he was good! Listening to the auctioneer at the Half Moon. Mother pushing me under the turnstile at Brighton Baths . . . the steamroom was like never-never land. The summers and the subway; standing in the entryway to get some air. Once being crushed against a girl who wore a thin summer dress; I was embarrassed and hypnotized at once. I didn't dare move.

Riding the special Pitkin Avenue buses that went to Lane. The bus driver who drove us to the Paramount Theater in Manhattan when Sinatra played there. He was fired the next day.

Mother writing those funny notes: "To the Great Advisor" "Take your bother and yourself and eat dinner in the stove". Mother worked at the Navy Yard during the early war years and kept two households going, her own and Granma's. Granma giving the little local shul a torah and her happiest day was when a little band played and marched around the block with the torah before presentation. She lived in her kitchen and in the shul; that was her entire Brooklyn world.

The family gathering together for Passover, Ben, Paul, Benny, Naty, Rifka, Pauline, Esther, Harry, Tessie Joe and Molly, Phil, Jake . . . now scattered from East Coast to California . . . and out of touch I am sorry to say. That's enough for now . . . great site, David. Thank you.

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