My Brooklyn (317)

Anon.

My Brooklyn is East New York and Cypress Hills. Born on Granite St. in East New York. We left there when I was five, so my fondest memory was Our Lady of Lourdes. I have never seen a church as beautiful as that was. My second memory was food. Coming from an Italian family, it seems Italians live a romance with food. There were always irresistible aromas and mouthwatering delights that would lure everyone to gather around the table. But first the shopping was an adventure. Along Broadway, Rockaway Ave., and Spinners to buy nothing but the freshest and best groceries. Thanksgiving day consisted of antipasto, soup, lasagna, meatballs, salad, turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce, followed by fruits, nuts, pastries, cakes and cookies. Get the Alka Seltzer!

In 1958, we moved to Cypress Hills on Highland Place. I attended St. Rita's on Atlantic Ave. till I graduated in 1967. Remember going to church down the basement stairs. We had White Castle for lunch almost everyday because it was right across the street. Remember the waitresses on roller skates. There was always room for dessert (brown bonnets) at Carvels across the street.

Highland park was our "paradise." We spent the whole day at the playground or sleigh riding till dark. Mom used to have to come and get us and drag us home after dark. Other days we went swimming at the YMCA on Jamaica Ave.

Another fond memory was having friends and cousins living on every block in the neighborhood. You were never alone or bored. We went bowling at Hale Bowling on Fulton and Hale Ave. Movies were at the Embassy Theater, where my grandfather worked and let me and my friends in for free sometimes. The matron would yell at us to be quiet. Does anyone remember the man who stood on Highland Place and Fulton selling gigantic four-foot balloons. Everyone we bought were never that big. My father once offered to buy the one he was holding, but the man refused.

My dad loved to bring us to Coney Island for the fireworks, Steeplechase, the Cyclone and Nathan's. Also, we never missed a parade in the city, especially the Thanksgiving Day Parade. We walked for hours, Rockefeller Center, Ed Sullivan shows. He took me and my cousin to see Ed Sullivan when the Beatles came, but we couldn't get in. Extremely upset, we were walking away when a cop stopped us at the corner, their limo turned the corner and we "died," screaming and crying. My dad thought we were "nuts."

I remember Cypress Pool on Jamaica and Crescent. Going to Houdini's grave and being scared to death by a caretaker. Never went there again! The showboat on Jamaica Ave.—folks were married there in 1948.

I am looking for people who went to St. Rita's or lived in Cypress Hills neighborhood. My cousin still lives on Norwood Ave. between Ridgewood and Fulton. When we visit, I get depressed thinking of the old days and trying to explain to my kids what it was really like. They have no idea what they missed. The greatest privilege I cherish was having my grandparents living downstairs. They gave us plenty of love, food and stories. The little backyard filled with vegetables, figs, grapes, peaches and beautiful roses. I would love to hear from people who share the same memories and want to thank everyone for this wonderful site! I have been telling everyone to check it out. Its great!

4 January 2001

Memory

Brooklyn was the place I grew up in. East Flatbush. The streets in the '60s were full of kids, houses being built, the Glenwood Projects and of course we all went to the same schools. P.S. 208, Meyer Levin, Tilden. Then to wherever. I hear many friends did well for themselves, some passed on. It really wasn't that long ago for all of us to have grown up so quick. All my first things were here. My first school, my first kiss, first bike and my first love. How can you ever forget Brooklyn? No matter where you live it will always be with you. You ate at home with your family, I can't remember if that's what I wanted to do or it was my dad's. Beat cops and Frank the ice cream man. Not Carvel but a nice man named Frank. He knew all the kids by name and somehow he knew if you bought ice cream from Bungalow Bar. We all thought it was magic. Bill's Whip-Go-Round, the ride that came to you—probably so unsafe by today's crazy standard. Taking a milk crate, cutting up a pair of skates, and making the best roadster money could buy. How could I compete now with Nintendo, razor scooters, and tell my kids things were better? They look at me crazy. Going out for food was a treat. Memories we could hold onto forever.

4 January 2001