Having Grandma and Grandpa around the corner at 2315 Crotona Avenue, where my aunts, uncles and cousins would gather every Sunday after Mass. (My mother had six brothers and four sisters, so we were quite a crowd.) The magic of back yards to explore,
and dark, cool, scary cellars; the cement walls we scrambled over to grab apples from the cranky old man’s tree in the next yard. Deliveries of “crystalline” and real seltzer bottles. Cloth bags lowered on a rope from fifth- and sixth-story apartments, to haul up groceries or ice cream (and change.) Hearing “OO-PESCI!” in the back yard, heralding the arrival of the fresh fish wagon. Joe the Ice Cream Man, who sometimes gave us a ride in his Bungalow truck up to 189th Street. (“Ma-a-a! Throw me a dime for ice cream!”) Hearing my sister call “Chickie!” from our bedroom window, so she and her best friend could talk through the clotheslines in the alcove behind our building.

Waiting for an egg cream (small 8 cents, large 12 cents) at Jimmy’s Candy Store, and checking out the new comic books: “Archie & Jughead,” “Superman,” “Little Lulu,” “Nancy” (10 cents each,) Classics Illustrated (25 cents.) Crispy “log” pretzels (2 cents each, 3 for a nickel.) Strolling down to Colavolpe’s, Artuso’s or DeLillo’s for Italian ices. The dances at Arthur Avenue Community Center or Caffuzzi Hall (and Father Mazza telling us to “leave room for the Holy Ghost” during slow dances!) Section 13 at Orchard Beach. The Elm Tree Inn, on the corner of Southern Boulevard and 187th Street, later to become Cardella’s Bakery. Saturday nights, the tantalizing aroma of baking bread would waft right up into our windows.

Returning to school in the fall--PS 32, JHS 45, Theodore Roosevelt HS, Mount Carmel. The “Sweet Mickey” guy with the silver wagon, removing hot, sweet potatoes wrapped in tin foil from the little glass compartments on top. On-the-spot jelly apples! Flannel shirts and dungarees on cool, rainy Saturdays. Going to Cinelli’s Savoy (or another classic neighborhood christening, “The Dumps”) to see the latest newsreel, serial story, cartoons, and black-and-white “B” movie. Halloween and socks filled with crushed chalk. Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve. The wondrous blizzards that kept us home from school. The first warm days of spring, and daring to wear shorts (ignoring our mothers’ warnings to not “rush the season!”) And the cycle of our young lives, starting all over again, one year later.

The 1960s brought many changes, among them the fact that we were growing up. I think my last real summer of childhood was in 1963, the year before I graduated high school. I was growing restless hanging out on Prospect Avenue with my friends of so many years. We had a great crowd for a long time, but I wanted to be with the “In Crowd,” so I quietly made my way over to the Arthur Avenue playground where they hung out. It wasn’t easy getting accepted into that group, and I was feeling pretty cocky
about it until…

My uncle just happened to work at the famous Ann & Tony’s, directly across the street from the playground. One night, after about a week of feeling cool with my new crowd, Uncle Serge appeared outside the restaurant and, crooking his finger, said “Get over here.” He quietly told me, “This is a fast crowd of kids. If I see you here again, I’m going to have to tell your father.” To say my father was strict is putting it (very) mildly, so that abruptly ended my “In Crowd” days, landing me right back on Prospect Avenue. But, hey, Uncle Serge, you know what? All these years later, I’m back on Arthur Avenue, so I finally did make it after all!

I called this memoir “Love Letter To A Neighborhood” because that’s exactly what it is. What we all shared has become a beautiful tapestry of memories, sewn together with love, forever cherished in my heart.

So it’s the laughter we will remember, whenever we remember the way we were…

To all of my old (and new) friends reading this, I reluctantly end with love. And thanks…for the memories.