Nostalgic Brooklyn Memories
I cannot remember where we were coming back from. All I can remember is that it was late on a cold snowy winter night. The wipers were trying very hard to keep the windshield clear. Thrump, thrump. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, they went. The heater was going full blast, yet I felt chilled to the bone. All I could think was that I wished I were home, in my warm comfy nightgown, curled up snugly in bed. Peter, being Peter, had other ideas. He always felt that life was boring if there was not a splash of adventure mixed into it somewhere.
‘Since we are around the corner from where my family lived when I was young, let me show you the house I grew up in,’ he said. He turned into a narrow street, leaned forward a bit and peered through the snow-covered windshield. He crept forward slowly, as if trying to remember what was where. The neighborhood had changed. The houses did not look well kept. There were overturned garbage cans, the garbage spilling out, covered by a light layer of snow. Some alley cats were scrounging hungrily amongst the garbage, hoping for a morsel of food. The street looked as if it had seen better days. Peter had not taken that into consideration.
‘Aah, here we are,’ he said as he parked the car. He brought down the passenger window. I was the passenger, and my teeth began to chatter from the cold. ‘See that window at the far end? That used to be my bedroom.’ He leaned forward, leaning against me. His arm stretched toward the house, his forefinger pointing to the building adjacent to that. ‘And the window across the way? My school friend Janice occupied that room. We sometimes walked to school together. Our fathers were friends and played pinochle once a week with their buddies. Our mothers shopped together. In summers, through our open windows, we talked and talked, until our parents called out to us to be quiet and go to sleep.’ He closed the passenger window and turned to his window. If my window was open halfway, he brought his down all the way. He stretched his torso out the window. The snow began to settle on his bald pate and piling on his coat collar and his scarf; he did not seem to feel the cold. ‘And that store across the street? That was Marty’s father’s liquor store. The store two doors down, that was the bakery. Each Friday, after school, Mother sent me to buy a seeded pumpernickel and a challah.’
At last, he pulled his body inside the car and closed the window. I breathed a sigh of relief. Warmth! He leaned back contentedly, ready to continue. The air conditioner in the car was blowing its heart out. Soon the car was toasty. His head resting against the headrest with his half-shut eyes. He went back to recounting his fond memories. Peter was a trim middle-sized friendly, outgoing, loquacious man. Marty was a tall semi-gentle giant. He was a man of few words. A shy smile lingered about his mouth more often than not. They were friends since childhood. They were the original odd couple. They walked back and forth to school together throughout the years. They even got married within months of each other in their early twenties. Marty chose a large apartment in Brooklyn, not far from where they were raised. This was his borough. He had no intention of moving ever again. His wife was a pretty vivacious lady who loved a good joke. She used to say that he might as well have bought his coffin when they moved into that apartment, for he lived and died in there. He was quite content and did not feel there was any need for any change. They raised their two daughters there. Peter and Marty were very close all the way to the end. Marty passed away first. Peter always talked about him and missed him greatly.
We must have sat in the car for about an hour. Peter spoke about his grandmother who had emigrated with her husband and her children from Russia. They had five children. Alas, a year or so after they arrived, her husband died. The youngest was three years old. There she was with five children and no means of supporting them. One day she passed a small maternity hospital. She decided to walk in. She explained that she needed a job. They asked what she could do. Since she had a large family to feed, she could cook and she could bake. They hired her, provided she did a good job. She hurried home in great excitement. My mother-in-law was about ten or eleven then. The mother asked her daughter to check out the library for an American cookery book. She then had her daughter read them for her. She could only read and write in Yiddish and Russian. She chose some recipes and multiplied the ingredients several times over. She worked in that maternity hospital for many years. Her four sons grew up and became prosperous and successful. She no longer had to work so hard. They persuaded her to retire. When her daughter got married, she went to live with them. In later years, when she cooked, one could be sure the neighbors always had a share of her meal. She did know how to cook a normal-sized meal. Peter loved her dearly.
She had one great fear. She was afraid of airplanes. She could not comprehend how they managed to stay up in the sky! She was convinced that one of these days, they would tumble down from the sky and kill everyone. No matter how much her sons tried to explain there really very little danger of that happening, she was not convinced. She made them promise never to fly. Many years passed, and not flying became impossible for them if they wanted to continue to succeed. One by one they came to ask her to release them of their promise. She did. Can you imagine any of that happening in this day and age?
The car was quiet and cozy. We both sat as if we were in our living room. We leaned back comfortably as Peter spoke. Outside the world was quiet. The snow fell gently upon the mostly slumbering world. Inside the car, there was a sense of peace. All of a sudden there was a loud rap on Peter’s window. We became startled and sat up. It was quickly followed by another rap. Peter brought down his window. Outside in the falling snow, stood a policeman with a flashlight aimed at us. When he saw us, he got a look of surprise upon his face. He did not expect a well-dressed couple in their middle forties, the man in a heavy overcoat and she in a mink one. I suppose he expected a young couple engaged in heavy petting.
‘May I ask what you two are doing in this area at two o’clock in the morning?’ he asked with indignant annoyance.
‘Sorry, officer, I was just showing my wife where I lived as a boy,’ Peter said apologetically.
‘That’s all we need! Damned tourists! As if we don’t have enough problems here!’ he mumbled. ‘Do me a favor, close your window, lock your doors and follow me out of this area. You are lucky no one tried to mug you. Come on, get out of here! Next time you feel like going down memory lane, please do it elsewhere.’
Peter was all charm as he tried to appease the officer. Without an argument, we followed him out of the area and drove home. I remember thinking then that although his neighborhood had drastically changed, Peter could always return to relive fond memories. I could never take Peter back to my home because I could never go back myself.