B. Cole

The Neighborhood Gets a Name—Pelham Gardens

[To begin at the beginning, please turn to the first blog posts of January 2020. Those early posts lay out historical facts, while subsequent posts reveal the soul of my neighborhood as I knew it. Less historical and more subjective, they concentrate on the characters, customs, and concerns that gave this far corner of New York City its hometown aura.]

Sometime in the 1990s or early 2000s, I began to notice the name “Pelham Gardens” appearing on maps of our neighborhood, as well as in newspaper articles and in real estate listings. To my surprise, my neighborhood now had a name, and I now had a concise answer to the common question, “Where in the Bronx are you from?” My answer had always been a hit-and-miss listing of nearby names that people might recognize: “Near Pelham Parkway…toward Co-op City…the Eastchester/Gun Hill Road area.”

Pelham Gardens seemed an appropriate name, given the lush and prolific gardens that thrive here in front yards and backyards. The name might not have historic roots like other neighborhood names, such as Kingsbridge, Morrisania, or Williamsbridge. Nor is it a name that highlights a geographical distinction, such as Throgs Neck, Soundview, Silver Beach, or City Island. Instead, the name Pelham Gardens pays homage to the long-ago farms and plantations that covered this area for centuries, and confirms that the paving of roads and construction of buildings did not deplete the richness of the soil in modern times.

Our backyard, like many others, was like a small nature preserve. A screened-in wooden house took up most of the space in our backyard, but flowers, shrubs and vines surrounded this structure, which we called the summer house.

Hollyhock spiers—tall stalks of pale yellow, burgundy, and rose-colored flowers as large as three inches across—towered above one section of the black wire fence that enclosed our property. A tangle of grapevines all but obliterated another section of the fence. When the grapes ripened, they sweetened summer mornings with their fragrance. Honeysuckle vines twisted and twined with unrelenting tendrils over and through another part of the fence, just beside the thicket of pungent spearmint that could barely be controlled.

Our cat, Poochie, and the spearmint bush, with the summer house behind.

In May, lilies of the valley bloomed in the narrow channel between the summer house and the fence. Each stem, with its string of tiny bells, emitted a delightful but subtle scent. When their blooms had passed, the Chinese Lanterns would emerge, puffy, papery orange orbs, blooming alongside the lunaria, or silver-dollar plant. At the right time, these two plants could be clipped, bunched together, and brought inside as a long-lasting autumn arrangement.

A trumpet vine wrapped its leafy arms around the back of the summer house, shading those inside from the afternoon sun. In August the vine burst into bloom with brilliant “trumpets” as orange as the August sunset. Forever after I would think of August as the color of orange. Flanking the vine were a forsythia bush, which turned sunlit yellow each April, and a weigela shrub, which welcomed the month of May with blossoms of magenta and rose.

To drive into our garage, my father used the private road that ran behind the row houses of Westervelt and Mickle Avenues, which stood back to back. Residents of both streets used this road to access their driveways and garages.

Just before he turned into our driveway on the right, my father passed Mrs. Anner’s house on the left. The fence surrounding her property failed to contain the abundant growth of shrubs, bushes, and perennial flowers that bloomed all summer. A pear tree near the far edge of the garden spread out long, heavy branches, one of which overhung the access road.

My father, a lover of all fruit but especially figs and pears, came face to face with one particular pear each evening on his way home from work. As it grew, it dangled closer and closer to the car’s windshield. Each day my father, confronted by this alluring piece of fruit, took note of its growth and gradual ripening. Finally, it reached the point of golden-green perfection.

Pausing a split-second before turning into our driveway, my father reached out the car window and plucked that pear. After dinner, he sliced it up and shared the sweet and juicy slivers with us.

Sometime later he ran into Mrs. Anner. Not one to commit a crime and fail to own up, he had to confess. “I couldn’t resist it,” my father explained. “It was hanging right in front of me every day.”

Mrs. Anner could not have been more pleased. “Help yourself any time,” she said. “It’s better than leaving them for the squirrels.”

One spring, tired of trekking all the way to Hunt’s Point Market for his annual crate of figs, my father brought home a fig tree sapling. Why go to such lengths for his favorite fruit, he figured, when he could grow his own? He planted it behind the summer house, finding room between the forsythia and the weigela. All summer he watered it, fertilized it, and tended to its every need. It seemed to settle in.

That fall, knowing his little tree could not survive our northern winters without some heavy winter clothing, my father traveled to the Connecticut countryside to gather a bushel of pine needles, which he piled in a deep layer around the roots of the tree. He then swaddled the tree with burlap, an old army blanket, and tar paper. He wrapped this snug bundle with heavy cord, then topped the whole thing off with a plastic bucket turned upside down, like a winter cap.

Wrapped fig tree and summer house. Photo by Bob Donlan.

Each autumn, my father followed this ritual. Each spring, he followed another one.

It would begin with the unwrapping, which exposed a bony, gray skeleton. Day after hopeful day, he’d examine the dry sticks, scratching the surface for a sign of life. Depending on the type of spring we were having, some waits were longer than others. But typically, as soon as he’d say, “I guess this winter was too much for it,” he’d step outside on a warm morning and find tufts of green sprouting from very twig. And each summer, my father would harvest a small but satisfying crop.

For reasons I can’t recall (although the word rot rings a bell), my father decided to tear down the summer house. Although we mourned the loss of this combination rec room/play space/study hall/summer dining room, we now looked out on an expanse of burnt-umber, fragrant soil. Aware of the thriving farms that once overspread this corner of the Bronx, and knowing firsthand how our flower gardens prospered, we decided to try creating a small farm of our own.

For my sister and for me, this exciting prospect sparked great enthusiasm. The boards, screening, and shingles that once comprised the summer house were hauled away in the early days of autumn, giving us plenty of time to plan a garden for the following spring. Looking over our bit of farmland, we diagrammed—first in our heads and then in a special notebook—our future garden. With vague ideas of how to start, we knew we had much to learn.

Through a request to our congressman, we received, free of charge, a publication of the U.S. Department of Agriculture called Gardening for Food and Fun, a thick, hardcover book that quickly became dirt stained, dog-eared, and spine-split.

In September we enrolled in Fundamentals of Gardening, a certificate course offered at the New York Botanical Garden, a short drive away. Taught by Ralph Snodsmith of the Queens Botanical Garden (who a few years later hosted the long-running Garden Hotline show on WOR Radio), the course delved into plant physiology, germination, propagation, planting, pruning, weed control, disease control, pest control, mulching, and soil management.

In December we received our Certificates of Completion. About six weeks later the gardening catalogs started to arrive in the mail. In February, with proper lighting, a heat coil, seeds, and a seed-starting mix, we sowed corn, eggplant, basil, lettuce, and tomato seeds, saving the carrot seeds for direct sowing into the ground in late spring. The earthy aroma of the vermiculite made spring feel imminent in spite of the February snowstorms.

Our notebook, where we kept meticulous descriptions of every action and every development, included this information:

Plant Number of seedlings Out of seeds planted

Basil 9 12

Eggplant 6 15

Lettuce 9 15

Tomatoes 15 27

Corn 6 10

We wrote down dilemmas: “March 24—should we feed the seedlings?? Discrepancy in book about when seedlings should first be fertilized!”

We noted the date (April 1) when we turned over the backyard soil and sent a sample out for testing.

We noted the date (April 22) when we worked a 10-pound bag of cow manure into the soil, along with a 5-pound bag of 5-10-5 fertilizer.

We tracked progress, noting that in July we harvested the lettuce, the tomatoes were “growing fast,” and the cornstalks, by now over five feet tall, had “sprouted ears and silk.”

We noted an overheard conversation between a mother and her child, out on an evening walk: “The child pointed to the corn and asked, ‘What is that, Mommy?’ The mother’s reply: ‘It’s a sunflower.’”

Well, I thought, this is the Bronx after all, not the heartland. Still, I found it sad to think a grown woman did not know the difference between a cornstalk and a sunflower.

In August, while the water boiled on the kitchen stove, we harvested the first ears of corn. Thereafter, no ear of corn ever came close to that sweet, just-picked taste.

For several more summers, we planted a garden. Weeding it, staking it, mulching it, debugging it—all those chores were never burdensome to us.

Years later, the members of our household dwindled to one—me—and tending the garden remained one of the joys of summer. Eventually the house was sold, and as the closing date approached, I spent an autumn afternoon clearing away the dried brown cornstalks and the bedraggled remnants of the tomato plants. Dusk fell. I paused a moment, captivated by the sight of the pale crescent moon framed by the bare branches of the neighbor’s sycamore tree. As I watched, a crisp leaf lost its tenuous grip and drifted to the ground, rustling all the way.

I gathered the bundled cornstalks and withered tomato vines and left my backyard for the last time.

The Sound of Everyday Life

Curiosity about the Bronx from those who never lived here can be surprisingly intense. One person wanted to know what it was like for her mother-in-law to grow up in the Bronx during the 1940s. “I want the sights, smells, sounds, tastes, textures…the flavor of everyday life in the Bronx back then.”

The decade of WWII and its aftermath was before my time, but if I were asked to describe the sounds of my Bronx neighborhood in the later decades, three in particular stand out against the run-of-the-mill city noises of police sirens and barking dogs; rumbling engines of cars, trucks, buses, motorcycles, and low-flying jets; the blasting bass-beat from hot-rod stereos; blaring horns; the ice-cream truck’s music box; parents shouting their kids home to dinner.

In the summer especially, with screened windows wide open and the glass in storm doors swapped out for screens, house sounds crept over windowsills and floated through our immediate universe. Rarely are you alone, was the implicit message. Life surrounds you, and its sounds are your companions.

Country dwellers hear life around them through birdsong and insect hum, the lowing of cattle, the rooster’s crow, the neighbor’s tractor, the whistle of the freight train as it passes through town in the night. In the city, the people-generated sounds are as unique as the individuals behind them.

My three stand-out memories each involve music.

Opera

Every Saturday, late in the morning, the opera lover on the block played through her collection of albums. For those of us with ears attuned primarily to the songs of the Top Ten countdown, the strains of Verdi’s La Traviata and Aida, Puccini’s La Boheme, and Wagner’s Tristan und Isolde expanded our musical horizons. At first, the notes fell on unwilling ears that heard only drama and angst, formality and stiffness. But eventually we came to anticipate the weekly concert of operatic music, and to recognize, through frequent repetition, the rich tenor voice of Mario Lanza singing Puccini’s aria, “Nessum Dorma.”

The Whistling Woman

Weaving through the clattering of dishes, the thump-shut of kitchen cabinets, the splash of running water, and the hum of a vacuum cleaner, from one house in particular came the loud, clear music of a whistle. On and on it went, emitting a tune typically unidentifiable, yet unmistakably joyful. Anyone of normal hearing within a certain radius, inside the house or hanging out on the stoop, cutting the grass or taking out the garbage, had to admire the flawless execution of this unusual talent. Clean and crisp, it rivaled the sharpness of the most accomplished robin, even when the smooth melody skipped seamlessly into a tremulous vibrato at random intervals.

Her whistling accompanied her through the round of household chores, perhaps relieving the drudgery. Sometimes it seemed the whistling had no beginning or end, that it was always there like an overlay—until the tragic day it stopped, never again to add its special seasoning to our days.

“Wipe Out”

Like the old song “Pleasant Valley Sunday,” we had our own local rock group somewhere in the neighborhood who practiced diligently (some said too diligently) in their quest to conquer one of the most popular songs of the day, “Wipe Out.”

The garage band practiced on weekends. I don’t remember if they started each and every attempt with what has been called the “maniacal beginning” of “Wipe Out,” but I do remember that they had no other song in their repertoire. For the whole long afternoon, weekend after weekend, they struggled with “Wipe Out.” They picked up the tempo, they lost the tempo. They played, they stopped, they started over again. Over and over and over again.

Through the long afternoons, the drumbeats and guitar chords of “Wipe Out” rang out boldly as this group of musicians, with their never-give-up spirit, worked relentlessly to perfect their performance.

Anyone who’s heard the song could appreciate the efforts it took to play “Wipe Out” as the composers intended. A series of high-energy drum solos alternating with gusty guitar riffs, the song challenged but didn’t discourage this determined garage band.

So, as those of us within earshot read a book, cooked dinner, talked on the phone, wrote an essay for school, or rode our bikes, we did it to a “Wipe Out” tempo. And when the band quit for the day…the silence was deafening.

Where To Start?

To begin at the beginning, please turn to the first blog posts of January 2020. Those early posts lay out historical facts, but subsequent posts reveal the soul of my neighborhood as I knew it. Less historical and more subjective, they concentrate on the characters, customs, and concerns that gave this far corner of New York City its hometown aura.

A Bronx Fourth of July

The explosions started early, a wake-up call to all who still slept that the commemoration of America’s declaration of independence from Great Britain had begun. Reverberating up and down Westervelt Avenue and rousing neighbors on nearby streets, those booms and blasts of celebration echoed the sounds of the battles fought on this terrain in the British-occupied Bronx some 200 years earlier.

Not that the battles fought here had any significant effect on the course of the Revolutionary War. One story we often heard in the classroom characterizes the futility of our forebears’ efforts. It told of a group of rebel colonists who devised a plan of attack. Dragging a cannon to the top of the hill on the Kingsbridge Road (later named Gun Hill Road), near the banks of the Bronx River, they launched a cannonball on British troops stationed below. The effort, though valiant and well-intentioned, was of little consequence to their red-coated targets.

This area of the northern Bronx was called Neutral Ground since neither side held full control. That made it difficult to know which side a civilian was on. As a result, local residents endured constant raids on their property from bands of guerillas on the American side as well as from Redcoats, Hessians, and Tories.

But even back then, long before the outcome of the American Revolution could have been known, the colonists celebrated every fourth of July with fireworks. In a letter dated July 3, 1776, John Adams directed Americans to celebrate the Fourth with “pomp and parade…bonfires and illuminations from one end of this continent to the other from this time forever more.” Philadelphia started us off, holding the first fireworks display on July 4, 1777.

Personal possession of fireworks was illegal in New York City, yet some families on the block acquired enough of an arsenal to set off a non-stop barrage that lasted from morning to midnight. At a frantic pace the older kids and teenagers lit the fuses, apparently unconcerned about running out of ammunition. With one match they would set off whole packages of string fireworks at a time. The furious, rapid-fire bang-bang-banging went on for minutes as paper wrappers leaped and flew across the pavement. When it seemed that a particular string of firecrackers had been spent, the budding pyrotechnicians would approach for a closer look, only to be unnerved by a leftover bang or two that, had there been a little less patience, might have cost them some fingers.

Firecrackers were loud, but cherry bombs were deafening. To make them even louder, the kids set them off inside metal garbage cans, causing a reaction in the pit of the stomach similar to a physical punch. Add to that the whiz-bang of the bottle rockets, and the ear-splitting cacophony was complete.

Young kids waved sparklers lit by a supervising adult. Cracker balls afforded them another way to participate safely in the fun. When thrown forcefully to the ground, these little red balls that resembled Trix cereal would explode with satisfying snaps.

By afternoon the air was hazy with smoke, and redolent with the spicy scent of gunpowder. Toward evening, charcoal from backyard barbecue grills added more smoke and smoldering scents to the air.

At dusk, people in cities and towns across America piled into cars or used public transportation to get to fireworks shows organized by local businesses or municipalities. But residents of Westervelt Avenue did not have to fight traffic or crowds. Armed with lawn chairs, couch pillows, mosquito repellent, cold drinks, and ice cream from the Mister Softee truck, they made their way to their front stoops, settled in, and waited to be dazzled.

Once darkness fell, families on the eastern side of the street brought out their nighttime arsenal, a load that appeared as abundant as the noisemaking bombs of the daylight hours. Their displays were supplemented by the equally elaborate show from Kingsland Avenue beyond. Gazing skyward, swatting mosquitoes here and there, we had front row seats to a spectacular show that lasted for hours. Now the fireworks that had been set off simply for noise took a back seat to the blazing explosions of color that we had waited for all day.

The ground show was a pale forerunner: Roman candles pumped out continuous bursts of light; tentacles of fire shot from the whizzing spinners as onlookers scrambled out of the way; fountains spewed sizzling sparks. But the sky show brought audible gasps from the crowd as rockets shimmered skyward, exploded into starbursts that filled the sky, then melted into streamers of red, white, silver, green, gold, and blue that rained down upon the rooftops.

As eleven o’clock approached, the pace of the rocket launchings slowed and soon stopped. Cramped from sitting for hours with heads upturned, we headed inside. But the teenagers, along with a few adults, were not finished. Rapid-fire blasts of firecrackers started all over again, even at the midnight hour, perhaps in an attempt to use up all the leftovers.

We fell asleep as we had awakened, to the sounds of celebration eerily similar to the sounds of the Revolution itself.

The next morning, tattered remnants littered the street. Red wrappers from rockets and bombs fluttered across the pavement, along with the blue-and-white checkered firecracker papers.

Another Fourth of July was over. We knew that next year’s Independence Day would be celebrated in exactly the same way, as this one had been a repeat of so many before.

Rossi Pastry Shop

“We Specialize in Cakes for All Occasions, Cookie Trays, and Miniature and Large Pastry. All Baking Done on Premises.”

Our friend Robert had a summer job at Rossi Pastry Shop on East Gun Hill Road at the corner of Fenton Avenue. When he walked home at the end of the day, we could see him coming while he was still halfway down the block as his white work clothes reflected the streetlights and gave him a conspicuous glow. As he got closer, though, we could smell him coming. Robert seemed to be bringing the whole bakery with him. Over the course the day, as he worked at the hot ovens, every fiber of his being had become infused with the essence of his baked creations, and now the summer breeze served it up to us.

For many bakeries, it’s the scent of their specialty breads that captivates all within smelling distance. For Rossi’s, it was the aroma of their cookies—Italian cookies.

Supermarkets carry cookie assortments that look much like authentic Italian cookies. Stacked in plastic boxes, decorated with colorful sprinkles, and bursting with jam, they look like a true bakery cookie, but one taste leaves no doubt that that is where the similarity ends. Italian bakeries use only first-quality ingredients, including fresh butter, fine chocolate, scratch-made jams, and pure extracts. Factories that mass produce the inexpensive lookalikes bake with shortening and other butter substitutes, imitation extracts, and chemical additives.

Dipped, drizzled, dusted, sandwiched, or sprinkled: the butter cookie varieties

Although the butter cookies start with the same dough, the final embellishments impart variety in flavor as well as in appearance. Piping the dough through a pastry bag fitted with a star tip creates decorative ridges on the plank-shaped cookies, while round cookies and rosettes emerge from the pastry bag in wavy swirls.

A typical assortment from Rossi’s included plank-shaped sandwich cookies filled with raspberry jam and dusted with powdered sugar, or half-dipped in chocolate and spattered with minced nuts or rainbow sprinkles. Round cookies could be topped with chocolate chips, chocolate or rainbow sprinkles, a glace cherry, or a zigzagged drizzle of chocolate.

Sold by the pound and placed with care into paper-lined bakery boxes, or mounded onto cellophane-wrapped trays, an assortment included all the butter cookie varieties as well as one or two of the more expensive types—chocolate-lace Florentines and the almond-based Venetians (rainbow cookies), chewy pignoli cookies, and cherry-topped macaroons.

As a gift to take to special visits, whether as a dinner guest or to see a recuperating friend, a box of Rossi’s cookies presented a welcome alternative to the more customary Italian pastries. But a tray heaped with cookies and adorned with candy-coated almonds in pastel colors became the centerpiece of the table at holiday gatherings, funeral luncheons, or family parties.

Birthday Cakes

Thick ruffles of white buttercream frosting circled the top of these round cakes, and peanut shards clung to the frosted sides. A cluster of thick roses of pink, blue, or yellow frosting shared space with the birthday message on top. Cutting through the dense layer of buttercream into the cake below required a long, sharp knife; sliding out the first piece required a heavy-duty spatula. The withdrawn wedge revealed two layers of yellow cake separated with either more buttercream or a fruit spread, typically lemon or strawberry. A certain flavor in the cake—rum, I eventually learned—seemed to be a real crowd pleaser. You could almost taste it before the fork entered your mouth, simply by its smell. The richness of the heavy frosting and the taste of the rum and the strange combination of peanuts with frosting made me dread these ornate creations, especially when the cake was for my own birthday.

Summer’s Signature

As kids we ran to Vinnie’s candy store on Eastchester Road at least once a day. Rossi’s was a half-mile away in another neighborhood, but Rossi’s had what Vinnie’s did not: Italian ices. Since we only got there once or twice a summer, a lemon ice from Rossi Pastry Shop was a special treat.

A soft white mound in a pleated paper cup, the lemon ice had a smooth, creamy consistency, with no annoying bits of lemon zest as other Italian ices had. Frosty sweetness, combined with the tang of lemon, created the best kind of brain freeze on the hottest summer day.

No one wanted to rush through summer’s rarest treat, but lingering too long turned the ice to lemonade and the cup to a pulpy, leaking wad. A quick slurp took care of the little puddle before it could all drip away. All that was left was a summer memory and a coat of stickiness that clung to mouth, hands, knees, sneakers, shorts, and top.

Pignoli Cookies

7-8 oz. almond paste

3/4 cup confectioner’s sugar

1 egg white

1/3 cup pignoli nuts

Preheat oven to 350°. Line cookie sheet(s) with parchment paper.

Break the almond paste into small bits. With electric mixer on low speed, mix together the almond paste and sugar. Add the egg white and mix for 2 minutes on medium speed.

With wet hands (to manage the sticky dough), roll the dough into 1-inch balls, then roll the balls into a shallow bowl of pine nuts. Place the balls onto the prepared cookie sheets, 1˗2 inches apart. Flatten the tops slightly.

Bake 15˗20 minutes until light golden brown.

Leave cookies on the parchment paper to cool.

Makes 18˗20 cookies.

St. Patrick’s Day in New York

In my neighborhood in the northeast Bronx, St. Patrick’s Day meant corned beef and cabbage for dinner, no matter what your ethnicity. Afterward, neighbors would gather to celebrate the patron saint of the Archdiocese of New York with Irish coffee and buttered wedges of Irish soda bread. Those of us with no Irish blood might not don the ubiquitous “Kiss Me, I’m Irish” button, but we celebrated the day just as enthusiastically.

It was a cultural celebration rather than a religious one. At Holy Rosary School back in the 1960s, the arrival of March would find each grade in the midst of rehearsals for the St. Patrick’s Day plays. The lower grades might put on short skits related to St. Patrick or Ireland, but the upper grades collaborated on full-length musicals such as My Fair Lady or The King and I. Freed from the daily drudgery of classwork to memorize lines, stand still for costume fittings, practice singing the musical score, and take part in rehearsals, we felt a new excitement about school. The approach of St. Patrick’s Day also meant that spring was near, and summer vacation not far behind. Spirits started to rise, life in general felt happier.

During my high school years in the 1970s, St. Patrick’s Day meant marching up Fifth Avenue in the annual parade.

For this special occasion the student body of my all-girls school wore the dress uniform—a blue and white pleated skirt, white shirt, and white woolen blazer, a step up from the solid blue-gray skirt and jacket for every day. One year, those of us designated to carry the school banner at the head of our unit later learned from excited family, friends, and neighbors that the television camera caught clear sight of us.

Another year, the cheerleading team marched as a group. Our school windbreakers provided the extra layer we needed over our short-sleeve, short-skirt cheerleading outfits, and skin-toned tights covered our legs, but the brisk walk and the strengthening sun kept us warm enough despite the wind and 45- to 50-degree temperatures. We marched with hands holding pom-poms on hips, but when we approached the reviewing stand (“Eyes left!”) and then St. Patrick’s Cathedral (“Eyes right!”), where Cardinal Cooke stood watching, we went into a brief, pom-pom tossing routine.

A hired bus drove us into Manhattan in the morning, dropping us off on East 44th Street near its intersection with Fifth Avenue. There we waited until the parade stepped off at noon, joining the line of march when the organizers called us into position. With the near-springtime sun high overhead, we marched to cheers and drunken jeers, surrounded by the whine of bagpipes and the wind-driven scent of pretzels steaming at street-corner stands, until the sun slanted sharply from the west and we turned right onto East 82nd Street.

The buildings cast long deep shadows up there, where the crowd was sparse and the surroundings subdued, so unlike the crazed, party-time atmosphere further south. We found our bus waiting, doors wide open, and clambered aboard. Starving and thoroughly worn out, we flopped into the comfortable seats for the ride back to the Bronx and to Jahn’s, a popular eatery and ice cream shop on Fordham Road.

In later years, riding the Number 5 Lexington Avenue Express into Grand Central Terminal revealed more quirks of this particular day in New York City. Neon-green oases had sprung up overnight all over the main concourse—flower carts crammed with buckets and buckets of bright green carnations. Commuters wore the green carnations in their lapels or carried them in bundles. Even the stodgiest, most serious among them (whom you had sized up by sight from the daily commute) accessorized their business attire with green plastic bowler hats, bright green ties, and those enormous “I’m Irish” buttons. Others carried green balloons and green-frosted cupcakes and plush leprechauns on a stick.

Out on the street spirits were high, as were many of the revelers who came into the city to celebrate the day by glancing at the parade, then hitting the pubs.

From his post on the steps of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Cardinal Cooke, Archbishop of New York from 1968 to 1983, caught an eyeful. Troubled enough by the sight of inebriated adults, he was even more disturbed by the obnoxious behavior of masses of drunken teens. This prompted him to start speaking out before the big day, reminding New Yorkers that St. Patrick’s Day is a feast day that honors a saint, not a raucous spring festival like Mardi Gras. He urged New Yorkers to appreciate the religious meaning of the day while celebrating its cultural richness.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

Mrs. O’Brien’s Irish Soda Bread
(from Anna O’Brien of Ireland and the Bronx)

4 cups flour
4 tsp baking powder
½ tsp salt
Pinch baking soda
½ cup (1 stick) butter, softened
¾ cup sugar
¾ cup raisins
1 Tbsp caraway seeds
2 eggs
1½ cups milk

Preheat oven to 350º. Grease and flour one 9″ round cake pan.

Sift together flour, baking powder, salt, and baking soda.

Add butter, blending in with fingertips.

Stir in sugar, raisins, and caraway seeds.

Beat eggs and milk together. Add to dry mixture.

Mix with a fork until completely moist.

Press mixture into prepared pan.

Bake for 1½ hours.

Ed and Millie

Ed and Millie never fought. I came to this conclusion about my neighbors on Westervelt Avenue as I swirled a piece of my waffle into a pool of maple syrup and watched, for the hundredth time, as Ed backed his dark blue Pontiac out of the garage and up his driveway onto the driveway behind his.

On school days my breakfast time coincided with Ed’s departure for work. From my place at the kitchen table, I’d watch as Ed then rolled the car forward and began the turn onto the access road that would exit onto Mace Avenue. There at the turn he would pause, smile in the direction of his kitchen window, and wave. I never saw him fail to do this.

He and Millie must never fight, because if they had just had an argument would he still wave and smile?

Ed and Millie, at this point, had passed middle age by a fair distance, but they were so active and energetic that no one considered them old. Ed, however, liked to say he was “as old as Methuselah.”

Millie, petite and slender, had alabaster skin that crinkled into networks of deep lines. Her silver-gray eyes matched her hair. Ed’s gray hair was all but gone at the top. A tall and sturdy man, he had laugh lines etched into his face and blue-gray eyes that smiled behind wire-framed glasses. His neat-as-a-pin appearance, even while wearing work clothes, gave him a dignified aspect.

Like other stay-at-home wives of the 1960s, Millie had a daily routine. One day a week, soon after the wave from the window, she would leave the house by the back door with her collapsible shopping cart for the short walk to Eastchester Road and the Associated Food Store. An hour later she would return, towing the cart crammed with brown grocery bags.

On other mornings I’d see her in the backyard hanging the wash on the freestanding clothesline. When I was very young and confined to my fenced-in backyard, she would sing out across our side-by-side driveways: “I love you, a bushel and a peck,” and I’d sing back, “A bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck.” This would be our standard greeting for years to come, and Millie would often add that she loved me before I was born.

Whatever Millie’s workload for the day, she would complete enough of it by early afternoon for a stretch of free time for herself. This she typically spent in the living room, specifically in the elbow of the sectional sofa where various projects and pastimes awaited her attention. Beside her sat her knitting bag stuffed with colorful yarn, knitting needles jutting out like TV antenna ears. Neatly arranged on the coffee table within easy reach lay the Daily News, a book of crossword puzzles, two sharpened pencils, the TV Guide, a box of tissues, and a box of assorted chocolates that never seemed to have more than a few pieces missing. It was a scene of organized clutter in an immaculate room.

An item we did not possess also had a place on the coffee table—the television remote control. This latest bit of technology—along with their color TV, an anniversary gift from their children and grandchildren—set Ed and Millie apart from their neighbors. When a glance at the clock showed it was time for As the World Turns, Millie would reach for the remote. Never one for idle hands, her fingers worked the knitting needles as she watched her program, the afghan-in-progress draping her knees and cascading to the floor.

The male member of the household set his mark upon this room as well. Spread across the fireplace mantel, nose to tail, stood Ed’s herd of brass horses. A set of antlers hung over the archway that separated the living room from the dining room. On the side table beside his armchair Ed kept his particular things, including another brass horse and a box of Kleenex Man Size tissues.

Later in the afternoon Millie plucked the laundry off the clothesline and then started dinner. She might also take on a baking project. Modern woman of the 1960s that she was, Millie embraced convenience. Taking advantage of cake mixes and refrigerated dough, she rarely baked from scratch. But whether it was a wedge of chocolate cake or a half-dozen cinnamon buns, she frequently shared those desserts with us.

Sometimes I’d get advance notice, if Millie happened to see me coming home from school. As if she couldn’t keep the surprise to herself any longer, she’d call out, “I’ll be ticking your bell later.”

I knew what that meant. And when 5:00 rolled around and our doorbell “ticked,” there stood Millie holding out a plate of something fresh from the oven, sheathed with plastic wrap stretched to shiny smoothness. When she placed her offering into my happy little hands, warmth penetrated the plate, spread across my palms, and projected comfort that went beyond the appeal to the sweet tooth. This unexpected gift spoke of a caring neighbor who wanted to share not just a treat, but the joy that accompanies life’s little surprises.

On summer evenings, as the aroma of after-dinner coffee seeped through their windows, Ed, with shirtsleeves rolled up, would come out to hose down his lawn. As soon as he shut off the water, coiled up the hose, and sat down on the stoop, the neighborhood kids would converge on him, sprawling at his feet or dangling near his head from the iron railings. His playful sense of humor sent us into gales of laughter, as he had a never-ending supply of jokes just right for the youngest among us. (“When I get up in the morning I wash my teeth and brush my face.”)

Saturday evenings were different. At 7:20 sharp, Ed, dressed in suit and tie, would back the Pontiac out of the driveway and make a solitary trip to Holy Rosary Church, where he served as an usher at the 7:30 Mass.

It troubled us when he was diagnosed with cancer of the larynx, and we endured his absence while he recovered from surgery that replaced his voice box with a mechanical one. After that, our evenings with him dwindled down. But he never failed to smile at us, and he never failed to wave.

Keeping Watch

Peering furtively through your window like Gladys Kravitz to spy on your neighbors is typically frowned upon. On Westervelt Avenue in the 1960s and ’70s, no one peeked from behind their curtains like this. No, they came outside and openly watched whenever something of interest was going on. This behavior was accepted and often even expected.

Some events were “come out and look” invitations in themselves. For instance, one Saturday afternoon a water main broke. It was part of a new line that led to the house of our neighbor two doors down. Surrounding neighbors gathered in commiseration while others watched from windows, porches, and stoops as water rushed up through the sewer grates and flooded the curb. People from down the block came too, curiosity aroused at the sight of a small river coursing through the street. The crowd sustained their watch for the entire time it took for the city to be notified and the water turned off. Then, excitement over, the watchers returned to their ho-hum ordinary day.

Sometimes the watchers were welcomed; in fact, it would have been disappointing if no one had come out to create a spur-of-the-moment honor guard of sorts.

The sight of a limousine pulling up to a house on a Friday evening in May meant one thing—the senior prom. Word of a limousine on the block spread instantly, bringing the neighbors out: one still clutching a dinner napkin, another wiping hands on a dishtowel. Kids wearing cookie crumbs and milk moustaches came running, along with teenage girls waving fingernails wet with polish or with half their hair done up in rollers.

All eyes focused on the young man in the stiff components of a tuxedo unfolding legs and arms from the dark recesses of the back seat while grasping a small white florist’s box. They watched as he climbed the stoop and pressed the doorbell, then disappeared inside. And then they waited out there in the street, waited and watched, watched and waited, until, after an unbearably long time, the couple emerged.

In her gown, the girl appeared as we had never seen her before—not in a school uniform, not in shorts or jeans, not even in a Sunday skirt. This typical teenager was unrecognizable in her formal dress and skinny high heels, her hair and makeup specially done up.

Often two or three other couples would then climb out of the limousine for a group photo. The boys looked good all spiffed up in their tuxedos, hair slicked back or at least controlled and tidy. But the girls in their pastel gowns of taffeta and tulle created a beautiful array. On their wrists or at their shoulders, a spray of pink roses or a delicate white orchid breathed life into the glamour.

Picture-taking over, the couples would duck back into the limo, taking great care not to rumple their finery. Slowly the limousine would roll away, shrugging off the hovering boys who had hung around solely to gawk at the car.

Those of us still awaiting our proms could only imagine what the night ahead would be like—as magical as Cinderella’s ball, that much we knew.

Another event that drew neighbors from up and down the block was a wedding. Again, the signal was the limousine pulling up to the curb. Again, a crowd of neighbors, pressed together and jostling for the best view, would gather in the street outside the bride’s house. Showing great restraint, the watchers kept the sidewalk clear for the bride and her bridesmaids.

Women in the usual Saturday attire—housedresses or ragtag housecleaning clothes—stood with arms crossed. Kids often came to watch, but men—never. This fashion event and lump-in-the-throat moment of nostalgia and sentimentality was a woman’s thing, for the great-grandmothers to the youngest observers.

Boys gathered too, but again because of the limousine, not to fill their eyes with the rare sight of ordinary people dressed like royalty, or to reflect on the passage of time as this young woman, only yesterday a kid popping tar bubbles in the street, ventured off into marriage. The boys turned wheelies on their bikes as they pestered the driver with questions, left dirty handprints on the limo (which the driver patiently polished off), and begged for an inside view before the driver shooed them away.

Excitement grew when the bridesmaids stepped out of the house in a burst of color—typically shades of blue or pink—flowing chiffon, and floral bouquets with trailing ribbons. They processed like ethereal beings to the limousine, signaling that the star of the show was not far behind. Then the bride emerged, a vision in white satin, escorted by her father. As they paused for a photo, it was clear that the crowd felt only warmth and happiness for the bride, judging from the discreet wipe of a tear, murmured endearments, and a backdrop of oohs and aahs. But one of the women came dangerously close to heckling at one of these watches, yelling out in her angry-crow voice, “Sure, she’s happy now, the bride. Just wait. She’ll see.”

Heads turned…or shook in disbelief. The girl standing next to me whispered fiercely, “Just because she’s unhappy doesn’t mean everyone is. I’m going to have a happy marriage.”

Another event brought the people outside, but this kind of watch was a somber and respectful one. It was the local custom when someone passed away. On the morning of the funeral, immediately following the church service, neighbors kept a silent vigil as the funeral procession drove slowly passed the deceased person’s house, a last farewell. The cortege then moved on to the cemetery and the final resting place.

On Summer Nights

When the August sun slid behind the rooftops to the west, the heat of late afternoon simmered down and Westervelt Avenue roiled up.

The highlight of those after-dinner daylight hours was the arrival of the Mister Softee truck. The first notes from its music box, barely audible as the truck turned in from Mace Avenue, sent kids hurtling home for money and any other family member craving a quintessential summer treat.

Each evening Mister Softee stopped at our end of Westervelt Avenue, the end closer to Allerton Avenue and most densely populated with kids. The truck’s engine idled and the music box played in a continuous loop until, finally, the ice cream man silenced it, too late though to divert the earworm that would crawl out unexpectedly down through the decades. The idling engine was a grumbling monster for the better part of an hour, until the long line of customers dwindled and the truck lumbered toward Allerton.

Then, with ice cream cones, sundaes, floats, and parfaits consumed, the kids returned with ear-splitting enthusiasm to their various groups under the sycamores and ginkgoes to play touch football, ride their bikes, pop tar bubbles, or jump rope.

About once every minute and a half, jets approaching LaGuardia Airport flew so low over our heads that each airline’s name or logo could easily be seen. Each deafening intrusion drowned out the evening news on TV and forced all of us below into shouted conversations.

As daylight diminished, the atmosphere would start to change. Street games ended, the shrieks and shouts trailed off, and kids went inside to do other things. The roar of jet engines ceased as planes switched to nighttime routes away from residential areas. The streetlights flickered on, the long summer dusk turned to night, and other groups came out—nocturnal gatherings that operated independently, yet companionably in the sense that each was well aware of the others’ presence. To keep moths and other insects away, porch and stoop lights had to be off. The streetlights scattered all the silvery illumination we needed anyway.

Under one of the streetlights, a cluster of teenage boys occupied the street where the younger kids had played earlier. They leaned against parked cars or paced back and forth in the middle of the street, relinquishing just enough turf to let traffic go by. Some drivers crept cautiously through the bunch of boys, who, resenting the inconvenience, were in no rush to get out of the way. Other drivers bullied their way through. Those were the ones you could hear when they were still a block away, their stereo music pounding louder and harder as they approached and trailing stomach-throbbing bass beats as they passed.

On our side of the street, where most houses still had only the landing of the stoop and no real porch, an older couple set out their lawn chairs and waited for a breeze. Quietly they sat in the snug dark space under the awning, but an occasional cough, the slap of a hand fending off a mosquito, or the glint of the streetlight on their aluminum chairs reminded us they were there.

Many nights our stoop served as a gathering place. Friends from down the block and across the street dropped by, some of them old classmates from Holy Rosary now dispersed to various high schools, others lifelong friends from the block. For hours we discussed school and teachers, track and football practice, Orchard Beach vs. Jones Beach, driver’s ed, cars, and whether or not to send out for a pizza. If we spotted a toad on the lawn someone always tried and always failed to catch it. Or we tried to pick up a ghost crab from the countless number that covered the street and sidewalk one strange time, but no one wanted to feel a defensive pinch.

Sometimes Robert stopped by on the way home from his summer job at Rossi Pastry Shop on Gun Hill Road, bringing with him the wonderful aroma of Italian cookies that wafted from every thread of his bakery whites. Apparently he was not oblivious to our sudden cravings for cookies whenever he joined us. One night we watched him approach in the darkness. He was easy to spot as his white clothing reflected the streetlights, but that night they also reflected another object—a small white bakery box dangling from his hand.

From the porch across the street, muffled murmurings drifted from the shadows. The voices rose and fell and crackled into laughter. Some of the neighborhood women had gathered there, as usual. The dark porch revealed only silhouettes. Though the front door was open and yellowish light from the hallway spilled outside, it was a dim illumination. But from the brightness of the kitchen at the other end of the hallway came the sound of clattering dishes, then footfalls along the hallway as the hostess brought out a tray. She set the tray on the porch table, and as she sat the plastic chair cushion reacted with a hissss…. Soon the night air carried the smell of coffee, mingled with the scent of cigarette smoke, across the street to us.

Sometime between 11 pm and midnight the boys in the street would scatter for home. The stoop couple would fold up their chairs and retire for the night.

The front-porch group of women across the street would start to break up. With rattling of coffee cups, the friends would help clean up until one by one the dark figures descended the porch steps, flip-flops slapping against the cement. A speck of orange glowing in someone’s hand briefly moved to her mouth, then flew in a sparking trajectory to the street.

Conversation on our stoop would begin to wind down. High-pitched whining around our ears, and pinpricks at our ankles and elbows that erupted into itchy welts, persuaded us to call it a night, too.

Up in my room, before pulling down the window shade, I always paused to take one last look at the night. The cars below, parked tightly along both sides of the street, were polished to a high gloss by the streetlights. Over the rooftops ahead an object brighter than the evening star grew larger as it got closer. The plane then banked southward, revealing the green light at its wingtip. At this late hour the sounds that never stop could not be drowned out: the low growl of that plane on its nighttime flight path, the gasp of airbrakes as the Allerton Avenue bus pulled away from its stop, and the persistent trilling of the tree crickets.

Our Father Richard

In June of 1972, Father Richard Guastella arrived at Holy Rosary Church for his first assignment as a parish priest.

Curiosity about a new priest always ran high, beginning the moment we heard that one of our resident priests would be leaving. But it rose to new levels when we learned that our new priest would indeed be a new priest. When the entrance procession emerged from the sacristy at his first Sunday Mass with us, all eyes sought him out.

After Mass, a welcoming cluster of eager parishioners clasped his hand and smothered him with questions. As they broke off into the after-Mass chatter groups, one phrase was consistently repeated: “He’s so young.”

Most priests fresh out of the seminary are young, but Father Richard had an appearance of extreme youthfulness. His hair accounted for some of that. In keeping with the times, Father Richard wore his hair long enough to cover his ears and graze his Roman collar—unlike the older priests who wore conventional clippered cuts. Eventually he grew a beard, as many men did in the 1970s.

“Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God” (Matthew 5:8). Perhaps this quality, too, enhanced his youthful aura, along with his request to be called Father Richard rather than Father Guastella. This kind of informality with a priest was unheard of at the time.

If his youth and informality were the initial draw, it was the substance of his being that cemented his relationships. His youthful aspect belied what was underneath—maturity, wisdom, and a perceptiveness more often seen in those with many years of life’s experience behind them.

Parishioners of every generation responded to this approachable priest who seemed to effortlessly build rapport with them. He was the priest most frequently requested for weddings, funerals, and baptisms. Families invited him into their homes for meals, for conversations, for pastoral visits, for friendly visits. In the heart of Holy Rosary, Father Richard clearly held a special place.

As a good friend to my family, Father Richard gave us guidance and support on everyday matters as well as moral conflicts. With his usual serenity, he helped us meet and manage the milestones of life, whether joyous or sorrowful. As my parish advisor while I wrote the history of Holy Rosary Parish for their 50th Anniversary, Father Richard provided not only information and insight, but encouragement as well.

Father Richard left Holy Rosary in June of 1980 to become Vocation Director for the Archdiocese of New York. A few years later my family left the Bronx too, but we all met back at Holy Rosary in the spring of 1983 when Father Richard baptized the new baby in our family.

Within a few years Father Richard was working as a parish priest again, eventually being assigned to Staten Island and another church called Holy Rosary. While serving as pastor there, he rose to the rank of monsignor. Despite the new title, he still wanted to be called Father Richard. Later he was named pastor of the Church of St. Clare.

In 2012, Father Richard celebrated the 40th anniversary of his ordination to the priesthood. We traveled to Staten Island to attend the festivities at St. Clare’s, seeing him for the first time since that family baptism in 1983. His beard was gone, his haircut clippered and conventional. But he still looked like young Father Richard to us.

On Holy Thursday, April 9, 2020, while still serving as pastor of St. Clare’s, Father Richard succumbed to the plague of our day, COVID-19. By ministering to the sick, he gave his life so that souls could be saved.

In Memoriam ✙ Reverend Monsignor Richard Guastella