A lifetime ago there would be New Year celebrations throughout both sides of the courtyard of 2411 and 2415 Prospect Avenue. You didn't have to wonder what you were doing or who you'd be with. With tinsel garland and velvet Christmas decorations still on the doors, each apt would be alive with laughter and all five hallways had the wonderful aromas of cooked food. I’d make my rounds and then go back to my apt. As a kid I’d walk around grabbing olives and dried sausage, dipping potato chips into the requisite NYE clam dip. It was a bittersweet night, because I knew that our beautiful Christmas tree would soon have to be put away..As Mom and Dad were young and typical 60’s parents, we had a gold aluminum tree with clear gold lights, gold and white frosted balls and gold garland. It was beautiful. My father was the creative force behind all Holiday decorations during those early years and they were spectacular. Mom was the party planner. I’d sit by that gold tree and watch the guests enter, breathing the scent of cold air on their coats as I put them in the bedroom. Beehives, Pixies and Flips, thick black eyeliner and big earrings…Goatees and turtlenecks and Old Spice… Everything was magical to me, the sequins and beads on the dresses glittered like our tree, party hats and noisemakers strategically placed around the house, amber colored liquid in short glasses with pretty swivel sticks, some with ornaments or whistles on the end, ice cubes dancing and tinkling like charm bracelets when lifted. Sinatra was the soundtrack of the evening. Close to midnight all the kids would grab pots and pans and head for the hallway……3-2-1…Happy New Year!! Five flights of building slamming those pots, cranking those noisemakers, blowing the horns and popping confetti bottles….peeking at the kissing adults …climbing up to the hallway window to listen to the roar of the neighborhood….who was better than us?
Happy New Year my friends. Keep the old memories close as you make new memories, and never forget where you came from....
Friday, December 27, 2013
Saturday, December 14, 2013
Do you remember:
...how the snow looked on the fire escapes? It would look like long lines of marshmallow puffs, perfect and unmoving. It was how you judged how deep the snow was. Or on the tops of the garbage cans? On the windows. The "Jack Frost" that would occasionally occur. Fascinating to a young girl with imagination. Swirls of fairy fern and ice trees....above the ice cycles hanging from the window sills.
How quiet it was? The only sound the scraping of the occasional shovel. I wish I could replicate that quiet... The almost sound, how snowflakes sound as they fall.
The feel of the air..cold in the lungs, cloud of smoke from your breath. How your skin felt alive and fresh. Did you walk for hours, or just stop to look around and take it all in like a snapshot hoping not to lose the memory with time?
The sound of the snow swirling across the sidewalk as it drifted up against the buildings. That blue-ish gray cast all around that made everything seem like a dream?
Did you ever stop to watch it accumulate on your arm? Hand?
Watch the flakes melt into each other? See it on your eyelashes? Smell it in your hair?
The hollow sound of the hallway vestibule when you stepped in. An echo, but not quite. Stamping feet on the rug. Hiss of the radiator. Dark but comforting. Climbing the steps, the only sound the slide of your boots on the marble, opening the window on each mid-landing to look at it swirling around the buildings and trees, all the while wanting nothing more than to head back down into the quiet, wishing it would go on forever.
...how the snow looked on the fire escapes? It would look like long lines of marshmallow puffs, perfect and unmoving. It was how you judged how deep the snow was. Or on the tops of the garbage cans? On the windows. The "Jack Frost" that would occasionally occur. Fascinating to a young girl with imagination. Swirls of fairy fern and ice trees....above the ice cycles hanging from the window sills.
How quiet it was? The only sound the scraping of the occasional shovel. I wish I could replicate that quiet... The almost sound, how snowflakes sound as they fall.
The feel of the air..cold in the lungs, cloud of smoke from your breath. How your skin felt alive and fresh. Did you walk for hours, or just stop to look around and take it all in like a snapshot hoping not to lose the memory with time?
The sound of the snow swirling across the sidewalk as it drifted up against the buildings. That blue-ish gray cast all around that made everything seem like a dream?
Did you ever stop to watch it accumulate on your arm? Hand?
Watch the flakes melt into each other? See it on your eyelashes? Smell it in your hair?
The hollow sound of the hallway vestibule when you stepped in. An echo, but not quite. Stamping feet on the rug. Hiss of the radiator. Dark but comforting. Climbing the steps, the only sound the slide of your boots on the marble, opening the window on each mid-landing to look at it swirling around the buildings and trees, all the while wanting nothing more than to head back down into the quiet, wishing it would go on forever.
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