Up in the Sky in Manhattan

On a walk around the neighborhood today, I found these two images splitting the sky. My vantage point was the corner of 74th Street and Amsterdam Avenue, looking west.

Photos by Maria A. Dering

I stayed outside, hoping the rains would come. Not yet -- still a sticky afternoon.

Destination Bakery

When I started this blog over a year ago, I was sure it would make me want to sit down and write every day. (I wasn't sure everyone would want to read my stuff, but that's another story.) As it turns out, I began posting with enthusiasm and then fell off: typical of my experience with diets, Yoga classes, studying a new language, and turning off the TV at a reasonable hour after watching far too many reality shows.

So here I am, thinking that if I'm going to spend hours watching Lawrence of Arabia for however many hours I can keep my eyes open, I'd better get back to blogging. Not that one is a reward for the other, but the TV is so close to the computer and it is time to get going again. There is so much going on in my tiny universe.

Who knew bread could be a destination? Levain Bakery, with its excellent bread and killer cookies, has become a hang-out for the chic set. Today, the little shop had customers lined up the steps and outside. At first, I thought something was wrong -- most of the time, people in my neighborhood congregate around car crashes and fire engines. But this was surely a peaceful (and delicious) sign of spring.

The fruit man is back now that the weather is nice. Sometimes fruit girl runs the stand; it's very popular with the pre-school set and their nannies. The trucks pull up early to stock everything that kids like: plums, strawberries, bananas. For the adults: avocados, asparagus, beans, squash. It always reminds me how economical fruits and vegetables are -- I barely eke out 2 servings a day. All the colors are arranged in neat rows, plastic bags stacked at the edge of the cart, an umbrella ready for sun or rain.

Just think: I could get a roll at Levain, a banana and an apple at the fruit man, grab a cup of hot coffee, and have a great breakfast. I could eat outdoors if I could get a seat in front of the destination bakery. I could watch the world go by!

So why am I still inside?

Tango and the End of Civilization

This evening I heard Hector del Curto's Eternal Tango Quintet at the Main Squeeze Accordion Festival in Riverside Park.

Photo by Maria A. Dering

The program was arranged beautifully, a mix of classic and new tangos, starting and ending with driving arrangements of merciless Astor Piazzolla compositions. Listening to these pieces made me think of fin de siecle Vienna, Gustav Mahler, all the doomed heroes of Thomas Mann, Evita Peron, and the dark corners of history. Especially in the 1920s and 1930s, tango seemed to be a harbinger of the end of civilization ...

Photo by Maria A. Dering

Saved by music??

To hear clips of del Curto's group, visit http://www.hectordelcurto.com/eternaltango_project.html

Take heart!

Independence Day 2009

Today I spent a wonderful afternoon at the New-York Historical Society, located on Central Park West between 76-77th Streets. To celebrate the 4th of July, the N-YHS offered a full day of free exhibitions, storytelling, re-enactor drills and conversation, popcorn, pretzels, chips, and icy cold beverages.

When I saw these two re-enactors, I imagined that they were soldiers from the American Revolution who were wondering what would happen when the fighting was over. Which way would the winds of war blow?

* * * * *

On my way to the event, I passed several buildings with interesting pseudo-heraldic decorations over the doorways and along an outside wall. I've always wondered about these, as they appear on so many apartment and public buildings in Manhattan. Are these symbols designed to evoke majesty, royalty, wealth, and stability? Did the builders copy symbols from European buildings? Did the architect think they lent a certain something to a developing neighborhood? Whatever the reason, these figures make a walk on the West Side interesting and entertaining.

Here are a few examples. I wonder whose crown this is.


In the next item, the rearing lion appears on a shield that is pierced through from left to right by an arrow or spear. Look closely in the upper right hand corner of the image and you'll see the tip of the weapon.


Sorry the next photo is so blurry! See the keys and stars on the curiously-shaped shield? Looks like an eagle or mythological beast is holding the shield. This sculpture is on the outside of the American Museum of Natural History.


And now, my favorite. He looks like the personification of the North Wind or a wicked king. I wonder who the model was?

All photos in this post by Maria A. Dering.
May be copied with permission of the writer/photographer.

I hope everyone enjoyed a wonderful Independence Day. Time to go to the fireworks!

Life Turns Ten - Part 4

(continued from April 13, 2009)

The young woman stepped into the ring of lamplight. Howarth remembered where he had seen her before: sleeping in the Depot as if waiting to catch a train. She would have been thrown out if she’d tried to beg for a few coins. "I just need a little food, sir. Can you help me?”

She was tracing-paper pale, a good Madonna. She wore no gloves, no shawl on her head. Her curly hair floated against the night sky. She wore broken-down old black shoes, but her eyes and lips were young.

“Miss, I do not live in town. I can give you a few coins, but that is all I can do. Perhaps I can help you to a women’s home? There is one not far from here.”

“Oh, no, sir, they don’t want me.”
“They will take anyone in need, miss.”

She thought about it for a few moments, biting her lower lip. She rubbed her eyes with a small hand and replied, “All right, sir, will you show me where it is?”

Howarth immediately felt he might have made a mistake. Maybe she was just the lure for a thug. He’d been taken in by this girl twice now, captivated by her in the Depot and here, on Second Avenue.

“Miss, let me flag down a hansom. There are still a few out.” He turned back, not finding a cab. The girl was gone. “Miss?” he called, and then louder, “MISS?” There was no sign of her. He began to look in doorways. Perhaps she was too shy to go with him. Perhaps she returned to her confederates. He did not want to get mixed up in that, and he had to get to his friend’s house.

Mr. E.Z. Mark by F.M. Howarth -- and what he did not want to be. Public domain.

A policeman saw Howarth standing on the corner. “Sir, may I help you?” Howarth mentioned the girl. “Who?” said the policeman. Howarth described her. The policeman turned pale. “You saw her here?” he asked. “Yes, just here, a moment ago. But earlier today, I’m sure I saw her in the Depot. I even started to sketch her.”

The policeman flagged down a hansom and put Howarth into it. “Go straight to your friend and stay there until morning,” the policeman ordered. “You shouldn’t be walking alone at night. Go home!”

Howarth thanked the patrolman and soon arrived at his friend's house. “Frank!” Silas cried. “Where have you been? I was expecting you hours ago!” They sat in the parlor sipping hot cider as Howarth told Silas about his day. “That’s enough commotion for a whole week,” Silas said. Howarth finally got around to his Madonna on Second Avenue. Silas sucked in his breath. “You haven’t read the New York papers lately, have you?”

(to be continued)

Windows

Last night, I attended an interesting talk on the book Distracted by Maggie Jackson at the New York Society Library, a centuries-old institution on East 79th Street in Manhattan. Toward the end of the talk, a warm golden glow captivated me, shining out from the tall windows of the apartment house across the street. The lights of the Library bounced back, creating a nimbus around the window frames.

A vignette from long ago: Gaslight streams from windows in an expensive flat. The family sits down to dinner now that Father is home from business. The older children dine with their parents as servants bring the courses, one at a time. Mother is still young and beautiful, her hair in a Gibson. Night moves in. A baby cries, cranky and colicky. The meal continues as Mother becomes alarmed about the ferocity of the baby's cries. Then, silence -- the nursemaid must have calmed the fretful child. Mother speaks in a low voice about nothing much; father replies; the baby cries again, louder.

Now Father is restless, unnerved by the noise. The older children watch him and then turn to Mother as she rises from the table. "I'll go tend to Baby," mother says. "Perhaps she is feverish." Custard is served but Baby's cries become stronger. "Fetch Dr. Clark," Mother says as she rushes back into the room. "Fetch the doctor now." Father runs out the door as the older children sit still and silent. "Hurry," Mother says.

Oh, the street was full of ghosts last night.

Queen of Hearts

I will never, ever read the cards again. An old Bulgarian woman passed down the secret to her granddaughter, who taught it to me. For a while, it was fun -- love, money, promotions, inheritances -- no fortune was bad.

I agreed to read the cards again on a lovely spring night. A few friends and their friends stopped in for an after-dinner drink. We talked about summer vacations, parties on Long Island, where to get the best food. Then someone announced that I read cards. All right -- I did it once or twice, then called it quits. But, Manhattan being Manhattan, "no more" was not an answer. I dealt one more array, three rows of three ordinary playing cards, for a young woman. She was there with her fiance, a handsome young man standing near the door.

Take a breath. Last time tonight. I lit the pyramid candle, sat down on the floor, and dealt the cards. The young woman sat across from me, cross-legged, twisting a lock of hair. "Now clear your mind and watch as I turn up three more cards," I said. She obeyed. I told her a few frivolous things and then asked her to think of a question. "Something you'd like to know ... anything at all." The young woman closed her eyes. In an instant, the room grew larger, the door taller. I fell into dark water. "I'm so sorry that your parents are getting divorced," I said.

Utter silence. Utter sadness. We said good-night and everyone wandered into the April evening, a Pandora's box, blossoms on the wind but storm clouds on the horizon.

A Very Persistent Child

Every now and then, I collect a ghost story. This one is from the Upper West Side of Manhattan.

Thirty years ago, a newly-married woman -- let's call her Prim -- moved into a spanking new apartment building on the Upper West Side. Her study windows faced a much older building, the Dakota, a gem from the 1880s. The problem with the bright new building was that it had a very old, not-so-pleasant ghost.

Eating toast in her kitchen one morning, Prim smelled smoke. She ran into the living room where she saw the cut-crystal cigarette lighter shooting flames into the air. Prim ran to the coffee table, snapped the lighter shut, and opened the window. The faint sound of children playing calmed her down, and she continued on with her day.

The next afternoon, Prim heard her bicycle bell ringing. The bike was upended and stored in the hall closet, surrounded by the usual clutter. The tinkling stopped as soon as Prim opened the door. After that, the tiny bell would ring again and again, usually in the morning.

Finally, Prim decided to move. On her way to look for packing boxes, she stopped for coffee in a long-gone pastry shop. One of her friends asked what was wrong -- poor Prim must have looked spectral herself. She told her friend about the fire, the bell, and strange knocking sounds in the living room. "Time to move," she said. "My husband never hears these things, and he thinks I'm going crazy."

Her friend stared. "Wait a minute, don't you live near the Dakota?" "Why, yes," Prim replied. "You know that." "But you didn't tell me that you were so close!" "Uh, no, why would that matter?"

"Because, silly, your apartment must be on the spot where the playground was! I've heard about this before -- the children in the Dakota were very upset when they lost it."

"Maybe so," Prim answered, "but this child is beyond upset. He's getting malicious!"

"It's the little girl," the friend said. "She tripped and fell over some bricks and hit her head when the new building went up. I don't think she ever was the same afterwards. Her parents took her away, upstate, and I think she died in Syracuse."

"Well, what's she ... I mean, her ghost ... doing back down here?" Prim replied.

"Probably wants to go out and play."

"So what do I do?"

Her friend smiled. "You need to ask her, politely, to leave you alone. Perhaps she'll respond to kindness. Maybe you need to tell her that you didn't take her playground away."

Prim still lives in that building. Every now and then, she hears the faint sounds of children playing from somewhere deep in the alleyway between the buildings.