I began my journey to become a writer as the teller of “tales,” in the old neighborhood of Sunset Park. I followed my poor bedraggled mother around the kitchen as she chopped and stirred, roasted or fried our family meals, half listening to my endless chatter, as I paced nervously or waved my hands dramatically for effect. Most often she would smile and say, “That’s nice dear. Now, could you go to the bakery and get our bread for dinner?” or some other errand to send me on my way and out of hers.
It was a good thing my mother didn’t listen. It left me free to conjure more tales and take them to new audiences. The kids on the corner, or the back of a classroom, certainly in the lunchroom, gym or playground.
Stories are wonderful companions when you are riding on the express train, over the bridge into The City and back home again to Brooklyn. The sun hitting the water below creates great images while you are jammed against fifty other people during rush hour.
In the winter when you are riding home, the lights on three bridges, the buildings overlooking the bay, the boats in the harbor, all contribute to an ongoing tale of mystery, suspense and romance.
These are the stories that began with a little girl’s fantasy, continued with adolescent desire and blended with a grown woman’s patience.
The stories of the Neighborhood: a small town or village. A self-contained socio-econimic-system that survives DOW averages, rising real estate costs, re-gentrification, politics, the “new” immigrants, the old traditions and evening soaps.
And for the sake of writing of which I know and love; these neighborhoods for the most part are located in Brooklyn, New York. I still miss it.
Tell a tale of
Mirth and love
To the children and,
Do you know what is the story of the old couple on the bench?
Picture taken by JenG