Lots for Less

On January 1, 1971, New York City—as measured in Central Park—received over six inches of snow. Thanks to the wealth of information on the Internet, I was able to confirm my memory of that very snowfall. There was enough of the white stuff for my best friend and I to build a snowman in what we in the neighborhood affectionately called “the lot.” We got out the sled, too, and descended a hill into what was a filled-in portion of the once visible and meandering Tibbetts Brook. That swampy snapshot was before my time, but at least I got to experience the lot.

In the early 1970s, there were still some empty lots in the Bronx and the other boroughs of New York City. However, their days were numbered. Most of the remaining lots would be built upon—and sooner rather than later. In the name of progress, the lot and an adjoining victory garden were plowed under and fenced in several months after our snowman building. That snowman was therefore history in the making. For never again would a Frosty rise on that hallowed ground, which in due time would be a parking garage for a six-story building.

The snowman-building story wouldn’t be complete without mentioning the neighborhood tough who materialized and assisted us with our task. My friend and I were on tenterhooks in the company of this uninvited visitor. With good reason, we feared he might cause trouble and—quite possibly—knock down our snowman. But life is full of surprises. Without an entourage to encourage destruction and mayhem, the punk from the next block pitched in and all went well in the fledgling moments of the New Year 1971.

Forty-seven years have since passed. My then best friend isn’t my friend anymore. No acrimonious breakup to report. Childhood friends aren’t always for keeps. The passage of time sees to that. I’ve seen the bully boy as an adult and we said hello to one another. I really should have thanked him for not knocking down the snowman. I don’t see him on Facebook, but see plenty of his kind from the past. In their adult incarnations, most of them relish recounting such tales of knocking down someone else’s snowman in their misspent youths, which, by the way, they think were peachy-keen.

A year ago—on New Year’s Day 2017—I visited Manhattan in the morning and waded through the remains of the previous night’s New Year’s Eve bash. There were concrete barriers everywhere and the area mailboxes were all padlocked. It’s not only going to be frigid when the ball drops at Times Square a couple of nights from now, but security will be even tighter than last year. I read where two million people are going to be in attendance. Being there on the last night of the year has never been on my to-do list. It’s not on my bucket list, either.

On January 1, 2017, I spied a sign in a shuttered Manhattan eatery window. It read: “We are closed for Happy New Year.” The Wishful Thinking Department, I daresay. In the waning days and hours of 2017, I can’t help but note the movie in the theaters about Winston Churchill called Darkest Hour. Mike Huckabee recently compared Donald Trump to Churchill. And Senator Orrin Hatch thinks the Trump presidency may be the “greatest ever.” Churchill, Washington, and Lincoln—to name just a few—are no doubt rolling over in their graves. When I was eight years old and building that snowman at the start of a new year, it was a simpler time—for me at least. It wasn’t so simple for those fighting in Vietnam or those receiving draft notices in the mail. Darkest hours are in the eyes of the beholder, I guess. So, what will 2018 bring? A happy new year? I can’t say. I can only say there won’t be any snowman building in the lot.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)