One Brief Something Moment

Yesterday, I came upon a funeral procession along the back streets of the old neighborhood. The hearse with the deceased therein led the way of this final pass through the avenues that—once upon a time—constituted home sweet home. For some years, I found this post-funeral mass—pre-burial—tradition sort of on the morbid side, but I now appreciate all that it says about life and, of course, death. Really, you are here one day and gone the next. You live a life that abruptly comes to an end—a life of relative consequence, but one that will largely be forgotten as time passes. Time, by the way, that won’t include you.

When I was growing up, there was this woman who lived up the block. Her name was Bea, but we not surprisingly called her “Aunt Bee.” Well, when all was said and done, Aunt Bee was diagnosed with terminal cancer. She was a fighter, though, who desperately wanted to remain among the living for one reason and one reason only: to witness the verdict of the O.J. Simpson trial. You see, Aunt Bee was so wrapped up in the proceedings that it killed her to think that she might not be around for the denouement. Sadly, she didn’t outlast the trial. A more conventional one presided over by a less star-struck judge might have secured this dying person’s wish. But it just wasn’t to be for Aunt Bee.

“To Bee or not to Bee” said a lot—to me anyway. For Aunt Bee breathed her last while the O.J. Simpson affair meandered on and on and on. She experienced her one brief something moment of existence and it came up—in the end—a little too short. As a youth, I never entertained the notion that I wouldn’t be around at some point. Now, I do. In fact, I think about life after me often. How so much of what I’ve accumulated through the years—ephemera, in particular, that has meaning to me but few others—will be tossed away with little or no fanfare.

Recently, I observed a couple of sudden ends—on the outside looking in, as it were. I watched their relatives throw out the preponderance of evidence that they once lived. And I didn’t find fault with them. What else can be done? Now, if their dead relations were in league with George Washington or even Laura Ingalls Wilder, I might have had a problem with Operation Clean House, but they weren’t.

So, something for me to ponder in the post-Aunt Bee world: If I knew for certain that the grim reaper would pay a call on me tomorrow, how would I feel? What would I do? I can honestly say that the last thing on my mind would be a desperate will to live to see the conclusion of the Donald Trump impeachment trial in the senate! Getting such dire news would not have me pining to know if old Bernie is going to outdistance old Joe. Funny, but I could actually live without knowing, die without knowing, and be content—and, I believe, have something of a smile on my lifeless face during my last road trip and when, too, my accumulated lifetime of stuff is shredded and trashed. Yes, when my one brief something moment has come and gone.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Sixty Degrees of Separation

It came ever-so close to seventy degrees in New York City yesterday. A new temperature record for the date was established—at sixty-nine—surpassing the previous high of sixty-three. The latter record, by the way, occurred in 1975, which triggered a memory. Just like January 11, 2020, January 11, 1975 occurred on a Saturday. I remember that unusually warm winter day because it was—well—so unusual. It prompted my younger brother and I to throw caution to the wind and dash out into the great outdoors—spaldeen in hand—without seasonal outerwear. This impulsive act of ours inspired a scolding from the wise elders, who reminded us that it was still January and wintertime. The consensus was that—even if it felt like early May—we should still be bundled up in deference to Old Man Winter. Besides, playing games with the seasons was a sure-fire way to catch a cold.

Fast-forward forty-five years to another balmy January day. I’m sitting in a subway car gazing up and down a diverse group of straphangers. Some of them, I noticed, made absolutely no adjustments at all for the abnormally mild winter weather and were wearing hats, scarves, and gloves. On the other hand, a young guy with his girlfriend sported only a short-sleeve T-shirt, shorts, and no jacket. I, at least, had on a windbreaker, which came in especially handy yesterday.

The subway car itself also reflected the atypical weather, alternately feeling like it was air- conditioned then heated. Isn't that a recipe for catching a cold? But then again, it appeared that half the passengers in eyeshot were either coughing or blowing their noses—a catch-a-cold breeding ground if ever there was one! Fortunately, I already had a cold and was among the givers and not the takers.

So, it's 2020, not 1975. In 1975, this newly-opened McDonald's restaurant was a neighborhood novelty. No breakfast was served back then and Chicken McNuggets didn't yet grace the menu. Recently, through Grubhub, I ordered from the place several times. I hadn't eaten McDonald's food of any kind in ten years or more and was initially overwhelmed by the taste sensation. Wow...what have I been missing? But just as the 1975 novelty eventually wore off, so has the 2020 equivalent. 

The 1970s were considered a very grimy time in New York City. But that was then and this is now: household trash is still not allowed to be tossed into public waste baskets...

Sadly, it seems to me that we are slowly but surely regressing back to the Iron Eyes Cody era.

And that seriously steams me!

I encountered a meme on New Year's Day that noted how we are closer now to 2050 than 1990.

I wonder if we will all be wearing space-like attire and driving around in Jetson-style cars by then.

Probably not, but we will still be producing mounds of garbage.

In life you can either have a ball or not, it's your choice. Well, not always...

Time definitely passes...it really does. I recall when Dunkin' Donuts was "worth the trip." Now, all roads lead to one.

Free continental breakfast with each park?

If I've learned anything in life it's that you can't rush things.

Ninth Avenue in Manhattan, where vestiges of old 1975 dirty New York co-exist with...

The new unaffordable 2020 New York.

Your days are numbered.

There have been increasing numbers of seemingly random attacks in New York City of late, with individuals getting assaulted and knocked down for no particular reason. So, in 2020, being afraid of some people is probably a good idea.

And this is supposed to be a bargain? Not even in today's New York.

Long live the hot dog wagon, which transcends time.

And the convenience store with the beguiling window display.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)