Go to the Park or Make One

Walking along the picturesque pathway from Battery Park City to Battery Park proper—which up until the mid-1960s would have placed me in the Hudson River—I encountered ominous banners on partially painted blue lampposts. The blue paint climbed the posts to the estimated storm-surge level during a “100-year storm” in 2050. Thus, on a beautiful and dry August morning in 2022, I had something to mull over—our dire future with its myriad misfortunes—and a little arithmetic to do, too. Yes, I could still be breathing in 2050, but I’d be pretty ancient with my strolling around Battery Park days in the distant rearview mirror.

Further down the same pathway put me in a pleasant piece of parkland named after a devoted public servant and the son of former three-term New York City mayor Robert F. Wagner, Jr. As I recall, Robert F. Wagner, Jr.—the son with the same name—maintained a mournful but earnest countenance. He was—by all indications—a truly dedicated and scrupulously honest man, atypical among the pandering and posturing Gotham pols of his day. Signs posted on this neatly manicured, green sliver of earth imparted a different tale of woe. Robert F. Wagner, Jr. Park, with its popular, independently owned restaurant with views of Lady Liberty and—most appreciated—a well maintained public restroom would soon be closed for extensive renovations. To address the previous signs’ portentous possibilities, the work is expected to take two years.

I Googled Robert F. Wagner Jr. Park and learned more about the plans for the new and improved Robert F. Wagner Jr. Park. It would be raised ten feet, considerably altered with less green space, and emerge resilient. Well, that’s the plan anyway. I appreciate that—when the sea is angry—that sliver of Manhattan is especially vulnerable to flooding. You don’t have to be a marine biologist to come to that conclusion.

Still, anytime a government project is proposed, it should be looked upon with a critical eye. And the neighbors should be fully apprised about the goings-on. Just around the bend of Manhattan Island from Robert F. Wagner, Jr. Park, engineers are preparing for the future’s anticipated sea-level rises. Nevertheless, the question remains: Is this makeover a necessity at this moment in time or a boondoggle—its price tag is $221 million—feathering certain people’s nests at the expense of others? For starters, I would wager that it will take more than two years to complete this transformation scheduled to commence next month. And what about the restaurant and—lest we forget—the restrooms? There’s a contented squirrel population there, as well, along with dozens of mature trees, including maples and weeping willows. The park’s only a quarter of a century old. Too young to die? Or has its time—courtesy of climate change—come? Should Robert F. Wagner, Jr. Park get with the program? Is it a matter of adapt or die a watery death down the road? I can't say for sure, but were I a squirrel, I know what my answers to the above questions would be.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

How 'Bout a Hamburger

It’s been there for as long as I can remember: a billboard along the El at W240th Street. Without interruption for decades, the same two businesses advertised on it: nearby McDonald’s and the car wash alongside it. While both establishments endure to this day, they have—for whatever reasons—opted out of the billboard promotion. Right now, Smashburger is pointing people their way. It’s a sign of the times, I guess. The hipper burger joint pitching their hipper burger selections to the public at large, which seems to have acquired more sophisticated tastes than when I was a kid.

I haven’t patronized Smashburger, but I did peruse their menu on GrubHub. The prices seem reasonable enough, but every one of their burger selections comes loaded with unacceptable toppings—from my culinary perspective—and the place doesn’t afford you the option to remove any of them. McDonald’s, on the other hand, does remove what I want removed from their hamburgers: chopped onions and pickles. Strange as it may seem, ordering a plain hamburger from McDonald’s was—once upon a time—a showstopper. Staff would literally remove the onions and pickles from the hamburger and not do a particularly good job at that. Nowadays, remove means don’t put them on to begin with—a simple act of omission. Years ago, though, McDonald’s burgers were conceived with chopped onions and pickles on them—or so it seemed. Of course, removing any toppings from McDonald’s regular burgers leaves you with nothing burgers, invisible between the buns. But insignificant as they are, I must say that—in moderation—they are perversely appealing. Every now and then, I conclude: It’s worth the inevitable sour stomach to follow.

In a very confined radius in the old neighborhood—a hop, skip, and a jump from one another—is now a McDonald’s, Wendy’s, and Smashburger. Something for everyone’s tastes. Turn a corner and there’s a couple of hipster joints specializing in—what else—burgers and steaks. This very area was once home to multiple bars with clienteles that weren’t averse to mixing it up from time to time on the front sidewalks. One of the eateries—a steakhouse—just recently opened. I noticed it on GrubHub and checked out the menu. A filet mignon steak—eight ounces—is $37; the porterhouse steak, $57. Both come with a side, but if you want it to be macaroni and cheese, it’ll cost you an extra $2; truffle fries, an extra $5. If you started your meal with an appetizer, like the grilled octopus, at $23, this starts adding up to real money. But it’s a night on the town, with—remember—McDonald’s, Wendy’s, and Smashburger just around the corner for the next time.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

The Fruitless Journey

In the fledgling days of vacationing on Cape Cod, my younger brother and I—Bronx born and bred—would venture out on what we eventually deemed “fruitless journeys.” We would hop in the car and just drive, sometimes on the more heavily trafficked Route 28, but quite often on the quieter, leafy Route 6A. Fruitless journeys serve a real purpose in life. During these excursions, there were no specific destinations or events on our itineraries. We might stop at an antique shop—not a Sotheby’s stuff place, but the junk-store kind that appealed to us—or walk an obscure nature trail, call on a flea market, or yard sale. On many occasions the drive turned out to be just that—a drive with no stopovers whatsoever.

The beauty of fruitless journeys revolves around their unrushed simplicity, spontaneity, and Zen-like pacing. I know there are people who must be doing something during their every waking hour. They can’t sit still for a nano-second and are ever on the run. Case in point from thirty-five years ago: After an exhausting four-hour-plus trip from the Bronx to Cape Cod with friends, one gal was not content to chill out for even a moment. Of course, she was not involved in any of the driving. Almost immediately upon exiting the car, she exclaimed, “Let’s do something!” The rest of us just wanted to relax with a liquid refreshment in hand for a spell. Exhale now: There is always a sense of relief after a long haul, where a pause—a mission accomplished moment to be savored—was in order. But some folks aren’t content to hit the pause button, even for a well-earned breather. Suffice it to say, the fruitless journey model had no appeal for that old friend.

As time passes, I appreciate the fruitless journeys taken more and more. In the 1950s and 1960s, it was commonplace for families to take “drives.” The fruitless journeys from this snapshot in time were as American as apple pie. An older neighbor of mine fondly remembered taking his family out on Sunday drives up Central Avenue, aka Central Park Avenue, in Yonkers. In those bygone days, it was a Northwest Bronx resident’s nearest “drive in the country” hotspot, even if it wasn’t exactly “the country.” He frequently reminisced about Patricia Murphy’s restaurant with its duck pond on the front grounds. Retracing that route today would find yourself in heavy traffic with strip malls, fast-food restaurants, and big-box retailers having long ago displaced any vestiges of country.

For what it’s worth, the fruitless journey is not the sole province of the automobile. It can be accomplished on foot as well. For decades, I met a friend in Manhattan, and we would embark on fruitless journeys. Our modus operandi involved selecting a particular area of the city—lower Manhattan, midtown, upper Manhattan, eastside or westside—with no concrete plan as to where exactly we were going or where exactly we would end up. We covered a lot of ground—fruitless to the let’s do something crowd, but anything but.

Fruitless journeys are less likely to be undertaken today. Technology with its ubiquitous devices have seen to that. Do kids even look out the windows of cars anymore? Still, I say long live the fruitless journeys. If you haven’t already, you might want to try one sometime and see where it takes you or doesn't take you.

Dog Days and Nights Repeated

 

I haven’t been blogging much in 2022. The reason: insufficient quality time to put fingers to keyboard. That is, I’ve assumed the role of caretaker for a family elder, which has been the be-all and end-all of every one of my days this year. The abiding experience has been something akin to the movie Groundhog Day, starring Bill Murray: I woke up every morning and repeated the day, day after day after day. I valiantly endeavored to maintain a daily routine, hoping and praying there wouldn’t be any major snafus along the way, which there sometimes were. Mercifully, though, the baton has been passed—temporarily at least—and I can do a few of things that I always did.

During the past several years, I’ve witnessed first-hand what life in a facility—be it a nursing home, rehab, or hospice—is like. And it isn’t pretty. I understand some are better than others, but suffice it to say, I’ve visited a fair sampling of the bottom of the barrel with—for starters—lousy food and overuse of disinfectants whose insidious scents established residence in patients', visitors’, and staff’s hair, skin, clothes, and presumably in the not-so-fine fare served as well.

Last year, my mother landed in the rehabilitation wing of a medical complex that included various specialty clinics, a large hospital, and a nursing home. As so often is the case, the place appeared respectable on the surface. But isn’t a rehab stint supposed to accomplish some semblance of rehab? In this instance, it set the patient back months. After a bout with gout and dehydration, the task at hand was getting Ma mobile again. Diagnosis from a physical therapist: She will never walk again. Wrong! Her waking hours at this joint were spent mostly in a wheelchair staring into space.

After three full months there—until Medicare coverage ended—Mom comes home with awful pain in her feet, confused, and was dead weight. In addition, she was released with a seriously infected wound from a skin cancer, which this medical behemoth neglected to diagnose or treat in any meaningful way. Soon after the discharge, a visiting nurse took one look at the unsightly thing and said my mother belonged in a hospital ASAP.

Enjoying my newfound freedom this morning, I passed by the neighborhood Carvel ice cream store. I couldn’t help then but reflect on the passage of time and what’s in the offing for so many of us. When I was a youth, the local Carvel was a standalone shop originally owned and operated by a mother and daughter. It had a giant ice cream cone on its rooftop, window service only, and was seasonal. The building was subsequently torn down and a mini mall took its place, which includes a Carvel all these years later. The ice cream is still okay, but the unique Carvel taste of yesteryear—like so many other things—is gone, along with the reasonable prices. A famous Fudgie the Whale Carvel ice cream cake costs $49.99 and a quart of ice cream, $13.99, for delivery via GrubHub!

There were a series of tennis courts alongside the Carvel of my youth, which were cast asunder to build a McDonald’s. A McDonald’s in the neighborhood back then—the mid-1970s—was a real happening. No ordering with apps in those days gone by. No breakfast served, either. Imagine that!

Anyway, I hope the Carvel daughter took care of her Carvel mother in her sunset years. The latter seemed ancient to me while still on the job. But then again, everybody seemed older than they were in those days. She could have been in her fifties for all I know. I would hazard a guess that the daughter cared for her mother. It’s what people did once upon a time. But the question is: Who was around to care for the daughter when her time came? Who indeed? Ice cream for thought as the clock ticks.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)