Sailing the Salty Streets

(Originally published 11/12/19)

Last year, on November 16, New York City got its first—and what turned out to be its biggest—snowstorm of the season. It was a six-inch wet snow that caught the powers-that-be by surprise. The white stuff was originally forecast to turn to rain before any worrisome accumulation could settle upon Gotham's highways and byways. Thus, the myriad roads were not treated in time to do any good. Forty-five minute commutes turned into five-hour ones. The mayor had scrambled egg on his face and thereafter had his sanitation department “salters” out and about when even the slimmest possibilities of snow existed. Dustings and nothings brought out the heaviest of heavy artillery.

Fast-forward almost a year and the tiniest hint of snow found the “salters” raring and ready to go once more, parading up and down the very same city streets and avenues one, two, and three times. Overkill? Perhaps. But politicians can’t afford to make the same mistakes twice. So, I not only spied my first salt truck, but the first snow flurry of the season as well. But that was the extent of it. I also walked gingerly across the treated roads, concerned that I might slip and fall on the ice melter.

It’s a harbinger of things to come, I suspect—tons and tons of ice melter feverishly tossed on the city thoroughfares, no matter what Mother Nature has in store for us. Followed, of course, by a spring full of potholes. But this is jumping the gun. The previous two winters around here were relatively benign, with no excessive—heart- attack inducing—snowstorms. You know, a fifty-, sixty-, seventy-year-old shoveler’s worst nightmare.

Now, I don’t dream of a white Christmas anymore for a variety of sound reasons. I suppose I can trace the end of that dream officially to 2002. It snowed rather heavily on Christmas Day afternoon that year. The family had assembled at the folks for dinner along with a not-so-special guest named Timmy. He was an old friend of my father, who lived alone, had no family to speak of, and—on top of all that—had recently suffered a stroke. I know that sounds like the kind of guy you would want to have over at Christmas in the true spirit of the season. But you just had to know Timmy to appreciate why no good deed ever goes unpunished. Originally, my dad had invited the man over for a Thanksgiving dinner—when he learned he had no other place to go—several years before. It was intended to be a one-shot friendly gesture, but it backfired big time when an emboldened Timmy invited himself to not only every Thanksgiving thereafter, but every Christmas as well.

Well, on this particular white Christmas, old Tim was apprised of the deteriorating weather situation. In other words, given a huge hint that he better get a move on if he wanted to catch his bus home. While Timmy lived only about a mile away, he wasn’t the steadiest of walkers on a bright sunny day, let alone in several inches of slushy snow and whiteout conditions. Timmy was, nonetheless, pretty dense in getting the message. Finally, when informed that he might have to stay the night, the guy freaked and headed out into the snowstorm like a man on a mission. My father, younger brother, and I assisted him in walking to nearby Broadway and the bus—it looked as if we were steadying a Christmas reveler who had had one too many—but it didn’t appear as any were running. Fortunately, Timmy—who knew lots of locals—entered a neighborhood bar and found a Good Samaritan with a car to weather the storm and get him home safely. Now that's a Christmas story worthy of a TV movie, I think.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Mum's the Word

Once upon a time, I genuinely looked forward with great anticipation to voting on Election Day. Calling on my polling place—P.S. 7 grammar school—was an exciting experience back in the day. There was a palpable buzz in air as the volunteers—predominantly old ladies from the neighborhood—feverishly searched the rolls for my name and party affiliation. Since the pandemic outbreak, I have exclusively voted by absentee ballot. I prefer not visiting the polls in person anymore and—trust me—it has nothing to do with COVID.

Sure, I miss the days of pulling levers on antiquated voting machines in the classrooms where I attended kindergarten, my one and only public-school education. I can’t say that I remember much about the kindergarten syllabus, but I do know that Mrs. Rothman was not lecturing us on gender dysphoria.

How was that for a segue way into Election Day 2022? If the Democrats have a bad night, the movers and the shakers are going to have to ask themselves this fundamental question: “How did we lose to a party largely captured by conspiratorialists, assorted nut jobs, and slavish devotees of a potty-mouthed loon?” The answer: See what Mrs. Rothman was not teaching to five-year-old boys and girls in 1967-68 and then extrapolate from there. Woke insanity run amok is a loser.

Now, I voted for the addle-brained fossil who now occupies the White House. Along with many others, my hope was that this mediocrity—and that’s being overly generous—might somehow diffuse the hyper-partisan, debased political atmosphere of the present. But, no, old Joe went all out woke and spent money like a drunken sailor. And he wanted to spend a whole lot more. I was a kid during the inflationary 1970s and hardly noticed. Well, I’m not a kid anymore and I notice. While inflation doesn’t seem to bother the women of The View, or a certain gasbag talk-show host who was—apparently—unfamiliar with the term until this election cycle, it bothers me big time and so does crime.

Again, I lived through some notable crime spells in New York City. The late 1970s and early 1990s found the mean streets even meaner. I witnessed an armed robbery on the subway. A neighbor a few houses up the block from me was the victim of an attempted robbery—and shot at—as he entered his car in the early morning hours. My teenage friends and I were attacked with belts by a gang of youths after seeing the movie Hooper, starring Burt Reynolds, on Fordham Road in the Bronx. One member of the pack suggested “slicing up the fat one,” my bestie, who by today’s standards, was positively svelte. So, yes, he was body shamed and we were victims of an unrecorded hate crime.

Nevertheless, those were simpler times. While all that nasty stuff was going down, our family front door was often left unlocked while we were out and about during the daylight hours. In 2022, it seems one can’t go a day without reading about a random attack in the subway, often committed by a violent, mentally ill individual who should be someplace else getting the help he or she needs. And, what’s with virtually everything being under lock and key in so many stores, even ones with security guards? I’ve dramatically cut back on my shopping at local drugstore chains because I don’t want to press a buzzer to summon staff to purchase razor blades, a dozen eggs, and Swiffer wet mop pads. It’s a boon for Amazon, though. Don’t get me started, too, on the ubiquitous speed racers in my midst with their piercingly loud, revving, and popping engines. These automobiles and motorcycles are turning once quiet back streets into the Indy 500. Forgive me, then, for wistfully looking back to the 1970s when Republican Gerald Ford battled Democrat Jimmy Carter for the presidency, a better time and a better crime.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Tail of Two Cities

(Originally published on 5/16/17)

While running errands this morning, a woman handed me a small sheet of paper. I stuck it in my pocket, continued on my journey, and took a wild guess as to its purpose. She was doing the Lord’s work, I surmised—trying to save my soul. When I arrived home and plucked said paper from my pocket, I saw that I was correct in my assumption. Heaven or hell—take your pick! Utilizing biblical quotes that separated “Candidates for hell” from “Candidates to reach heaven,” the bottom line advice from a certain pontificating pastor was: “I recommend you to choose heaven.” What the hell! I thought. Why not?

Somewhat off my predictable beaten path today, I walked along a bizarre stretch of parkland—a narrow strip of fenced-in weeds, trees, and garbage. It’s been a tangled eyesore forever in my memory. The peculiar park grounds that I speak of rest on a bluff looking down on the Major Deegan Expressway—I-87—and have long served as an atmospheric hot spot for rats and those on two legs engaging in some form of clandestine misbehavior. Suffice it to say, it is not—and never was—a place for a family picnic.

Recently, I read that an effort was afoot to clean up the spot and turn it into something unrecognizable. It is, after all, part of New York City’s parklands. In fact, I had forgotten—if I ever knew in the first place—that this poor excuse for a park has a name: Tibbett’s Tail. Tibbett’s Brook was once prominent in the area of the Northwest Bronx I call home. I’ve seen old pictures of the swampy-looking brook meandering through a lot of sea grass—or whatever is the freshwater, urban equivalent. A century or so ago, the brook was diverted underground and gradually filled in. The elevated subway line carrying the IRT Broadway-Seventh Avenue “Number 1” train—commencing and ending at Van Cortlandt Park and W242nd Street—can be seen in early twentieth-century photos lording over the murky waters of Tibbetts Brook. The El was definitely a harbinger of things to come, though, because this corner of the world bares little resemblance to that bucolic snapshot in time. The El and Van Cortlandt Park endure, however.

There’s a sign at Tibbett’s Tail—noting that it’s a recipient of a grant—which bespeaks hope for this mysterious park. There’s even a rack with plastic bags hanging nearby, importuning the inconsiderate dog-walking slobs who inhabit the area to pick up after their pets. Tibbett’s Tail and its adjoining public sidewalk have been treated like dirt for decades. But I couldn’t help but think of the canine waste picked up with those plastic bags ending up in the garbage and then in a landfill. The excrement will decompose pretty quickly, but the plastic bags might still be around in five hundred years. 

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)