The Bacon Revolution

What in the name of salt, fat and calories is going on in America?

Bacon appears to be the new bling...or something.

Have you noticed how it's become chic to assert one's passion for the tasty meat that used to spend most of its time modestly reclining between the lettuce and tomato in your sandwich?

Bacon curtains

While I readily admit that it is the cornerstone of that sandwich (and is equally fabulous when cozying up to avocado and hard boiled eggs), it's still just, well, bacon.

Bacon sneaks

Between Michele Obama flexing her wondrous arms as she warns against childhood obesity and Dr. Oz forcing women to stroke decaying body parts on his show in order to promote a healthy lifefestyle, bacon has apparently become a symbol of defiance.

I just put real bacon
on a boo boo.

Recent case in point: I was reading a new blog I thought I might enjoy and found the first sentence in the writer's short bio went something like this: "I love bacon and don't care who knows it."

This was not a food blog. Not even close.

This woman had many fine accomplishments but the very first thing she chose to use in self-description was her love for bacon. I haven't looked at her blog since.

After too much bacon
kills you, you can
be buried in this.

Whether she meant to be tongue-in cheek or actually thinks that a defiant stance on bacon is a form of rebellion  -- despite the knowledge that if eaten often and in large quantities, your heart may attack you -- bacon is neither illegal nor hard to obtain.

It's been around for ever, is often on sale two-for-one at the market and is a choice of cured breakfast meat. It's not a philosophy, doctrine, creed or principle.

Bacon is, absolutely, a delicious addition to many things such as an omelet, quiche or spinach salad.

And, yes, it would be mad handy to throw in the other direction if a grizzly bear is following you and, lately, it's been coated with chocolate, crumbled atop ice cream and stood straight up in milk shakes as a garnish. But it's bacon, people, not world peace

Hey, I loved
me some bacon.

Liking it is grand. Who doesn't like it? But it is not a sign that you are the new James Dean...or, even the next Paula Deen.

So, continue to enjoy your bacon. But, please, leave it out of your strategy to rebel against the ever-growing list of politically correct directives being churned out by the media faster than Kim Kardashian can get divorced.

It's true that in the name of freedom for all, you can't say this or smoke there or even think that, but are we that neutered a society that loving bacon has become a manifesto of revolution?

Maybe.

If you want to shock or impress your parents, friends, readers, teachers, camp counselors or that woman from California Closets who came by to give you a free estimate-no obligation, leave bacon out of it. This is what heroin or booze are for...not bacon, at least until they lace it with PCP.

I will admit, however, that I am now in the mood for a tuna club...extra bacon.

I had nothing to do
with any of this.

Neither did I.

When the Screen Goes Blank and Everything is Gone (Including the Veggie Porn)

These days, we all do it.

We keep our calendars, correspondence, lists, photos, personal info, important reminders, bills, irresistibly cute cat pictures, recipes, outlines for the great American novel on our computers and all is well and good for a while....

But then, late one night we sign on to look at those sandals from Zappos for the millionth time and receive the shock of our lives. It's all gone.

Everything.

Tito the Cat

I've been talking about this for a while so when I noticed that my "wallpaper," (a picture of my son's cat as a tiny kitten, right after a bath in the kitchen sink) was no longer there but had been replaced by some scary corporate stock image, I leaned forward in my chair. The font sizes were different, too and that's never a good sign.

Going from 1 to 60 on the agitation-ometer very quickly, I clicked away only to discover that everything had been wiped clean. Documents, photos--gone. The file folders were there but were empty and lots of invitations to "customize" things began popping up.

Gotta love that
overnight delivery.

I sat and stared, Zappos sandals temporarily forgotten. I immediately became angry at my husband. It had to have been him. I hadn't been online all day.

He's always trying to get me to throw stuff out around the house. When he gets too aggresive, I wait until he dozes off in the recliner, duct tape him down and force him to sit through several episodes of "Hoarders." This usually buys me a month or so before he starts in on me again.

By clearing all the clutter from the computer, he's taken control, punished me, shown me who's boss...but I calm down quickly; he would never do this. After all, his stuff is gone, too.

I go up to bed and talk to him softly through his closed lids. Seth can be totally asleep but hears everything that is said to him and will answer without waking. If you say something shocking or alarming, he will immediately wake and sit up.

Last night, the statement "All our computer files are gone" got a much quicker response than "I think there's a sasquatch in the backyard" (which I said with great sincerity last week) or the more tongue-in-cheek "Madonna's on the phone. She needs dancers for her next tour and wants to know if you're interested."

He sat up for this one, his tiny hands clutching the blanket in horror.

To make a long story shorter, Seth fixed it. He did something mysterious and magical and all our files were returned. I will ask him about it sometime but all I really care about is that my stuff is back.

Mark my words, people--one day there will be a solar flare from the sun that cause a worldwide power outage.

All all our stuff...medical records, manuscripts, schedules, applications, calculations, carefully compiled collections of vegetable porn*...will all be gone in a second. Back-up paraphenalia, as well as your set of rapid-heat, non-frizz hot rollers, will be useless because we will have returned to cooking possums over open fires in the woods.

Remember us?

This is why I rant about not forgetting about the enduring power of a pencil and paper. But, I, too -- judging by my nocturnal meltdown -- am as guilty as the next guy.

I am putting my collection of Buzzy pictures on a disk as we speak as well as printing out some important things that will go into an old fashioned manila folder in the old fashioned drawer of an old fashioned desk. There they will be in danger only when Seth goes on his next anti-hoarding crusade.

But, don't worry. I have the duct tape ready.

Veggie porn (and you thought I was kidding).

The Disappearance of Etan Patz: Not Business as Usual

Etan Patz is possibly the most famous missing child in America and was the first to ever appear on a milk carton.

He disappeared 33 years ago after being allowed, as a six year old, to walk two blocks to a bus stop in Soho, an area in New York City that, though poised to bloom into the fashionable neighborhood it is today, was still very rough around the edges in 1970s New York City.

Iconic and heartbreaking

Etan's face was everywhere--newspapers, posters and, of course, the nightly news. The smiling, bare-shouldered photo of Etan is imprinted into the minds of New Yorkers of that time and became an iconic symbol of innocence stolen away.

According to Lisa Cohen, the author of a recent book on Patz, that innocence was replaced by a new wariness as a result of the events that transpired in May of 1979.

There are new leads in the three-decades old case now and Etan's face is now back in the news. During an interview yesterday, Cohen commented on the fact that allowing a six year old to walk two blocks alone in a New York neighborhood was business as usual...that it was "what was done then." She claims that the Patz disappearance was a turning point that ushered in a new era of vigilance and supervision.

I say she's crazy. And I thought so then.

While it was, doubtless, very different in other parts of the United States, New York City was and continues to be a world unto itself and -- in the 1970s and for most of the '80s --  it was a total hell hole. 

Rent a copy of Martin Scorcese's "Taxi Driver" if you want an accurate visual depiction of the Big Apple. Muggings were rampant, the subways were terrifying in certain areas and at certain times of day and the streets were absolutely filthy.

These days Times Square is a tourist's dream. Well-policed and home to glitzy retail, those who haven't experienced the "crossroads of the world" in the '70s would be stunned to know that porn palaces and peep shows lined the street and hookers plied their trade where happy visitors now decide in which tourist-trap restaurant to enjoy an over-priced dinner.

Times Square then...

As a young lady of 21 in 1970s New York, I learned to hold my keys between my fingers to gouge my attackers eyes and that shoving the palm of one's hand violently up against an aggressor's nose would, hopefully, kill him. We carried mace, avoided eye contact and traveled in groups after dark.

...and now.

It was in this city that a mother sent a small child out to walk two blocks and wait at a bus stop alone. I do not intend to cast aspersions on this family. They have been through the unthinkable but, at the time, I did not know a mother who would have allowed such a thing...not even in the quieter borough of Brooklyn where I lived and where children were still given a wider berth for fun and freedom.

The family's decision to allow him out alone was discussed in classrooms, at kitchen tables and around water coolers and it was agreed--evil is always looking for a moment when your guard is down and residents of a turbulent city in need of reform were, for the most part, aware of this.

Some people defend their decision saying a child must be allowed freedom to grow, to learn to survive on their own and I agree. But, as I used to say to my own children when they made unreasonably premature requests for freedoms they were too young to enjoy, "No."

I hope they find who they are looking for and do to him what he did to that poor child. As for his parents, I fervently wish them peace.

Tabloid Thursday: Posh and Becks/Angie and Brad

It was Victoria Beckham's birthday the other day.

The media got their fix when it was observed that, for dessert, after a celebratory London lunch, she enjoyed a fruit plate instead of a piece of cake.

The Beckhams appear to be enjoying a happy marriage. In the world of smoke and mirrors inhabited by David and his former Spice Girl, however, it's very possible that it's all for show....just like Heidi and Seal who I believed were in it for the long haul.

"We're so happy!"

While the concept of a marital "long haul" is relative, Will and Jada also threw me for a loop when rumors of marital discord surfaced because they seemed to spend so much time talking abut how happy they were. 

I am not certain how I fell for that but I now understand that it's a red flag when you have to tell people how happy you are.

But the Beckhams have been at this marriage thing for a while now, recently had another baby and, after extensive (I have no life) inspection of their body language in photos, I have decided that there marriage is secure. At least for the time being.

"How did these
baseballs end
 up in my dress?"

It just so happens that I had been recently wondering what the glorious David sees in the non-smiling and stick-thin Victoria. Is it her mind? Her bolted on round and hard-as-baseballs boobs? Her catatonic stare? The slightly porcine tilt to her nose?

I prefer to think that their union is the same as any good marriage...it began based on genuine attraction (although who wouldn't be attracted to David Beckham, come to think of it?) and is now a combination of friendship as well as romance.

This thought pleases me and causes me to regard Victoria with much more warmth than when I read think about the traveling circus known as Brangelina.

"Huh?"

It appears that Brad is now engaged to that praying mantis of a woman who I believe has hynotized him with the same sort of humming and chafing that certain insects often use to captivate their mates. As far as a marriage goes, it will never, ever make it. Ever.

The divorce will be spectacular. It will make the televised news around the globe. In fact the networks will halt all regular programming for weeks to cover it from every angle and their faces will be on supermarket tabloids for an entire year.

Pretty but predatory

Angie will lose more weight in protest, shielding her eyes from the paparazzi's flash bulbs with a bony claw.

Brad, on the other hand, while too much of a gentleman to discuss the marriage, will appear happier and healthier than he has in years, his platelet count finally starting to renew itself after years of questionable foreplay with Vampira, Queen of Darkness.

But back to the Beckhams and her fruit platter. The media was gleeful over this and for a moment, so was Susan Says--imagining the fun I would make of this birthday aberration. But after I read that the fruit was enjoyed after a birthday lunch with Becks and the new baby, I rethought it all.

The fruit plate in
question

 I bet they they had cake later with the older kids.

The Beckham balloons

A notorious fashionista whose weight is her own damn business, I bet she enjoyed fruit earlier in the day so she could plunge her face into a slab of something more festive later in private.

They may have driven home from the restaurant in a Rolls but they had balloons and signs up in the living room just like any other family.

And, not to mention if my life included a few more fruit plates and less cake, well guess whose ass would be smaller?

Besides, when you have none other David Beckham living in your house, you really don't need cake, now do you, girls?

Sylvia the Bird

Robins eggs are such a
lovely color.

I have noticed that when cynical and more-than-slightly jaded urban dwellers relocate their city tuchases to the country, an odd phenomena occurs: We go absolutely nutso-cuckoo-wigs-into-outer space over our new animal friends and neighbors.

And, no--I am not talking about that family a few roads down who never opens their blinds and are, therefore, most likely cooking meth in giant tubs in their living room. I refer to the actual members of the wild kingdom with whom we now share our lives.

I just saw a bunny.
Hold me.

Sightings of bunnies, gophers or deer will draw the whole family -- even the hardened criminals and Hell's Angels among us -- to the window to ooh and aah over the critters that prance, poop or hop across our yards.

And, no--I am not referring to Menudo. Yes, they pranced but they broke up decades ago and were never even into nature all that much, anyway. 



A rare sighting.



Even the nastiest teenagers are reduced to gurgling babies and will temporarily stop sext-ing to enjoy a backyard visit from a raccoon or  fox.

If you combine this hysteria with a primal longing for our own grown-and-flown offspring to return to the nest, you have a powerful combo...hence, our recent obsession with a bird we have named Sylvia.

Sylvia is a chubby young robin who built a nest directly under our deck and, quite literally, has taken the place of the heartless sons who no longer live here.

She is a smart girl since the location she's chosen is nicely hidden and, therefore -- if all goes well --  will be subjected to nothing more shocking than Seth scurrying naked into the hot tub every evening a little past sundown. If I can take it, so can she.

Sylvia apparently has already laid her eggs because she spends most of her day sitting in the nest. We spend most of our day admiring her.

And what's not to admire? Not only is she very pretty but she's stalwart and vigilant--leaving only to snack and briefly stretch her wings, impressing us no end by what appear to be 45 degree turns as she shifts her warmth to evenly incubate her eggs.

Seth and I comment happily to one another about her focus and determination as she stares straight ahead, clearly in some sort of DNA induced avian trance.

We were planning on power washing and restaining the deck this week in preparation for the season but now will wait, however long it takes, for Sylvia to not only hatch her babies but until they fly away to have families of their own.

The dreaded
empty nest.

I sincerely hope both Sylvia and I can endure it when they go.

I know I will relive the trauma of Tommy leaving home to become a hoodlum in the Bronx and how painful it was to deposit Charlie at college where he learned important lessons like how to smoke a hookah.

I may run after the little robins and implore them to stay, waving my arms and sobbing, just like I did when Tom and Charlie put me through this. Experience tells me that they will fly just like the boys, despite the tears and pleading.



Don't even think it,
Bluejays.



Until then, Seth and I will continue to take turns sitting under the deck with a rifle pointed at that blue jay stronghold in the oak tree and police the grounds for rodents who may loiter below, hoping for a baby to tumble to the ground after an unsuccessful flight, God forbid. No one will dare mess with Sylvia while Seth and I are around.

Sleep well tonight, Sylvia, we've got your back.

Sylvia sitting in her nest beneath the deck.

Susan Says Goes to Washington...

I recently took a break from this blog so that Seth and I could visit the boys as well as enjoy a family reunion of sorts down in Washington, D.C.

I thought the entire experience would help refill the depleted vessel of my creativity and provide me with blog topics for weeks, if not months, to come.

After all, I'd be doing a lot of driving, which -- in the past -- has given me ample material: left lane laggers, non-yielders, women putting on mascara while doing 90 all make for some good snarky stuff.

Everyone was
very polite...

But people on the road were on excellent behavior. They moved out of my way accommodatingly when I bore down on them with my hi-beams blazing, were pleasant at merges and waved me in repeatedly when I attempted to join traffic.

What the hell?

Surely the hotel would provide some fodder...idiots in the elevator, a bad mattress, a nasty desk clerk perhaps? Nope. While extremely crowded for the Easter weekend, people in the elevator were festive and pleasant, the mattress was exceptionally comfortable and I slept like a baby and the front desk staff was gracious to the point where they kind of scared me.

Bad food in the restaurants? Nope. Horrible babies banging spoons and howling? No. There were babies but they were the best behaved damn babies I've ever seen. And if one of these magical babies even so much as looked as if they were going to blow, they were whisked away by attentive and considerate parents.



Many of the babies wore
 tuxedos and carried
walking sticks.



What was going on here??

Lousy waiters? No again. Gracious and attentive, they brought extra parmesan without being asked, made sure my water glass was filled and picked up my napkin every time it slid off my lap.

Did Tom or Charlie do anything to piss me off? No, the bastards. How about Seth? I couldn't even count on him.

This should have
been me.

Like most Americans, I was starting to suspect a plot.

And, thanks to my lovely niece, Lauren, we had a series of government tours scheduled. Here, surely, there would be some mishap--an unintentional security breach ending with me in a strait jacket, being wheeled out on a dolly after being tasered.

There would certainly be some pratfall where I crashed down marble stairs, landing on a precious antique or a confrontation between me and Bo the White House Dog after he smelled cat on my pants hems and attacked me, both of us ending up on the front page of the Washington Post....

But no.

I smell those cats
but I'm a Democrat.

While I admit that the security guards and Secret Service (despite their recent interest in South American prostitutes) have absolutely no sense of humor, I sailed though the metal detectors without a hitch, kept my footing on the stairs and was ignored by Bo despite, at one point, actually being within smelling distance of him.

In fact, our tour of the White House was perfect. Inspiring. Moving. We stood where JFK conferred with his brother by the Rose Garden, leaned into the Oval Office for a long look and stood in the lobby where foreign dignitaries are seated as they wait for the president to receive them.

We stood here.

Jokes were put aside as I gazed through the same windows as FDR, DDE, JFK and LBJ had during their administrations.*

Our tour of the Capitol the following day was equally stirring. My normal jackal-like sense of humor was on hold and my hyena calls of laughter were silenced as we quietly walked through the beautiful hallways of Congress.

I even passed Nancy Pelosi's office without having to squelch a single wisecrack.

We sat in the cool dimness of the House floor and while, for a fleeting moment my hushed conversation with my sister did touch on digestive difficulties occasionally experienced when away from home, mostly we just thought about the history that had been made within the walls of this great chamber.

The back of Mount
Vernon faces the Potomac.

We rounded out our weekend with a trip to Mount Vernon, the magnificent home of George Washington without me making a single comment about wooden teeth. We just soaked it all in....the beauty, the history, the leadership and sacrifice of the man who had gazed at the Potomac from his back porch and died upstairs in the sunny bedroom we'd respectfully filed past.

I am obviously going to have to pick a fight at Walmart, slip in some cat vomit or torture Seth in some way in order to provide a new stream of blog topics since everything went so well in Washington.

Hey, I see a patch of cat vomit now...wish me luck!

*This would have been a perfect place to insert (hahahaha) something about what Bill Clinton might have gazed upon while Monica was under the desk but, in the solemn spirit of this post, I will not do so.

I'm very sorry but this was too good to leave out.

The Pillow

Grandma, age 13.

My pillow and I rarely spend a night apart and, since I have been away from my keyboard lately, I thought you might enjoy this archived post...especially since it's from very early in the life of this blog and many of you had not yet discovered "Susan Says..." See you very soon!

My grandmother brought some interesting stuff across the ocean. Arriving from Hungary in New York City in 1916 and, apparently unfamiliar with the concept of packing light, she brought many things from her old home to her new. One thing that made the trip is still in daily use by me today—the down in my pillow. 

    

An old steamer trunk

Hungarian down, like other things Hungarian—our tempers, good complexions (except in my case, thanks for nothing, DNA) and our ability to follow you into a revolving door yet, somehow, come out first—is very famous. The down must have been considered precious even then because it made its way across the ocean, safely packed inside my grandmother’s  steamer  trunk. This trunk, by the way, was built to last. It looks like something from a movie with its huge domed lid and exaggerated hardware. I could use it when I travel but pirates would think I was hiding my doubloons in it and this might cause a stir.

    

Down can have a very long life if treated properly. 

Until several years ago, I would make the trip back to my old neighborhood of Boro Park in Brooklyn and hand over my pillow, drool stains and all, to a stooped gentleman who would remove the down from its case, put it into some sort of magical machine, sterilize it and return it to me in a fresh ticking. I have slept on that down since I was old enough to sleep on a pillow. It knows more about me than any living human, having faithfully absorbed my pre-sleep thoughts from tiny-hood to today. I have a hard time sleeping on anything else. God help poor Seth if I come to bed and find that he has mistakenly fallen asleep on it. I will pull it out from under his head and laugh cruelly as he blinks in confusion. It’s my pillow, get off.

Hungarian geese are
famous for the quality
of their down.

    

Pillows matter. 

Without the proper pillow, a bad night is confirmed. Hence, upon arriving at a hotel recently in Washington DC, I eyed the pillows on my bed suspiciously. Artfully arranged in a white pile of fluffiness, I knew that their style would outweigh their sleepability.  I had forgotten, in my haste, to bring my pillow along and had little choice but to try each one before making my selection.  One was too firm, others too soft, too small or too square…none were right and as a result, I was not good company at breakfast.

    

I usually remember to bring my old friend with me. It gets all dressed up in the pillowcase I keep just for such occasions so that it can feel proud when it meets the other pillows and not be embarrassed in the elevator.  If we stay for a few nights, I always fear that the maid will either mock it or, depending on her ability to discern fine Hungarian down, steal it. After all, I have known this pillow longer than my husband or children.

    

Once, I left it in a hotel and only realized it was missing when I got sleepy in the car.  It was all I could do not to call the local police and demand that the hotel be put in lockdown. Instead, I called the front desk to alert them, describing it in detail (“it’s delightful and fluffy and soft and lovely”) lest it be mistaken for a pillow of lesser importance.  Indeed, they located jt and it was waiting for us, sealed--heartlessly-- in a plastic bag. And it only took us four hours out of our way.

    

 I realize that nothing lasts forever. The man with the magical down sterilizing machine has disappeared like so much else from a bygone era. The day I say goodbye to that pillow will be a sad one. Its contents started out on the tummy of a white goose from the Carpathian Mountains in rural Hungary and traveled across a turbulent ocean in the trunk of a dark-eyed 16 year old girl who had no idea what awaited her in  America. It eventually cushioned the dreams of her granddaughter who has held fast to not only the physical comfort it has provided but the intangible comfort of continuity, family and the determination to survive a trip from the old world to the new. Lofty concepts for just a pillow, I know…..but it’s not just any pillow.  It’s seen the world.

The Stoop, Part II

My stoop, after a big snow.

"Susan Says..." is still out in the field, so here's the second installment of "The Stoop." I hope you enjoy it and look forward to seeing you with a new post on Thursday...

First kisses, games, performances of popular music of the day--I am not the only one who enjoyed and, subsequently, treasures the memories of a special stoop. I may, however, be the only one to have made a gruesome discovery on a trip back to my old house.

Other...

On a sunny day, a few years after the brownstone of my youth was sold by my aunt, I packed up my two boys to visit the old neighborhood. I had moved out of New York City but occasionally returned to my old stomping grounds to visit, shop and buy a specific pastry only found in the local bakeries (something heavenly I always called a "chocolate bell"--a moist, rich hunk of chocolate cake topped by a dollop of chocolate cream and totally enrobed in dense, shiny chocolate ganache---in the shape of a bell.The chocolate bell is, perhaps, the greatest invention of mankind edging out penicillin and the light bulb by a crumb) and gaze lovingly at the exterior of my old house and, of course, actively hate the new people inside.

On this fateful afternoon, I pull into the spot by the fire hydrant directly in front of the house and look upward only to get one of the most extreme shocks of my life as well as a whole new reason to hate--and plot to murder--the people now occupying my former address. Brace yourselves, stoop lovers--the stoop was gone.



....Brooklyn

Completely. Lopped off. No more. In it's place was a paved parking spot. Gone, also, was the silver maple I had planted when I was four and which had grown into a magnificent shade tree. Gone was the small garden with the mock orange bush. Gone were the four o'clocks, the irises, the wild chives and the clumps of purple violets. Gone.

The front of the house had been redone entirely. The only entrance was on the ground floor now. I think I blacked out because I, literally, don't remember what happened next. It must have involved some form of hysteria because I had black trails of mascara running down my cheeks and the kids were screaming.

My stoop was gone. The lions, gone. Where were they? In a dump? Their granite faces staring at nothing from the bottom of a mountain of refuse. I am feeling faint just writing this.

....stoops.

The house is like a body without a head now. I still visit the street and sit sadly in front. Yes, I believe in progress. And, yes, I know the value of a place to park but to remove a stoop is a criminal action. I am too scared to ring the bell and try to talk to the monsters within so I just sit and think awful thoughts about them. Often my grown sons accompany me. Only the older of the two ever played in that now-spectral front yard but both share my sense of loss.

Even in its wildest dreams, my stoop never imagined an internet that would host its tribute. I will return again to sit and hate the people who removed it and then drown my sorrows in a chocolate bell...or three.

I will also enjoy my memories--when my block was the most beautiful place in the world and I was the ruling princess of an artfully built structure made of limestone and sandstone known by the term "stoop." To exist in memory is not such a bad thing, I suppose....especially when the memories are as good as mine.

The Stoop



My own personal lions



"Susan Says..." is heading out into the field for a few days to gather material for more blog posts. In the meantime, I am posting a few old favorites. I hope you enjoy them!

I recently received a comment about a photo I posted of the house in which I grew up. More accurately, it was a photo of the stoop.

To the rest of the country, the word "stoop" means to bend slightly, lowering oneself to an acceptable level to accomplish a specific task. Or, simply, to slightly droop about the head and shoulders. To New Yorkers, past and present, it means something entirely different.

A "stoop"--technically, a small concrete platform leading to the entrance of one's home, is infinitely more than its definition. It is often the social hub of your existence--especially,but not exclusively,in the warmer months. Elevated and removed from the activity of the streets below, my stoop--guarded by a pair of dignified stone lions--was the safe perch from where, for many years, I observed the world.

Sitting with any one of an assorted number of family, neighbors or friends, I watched life stream by. In the summer, there was the parade of strap hangers returning from work after a steamy ride on the "B" train--the crispness of their morning pep, significanlty compromised by the crowded ride over the bridge. I anticipated the daily line-up (the "elevated" was just down the street) and the regulars became the cast members of my daily life. Occasionally, people we knew would take a few minutes to climb halfway up to fill us in on the happenings in "the city." Who needed a newspaper when you had a stoop?

The stoop was a place to read--- the "Little House" series or the Tolkien trilogy and, later, magazines like Glamour or Seventeen where I gazed longingly at the long legs and straight teeth of the models on the glossy pages. Back then, I would have traded those attributes for my stoop despite how I loved it. The stoop understood, silently accepting my adolescence and waiting for it to pass.

Stoops are for courting, as well...and telling secrets. They are for eating an ice cream cone (bought from Bernie's on the corner) or, if it's hot enough inside, an entire meal, balanced on one's knees. Long before I was born, my grandmother would sleep out there on the hottest summer nights, waiting for a breeze. Believe it or not, if the wind was exactly right, you could get a whiff of the ocean--or the garbage dump, if the wind was wrong--from my stoop, as well.

Stoops are for giggling at your neighbor's new haircut or sitting on all night during a blackout in July. They absorb tears, too but prefer laughter as you brace your feet on the limestone ledge, scooting over on the step to make room for your mother's folding chair or your cousins, visiting their grandma next door.

In tomorrow's post, I will tell you what happened to my stoop....stay tuned.

A Case of Mistaken Identity

Yesterday, Seth and I were involved in assorted around-the-house maintenance.

 It was typical weekend stuff--minor chores, minor errands, the occasional cruel mind game...the usual. 

Halfway through the day, somewhere between genuine productivity and the traditional slow-down of post-lunch afternoon, he insisted that I meet outside so he could "ask" me something.

He sounded irked.

Busy as a bee, I kept telling him I'd "be out in a minute" only to have  his annoyance grow as a few hours ticked by before I stumbled out in the backyard with him.

Before me was a tableau of destruction. There was the heavy metal barrel -- with the tight lid -- we keep on the deck. It had recently been refilled with seed for our hungry bird pals...but, what was this?

It appeared to have been hurled down the stairs, the lid pried off and the seed strewn about in a five foot periphery, black sunflower seed everywhere. The scoop was halfway across the yard.

"Did you do this?" Seth asked me with disgust, gesturing dramatically to the destruction.

"Yes, Seth, I did," I admitted, turning to go back into the house.

I also wash apples in the stream with my tiny hands before I eat them, wear a black mask and have a fluffy ringed tail.