Neruda was boring; I turned it off. The man with the golden arm holds up because of the great acting; these days, the story is rather tame, but in its day it was controversial. I didn't watch the other two.
Sunday, March 31, 2019
Upstate cinema
Neruda was boring; I turned it off. The man with the golden arm holds up because of the great acting; these days, the story is rather tame, but in its day it was controversial. I didn't watch the other two.
Tuesday, March 26, 2019
Cypress Hills
Deep in the middle of Long Island, straddling the Queens-Brooklyn border, sit two cemeteries, both named Cypress Hills: one is a national burial ground, the second a rural cemetery established in the middle of the 19th century.
Cypress Hills National Cemetery was designated a military burial ground for Union soldiers in 1862, during the Civil War. It sits within what was and remains a rural cemetery, bestride the Queens-Brooklyn border. In 1884 a new 15-acre tract just a mile away was added to expand the cemetery.
This, for me, is the quintessential view: when I visited Arlington National Cemetery, whenever I see a filmed story about it, what is eternally striking is the symmetry of the headstones. No matter which way you look, what angle you take, the headstones are perfectly aligned. That is precisely the case in Cypress Hills, as well.
In this first photo I'm standing with my back to Jamaica Avenue, looking north; in the background, the ground rises gently toward the Jackie Robinson Parkway; the grave of Harry Houdini is on the other side of that road.
I started my afternoon visit to Cypress Hills by driving from Flushing on the Grand Central Parkway, connecting to the Jackie Robinson Parkway, and exiting at Cypress Hills Street. With the aid of my maps app, I managed to drive in the right direction (after an initial wrong turn; it's uncanny, as soon as I reach Brooklyn I feel lost: must be my Queens-centrism). Reaching Jamaica Avenue, I took a right turn; just to my left ran the M elevated subway line. As I waited for a traffic light to change, I heard the familiar clacking of subway cars on steel tracks.
The National Cemetery is an impressive sight, an endless array of perfectly symmetrical rows upon rows of small white marble headstones — but here and there I saw exceptions, differences. In this photo I am standing on the rise adjacent to the Jackie Robinson, looking south.
I remember when I visited Cypress Hills several years back, for the first time, I spoke to a man who worked for the National Cemetery Administration. He told me that at some point those exceptions stopped being allowed. In the picture above, it's easy to spot the exceptions; clearly, they break the continuity of the array.
This is an example of those few headstones which don't conform the the symmetry (no disrespect intended toward First Lieutenant McCallum, of course).
I also found a couple of dozen markers in memory of French soldiers, as explained below:
I left the National Cemetery, turned left onto Jamaica Avenue, and drove less than half a mile to Cypress Hills Cemetery.
As are Maple Grove (Queens), Green-Wood (Brooklyn), and Woodlawn (Bronx), Cypress Hills is a rural cemetery within the boundaries of New York City. I parked, and walked into the office; I asked for a map, and was graciously given a map and a brochure detailing the sections and highlights of notable people buried inside the cemetery.
First, Jackie Robinson. There isn't much I can add to the long biography of this great American. Simply, he was the first black player in professional baseball (long, esoteric discussions can be had to qualify that statement, but I will not do so). What he had to endure is unimaginable, even to someone, me, who remembers seeing news reports of police in American cities using water cannon and attack dogs to try to intimidate American citizens who were simply asking for equal rights (including the right to vote). Yet, he did it. He played baseball for the Brooklyn Dodgers, and in doing so he revolutionized America.
What I find ironic, and particularly enjoy, is that Jackie is actually buried in Queens. As a Flushing guy, I get a chuckle from that. And I see a connection: after the Dodgers and Giants abandoned New York City for the climes of California, New York was awarded a new team, and that team became the New York Mets, who play ball in Flushing, about a mile from where I live. In a final twist, Jackie, who hailed from California, did not accept being traded by the Dodgers to the Giants, forever remaining a Brooklyn ballplayer.
As I drove along the winding roads inside Cypress Hills I came to a spot which well illustrates the cemetery's name:
Looking south, across Brooklyn and southern Queens, far off in the distance are Jamaica Bay and Rockaway.
Continuing on, to the original national burial ground, I found this interpretive sign:
I have studied the US Civil War closely (in fact, at times I feel I devoted too much time to that task, and came to feel burnt out with detail). I readily confess a bias for the Union; in fact, one of the reasons I stopped attending Civil War Round Tables after a number of years of enjoying doing so was my feeling that the Southern rebellion was regarded too readily as admirable. I was never a fan of the idea of the Lost Cause: to me, a dozen states instigated and carried out a rebellion against their own country in defense of slavery, and lost. Yet, I listened to the words and example of President Abraham Lincoln, who counseled the nation toward reconciliation.
A week ago, when I visited Maple Grove Cemetery and saw a Confederate gravestone, I admit I was annoyed — yes, all these years later, I still resented that. So I decided to go back to Cypress Hills and find Union graves. When I parked my car and walked over to the original Union burial ground, I saw Confederate headstones, then read this interpretive sign. Toward Reconciliation
The reason why Confederate soldiers are buried in a New York cemetery is obvious: prisoners who died in custody.
These are graves of U.S. Army soldiers who died during the Civil War; among them are Confederates who died in custody (notice the differing shapes of the headstones):
I remember seeing Confederate soldier burial plots inside cemeteries I visited in the South; I specifically recall seeing one in Riverside Cemetery, in Asheville, North Carolina (where we had gone to visit the grave of Thomas Wolfe). I have not seen Union graves therein; I wonder if there are any?
Vicksburg National Cemetery History I find this interesting reading (not entirely in a positive way).
I searched for other graves in Cypress Hills. I thought I was close, but could not find the grave of Nella Larsen, a Harlem Renaissance writer whose biography I found some few years back when I was working as a librarian.
Many other notable citizens are buried in Cypress Hills, a cemetery which remains open to interments in the present day.
Cypress Hills National Cemetery was designated a military burial ground for Union soldiers in 1862, during the Civil War. It sits within what was and remains a rural cemetery, bestride the Queens-Brooklyn border. In 1884 a new 15-acre tract just a mile away was added to expand the cemetery.
This, for me, is the quintessential view: when I visited Arlington National Cemetery, whenever I see a filmed story about it, what is eternally striking is the symmetry of the headstones. No matter which way you look, what angle you take, the headstones are perfectly aligned. That is precisely the case in Cypress Hills, as well.
In this first photo I'm standing with my back to Jamaica Avenue, looking north; in the background, the ground rises gently toward the Jackie Robinson Parkway; the grave of Harry Houdini is on the other side of that road.
I started my afternoon visit to Cypress Hills by driving from Flushing on the Grand Central Parkway, connecting to the Jackie Robinson Parkway, and exiting at Cypress Hills Street. With the aid of my maps app, I managed to drive in the right direction (after an initial wrong turn; it's uncanny, as soon as I reach Brooklyn I feel lost: must be my Queens-centrism). Reaching Jamaica Avenue, I took a right turn; just to my left ran the M elevated subway line. As I waited for a traffic light to change, I heard the familiar clacking of subway cars on steel tracks.
The National Cemetery is an impressive sight, an endless array of perfectly symmetrical rows upon rows of small white marble headstones — but here and there I saw exceptions, differences. In this photo I am standing on the rise adjacent to the Jackie Robinson, looking south.
I remember when I visited Cypress Hills several years back, for the first time, I spoke to a man who worked for the National Cemetery Administration. He told me that at some point those exceptions stopped being allowed. In the picture above, it's easy to spot the exceptions; clearly, they break the continuity of the array.
I left the National Cemetery, turned left onto Jamaica Avenue, and drove less than half a mile to Cypress Hills Cemetery.
As are Maple Grove (Queens), Green-Wood (Brooklyn), and Woodlawn (Bronx), Cypress Hills is a rural cemetery within the boundaries of New York City. I parked, and walked into the office; I asked for a map, and was graciously given a map and a brochure detailing the sections and highlights of notable people buried inside the cemetery.
First, Jackie Robinson. There isn't much I can add to the long biography of this great American. Simply, he was the first black player in professional baseball (long, esoteric discussions can be had to qualify that statement, but I will not do so). What he had to endure is unimaginable, even to someone, me, who remembers seeing news reports of police in American cities using water cannon and attack dogs to try to intimidate American citizens who were simply asking for equal rights (including the right to vote). Yet, he did it. He played baseball for the Brooklyn Dodgers, and in doing so he revolutionized America.
What I find ironic, and particularly enjoy, is that Jackie is actually buried in Queens. As a Flushing guy, I get a chuckle from that. And I see a connection: after the Dodgers and Giants abandoned New York City for the climes of California, New York was awarded a new team, and that team became the New York Mets, who play ball in Flushing, about a mile from where I live. In a final twist, Jackie, who hailed from California, did not accept being traded by the Dodgers to the Giants, forever remaining a Brooklyn ballplayer.
As I drove along the winding roads inside Cypress Hills I came to a spot which well illustrates the cemetery's name:
Continuing on, to the original national burial ground, I found this interpretive sign:
I have studied the US Civil War closely (in fact, at times I feel I devoted too much time to that task, and came to feel burnt out with detail). I readily confess a bias for the Union; in fact, one of the reasons I stopped attending Civil War Round Tables after a number of years of enjoying doing so was my feeling that the Southern rebellion was regarded too readily as admirable. I was never a fan of the idea of the Lost Cause: to me, a dozen states instigated and carried out a rebellion against their own country in defense of slavery, and lost. Yet, I listened to the words and example of President Abraham Lincoln, who counseled the nation toward reconciliation.
A week ago, when I visited Maple Grove Cemetery and saw a Confederate gravestone, I admit I was annoyed — yes, all these years later, I still resented that. So I decided to go back to Cypress Hills and find Union graves. When I parked my car and walked over to the original Union burial ground, I saw Confederate headstones, then read this interpretive sign. Toward Reconciliation
The reason why Confederate soldiers are buried in a New York cemetery is obvious: prisoners who died in custody.
Just as in the National Cemetery, in this original national burial ground headstones are arrayed symmetrically:Unlike many other national cemeteries where Confederates are buried in separate sections, here they are intermingled among the Union dead. Union or Confederate, soldiers were interred in the order the cemetery caretaker received them. Many Confederates were buried here at the time of their death.
These are graves of U.S. Army soldiers who died during the Civil War; among them are Confederates who died in custody (notice the differing shapes of the headstones):
I remember seeing Confederate soldier burial plots inside cemeteries I visited in the South; I specifically recall seeing one in Riverside Cemetery, in Asheville, North Carolina (where we had gone to visit the grave of Thomas Wolfe). I have not seen Union graves therein; I wonder if there are any?
Vicksburg National Cemetery History I find this interesting reading (not entirely in a positive way).
I searched for other graves in Cypress Hills. I thought I was close, but could not find the grave of Nella Larsen, a Harlem Renaissance writer whose biography I found some few years back when I was working as a librarian.
Many other notable citizens are buried in Cypress Hills, a cemetery which remains open to interments in the present day.
Wednesday, March 20, 2019
Confederate in a Queens cemetery
Just make sure you're out before five, the security guard with a foreign accent who sat in an old sedan retorted when I asked him if it'd be alright to just park over there. He was merely doing his job, and having done it, went on his way, and let me go on my quest.
I drove from my Flushing home, along familiar streets, getting close to Queens College Library School, my Alma Mater; when I attended, parking was so bad, I wouldn't even bother crossing over the Long Island Expressway (the vaunted and disparaged L.I.E.) to look for a spot. Doesn't appear to have changed. All of that is now so much water (or traffic, as it were) under the bridge.
I didn't laugh when I saw a dozen cars waiting to get onto the already traffic-choked LIE lanes; I mean it (I did not laugh, but, oh, yeah, I did smirk). I just went on, past Main Street, over to College Point Boulevard (I haven't discussed it much, but have mentioned the provenance of its name), and took a left turn.
There is a service road which runs along the Van Wyck (as in bike, remember; not as in wick) Expressway, and as I drove along it and saw the standing-still traffic on that wretched road, I guffawed; indeed I did.
Curious, isn't it, how many words we can come up with to not say laugh over and over; something I try not to do, as a fledgling novelist — yeah, me too, one among a million, or maybe nine million, who proposes to write the next Great American Novel (I have two great candidates I haven't quite finished, plus one admittedly mediocre candidate I might never bother to).
So I guffawed. I might've even laughed. I drove past Forest Hills High School, where I once played as a fullback on the Bayside High School Commodores soccer team; I'm fairly sure we won the game, but, no, I did not star or score a hat trick; it was where Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel went to school — yes, that Simon and Garfunkel.
I drove across Queens Boulevard, took a wide left turn, and got onto Kew Gardens Road, with the help of my GPS app and a dollop of good luck. I kept on past heavy traffic and a truck in the right lane taking a left turn after beeping at a station wagon with the nerve to take a left turn from the left lane. I crept past construction, headed for 127-15 Kew Gardens Rd, Kew Gardens, NY 11415, except there was an entrance I just passed. I went another half block, took a U-turn a couple of drivers didn't much like (I ignored them), and headed back to an entrance near 82nd Avenue. I found a place to park and a security guard gave me gruff approval — which I've already said. So I set out, on foot.
Maple Grove is a rural cemetery. That means there is plenty of open verdant space. I am not an expert on cemeteries, though I have visited quite a few. Rural cemeteries have paths and lawns and open space, welcoming those people who wish to visit their departed dear ones, and those who perhaps will stay a while and explore.
I remember the first time Laura and I went to Mexico we took a bus ride on what turned out to be the Day of the Dead, El Día de Los Muertos. On the bus there were many people who were very nicely dressed and carried elaborate floral arrangements. Suddenly the bus reached a particular stop, and those people poured out, crossed the highway, and went into a cemetery. We had what some people refer to as an aha moment.(Later that day we took a walk in Ajijic, where we were staying — which is a whole other story — down to the zocalo, the town square equivalent to the Italian piazza, I'd say; every town and city on Mexico has a zocalo There we found los muertos.
There are quite a few rural cemeteries here in New York City. Maple Grove isn't even the only rural cemetery on Queens. In other boroughs, there are other rural cemeteries: Green-Wood in Brooklyn, and Woodlawn in Bronx — even Manhattan, that other borough, has one, Trinity Cemetery; no, not the one down by Wall Street, but up on 155th Street and Broadway, yes, that same street as downtown.
Now, back to that Confederate in our midst. I'd like to find out why a former Rebel, who died nearly three decades after the Civil War ended, is buried in a civilian cemetery, with a military headstone.
Juxtaposed, I found this Story Stone, as they're called in Maple Grove. I thought it poignant and particularly apt.
Others buried in Maple Grove include: George Washington Johnson, the first black recording artist; unknown African Americans; European immigrants, actors, and architects; Coleman and and Julius Cizto, father and son, assistants to Nikola Tesla; Anthony Mason and Pearl Washington, New York City kids who played public school basketball and made it to the NBA, both dying young. And these, who headstones I photographed:
Doctor Zachariah Dennler, whose medical probe removed the bullet from President Abraham Lincoln's brain.
George W. Corliss, winner of the Medal of Honor for his heroic actions during the Battle of Cedar Mountain, in Virginia on 9 August 1862 (giving the Union Army more than deserved equal time).
I also managed to find, just minutes before five, what is called a Great Tree of NYC, a red oak nine stories tall, with a circumference of 55 inches.
My ride back was uneventful. With the help of the maps app and my familiarity with this section of Queens, I got back to Union Turnpike, scooted over to Main Street, and took that street back to Flushing.
As the bathroom in Maple Grove wasn't open, I decided to visit the QBPL Queensboro Hill branch. The building was constructed in 1980, and has about 8,300 square feet. It has a similar architectural style as other library branches I've visited recently: boxy, straight lines, plain façade. One feature I liked was its use of skylights: the feel and look of sunlight pouring inside is invigorating, and brightens the room.
That's a Q44 SBS headed toward Main Street, coming from Jamaica. I took a Q44 to Parkchester a few weeks ago, that very same line.
Monday, March 18, 2019
Cinema weekend
I often find it appropriate to quote Captain Renault from Casablanca (I am shocked there is gambling going on in here), especially connected to politics (a politician accusing another politician of playing politics evokes a hearty, cynical, laugh from me). That's my favorite Bogart film, and Bacall isn't in it. I like to watch it, but not too often.
When I worked at Hewlett Woodmere Library, I could just walk over to its hefty film collection (born of its generous budget), and peruse it; choices were many and myriad: new films, older films, documentaries and collections and television series (aside from its DVD collection, HWPL was building a Blu Ray collection, as well). It was easy to choose something. I don't work there anymore, and now need to choose from QBPL's holdings. I've adjusted.
Last Saturday I found a few films I liked. Today I returned them all, except for The Big Sleep.
My Architect I had seen before, yet wanted to see it again. It's Nathaniel Kahn's paean to his father, Louis Kahn. It's an interesting film, and Kahn senior designed Four Freedoms Park, a memorial to my third favorite US President (Washington, Lincoln, Franklin Roosevelt).
As I walked to the Mitchell-Linden branch I noticed that the DVD had come from the Queensboro Hill branch. 60-05 is a strange address, for those of us who know Queens (or, as it turned out, those who think we know our fair borough). Again I learned a lesson.
I didn't watch The Last Waltz. I had seen Scorsese act in Guilty by Suspicion, and reserved the film. I remember loving it, but its time has passed, for me.
Now, Ant-Man I did watch, and I enjoyed it. Curiously, I liked its sequel better, yet I quite enjoyed this one. Recently I watched two others of this ilk, films based on comic book superhero figures (Black Panther and Green Lantern), and didn't like either, turning both off rather quickly. I found the latter inane, and the former fatuous. But the insect I really liked.
The two books are quite interesting. Knife Fights I found indirectly; I read John Nagl's op-ed in the New York Times (Jim Mattis and I fought together. No one called him Mad Dog) on 23 December 2018, and decided to read his book. I found it absorbing, if somewhat too detailed in places.
In his book, Nagl referred in passing to the other book, A time for gifts (subtitled On foot to Constantinople: from the Hook of Holland to the Middle Danube). It is a travelogue, and I love travel books. Yet I have never read a book quite like this one. Rather amazingly, I found it as an ebook, and I utterly and thoroughly enjoyed reading it.
The two books are quite interesting. Knife Fights I found indirectly; I read John Nagl's op-ed in the New York Times (Jim Mattis and I fought together. No one called him Mad Dog) on 23 December 2018, and decided to read his book. I found it absorbing, if somewhat too detailed in places.
In his book, Nagl referred in passing to the other book, A time for gifts (subtitled On foot to Constantinople: from the Hook of Holland to the Middle Danube). It is a travelogue, and I love travel books. Yet I have never read a book quite like this one. Rather amazingly, I found it as an ebook, and I utterly and thoroughly enjoyed reading it.
Libraries are great resources.
Saturday, March 16, 2019
Eating Queens
There are many restaurant choices in downtown Flushing; too many to choose from without a guiding hand. This Saturday we took a bus down to Main Street, walked a few blocks (passing many eateries), and found a food court at 42-35.
We walked past a few eateries, including:
Just didn't know quite what to make of it. A few yards further on was Dumpling Galaxy, our chosen destination; we sat down, and ordered dinner: duck and mushroom dumplings 香菇鴨肉, lamb with green squash dumplings 羊肉西葫, and pan-fried cod.
The duck dumplings are served upside down, the cod with peanuts and chilies.
Delicious. I love cilantro, but this stuff was just for show; I ate a couple of sprigs, then set it aside, not wanting to be distracted from the main attraction: the fish was huge, perfectly crisp, succulent, and the peanuts were luscious (the slices of chili peppers were mostly for show). I would definitely go back, except there are so many restaurants to try.
We walked past a few eateries, including:
Just didn't know quite what to make of it. A few yards further on was Dumpling Galaxy, our chosen destination; we sat down, and ordered dinner: duck and mushroom dumplings 香菇鴨肉, lamb with green squash dumplings 羊肉西葫, and pan-fried cod.
Delicious. I love cilantro, but this stuff was just for show; I ate a couple of sprigs, then set it aside, not wanting to be distracted from the main attraction: the fish was huge, perfectly crisp, succulent, and the peanuts were luscious (the slices of chili peppers were mostly for show). I would definitely go back, except there are so many restaurants to try.
Friday, March 15, 2019
Three QBPL branches in South Eastern Queens
This Friday I visited three libraries in Southeastern Queens neighborhoods I know from my travels. Hollis and St. Albans are black neighborhoods, and more: for many years in the XXth century, jazz musicians made their homes here (why is open to conjecture and easy, though perhaps glib, guesses.). But these were not just musicians, but jazz royalty: Coltrane, Basie, Ella, Lena, Milt Hinton, and Fats Waller.
My first stop was the Hollis branch of QBPL. As I've written before, defining a neighborhood can be tricky: google maps places this QBPL branch outside its definition of Hollis. Wikipedia has two zip codes for Hollis: 11412 and 11423, and the latter includes the public library. Searching census.gov for data on the zip codes doesn't clarify matters, and no maps are included.
As Wikipedia has it, Hollis is a residential middle-class predominantly African-American neighborhood ... with small minorities of Hispanics and Indians. I agree. I parked a long block away from the library, off Hillside Avenue (the major thoroughfare in the neighborhood). As I walked from my car an adorable girl who might've been three engaged me; as she babbled she reminded me of my grandson, who isn't yet two, but is as cute as that girl. Her sari-clad mother seemed pleased by our conversation; I know I was.
I mustn't be so harsh in my judgements, I suppose. Yet I must add that in this picture the library looks better than I did when I went there. It has an institutional feel, and that is not meant as a compliment.
Inside, it resembled other QBPL libraries I've visited recently. A librarian's desk, shelving with books and films and music, material displays, and computers. It is one large room divided into sections by imaginary boundaries. The building area measures 7,500 square feet — which doesn't sound as small as its 92 feet x 89 feet size; it's small.
Just one big square room.
Yet I felt comfortable in it. Having worked as a librarian for twelve years, having attended library school in my 50s as I transitioned from an unsatisfying business career terminated by yet another corporate downsizing, I well know how public libraries fit into our society: reluctantly accepted as necessary by many, grudgingly funded, their budgets are early victims to belt-tightening at precisely such times when people can most benefit from their resources.
A couple of decades ago New York City libraries had their hours slashed, budgets lacerated as politicians sought to stanch red ink and punish those least capable of voting them out of office. Taxes are abated for business which don't need the help but desire it, while kids and parents are told tough it out, we all have to tighten out belts.
I'm reminded of the song Somebody else's troubles by Steve Goodman, a singer whose work I loved; he sang
Anyway. I mustn't get serious or nostalgic, I suppose, though I'm allowed, cause it's my blog. Back to libraries.
I headed back to my car after using the bathroom —facilities, rest room; we're still stuck on not saying that word — and returning the key, which was attached that that thingamajig which holds books at the end of a shelf. I said to the librarian, well, that won't get away, and she said to me that is actually a replacement; the prior one, I joined her in saying developed wings. We librarians know about books and DVDs and bathroom keys which magically disappear.
Heading out, I passed this pitiable sight. I gotta admit, and do readily, that (as usual) I am damned sick of winter; but this is pitiful, a few square feet onto which people mindlessly throw this thrash and dogs pee on —this is a garden? My old suburban library had a nice garden tended to by conscientious librarians (there aren't many of any other kind, I well know), and that garden was larger. But I suppose you gotta take what you can get.
I walked back to my car, and headed south, not along traffic-chocked Francis Lewis Boulevard, but along side streets: I know this part of Queens well enough to feel comfortable driving, especially with my map app as co-pilot.
Across Hollis Avenue, I found a parking spot on 204th Street, across from the Renaissance Middle School. Walking back to Hollis Avenue, and took a picture:
That this library building was constructed in 1974 does not surprise me; what is a surprise is that it was renovated in 2009 — really? Renovated? How did it look in 2008?
Remember Vince Piranha? Cruel, but just.
On walking inside the library, I saw th usual arrangement: computers, a Teens section, shelved with books and media — and a ping pong table. Say again? I was taken aback, to say the least. Looking around for a bathroom key, I kept glancing at it.
Sir? a soft, resounding, gentle baritone asked; when I said I was looking for the rest room key he told me there was no key. I went in, still thinking about what I'd just seen. When I went back out I walked over to the librarian's desk — I didn't need a sign to tell me whom that was — and said, I must tell you this is the first time I've seen a ping pong table inside a library.
In the Phoenicia Library, upstate, I've seen fishing tackle and ukuleles, but I have never seen a ping pong table inside a library.
That led to a long conversation. Mister Reginald St. Fort s the Community Library Manager (I like that title), and he is a presence. Affable, friendly, he is a commanding presence, a librarian with unabashed ideas and boundless enthusiasm about what a public librarian and a public library can and should be. I liked him greatly. He and I talked for a good quarter hour, and I enjoyed myself greatly.
When I said I was on my way to get lunch at an old favorite, a tiny Jamaican restaurant which well earns the loving sobriquet a hole in the wall, Reggie said he loved their fish soup; he, too, knew Fishnet. And he suggested an easy way to get there from here.
Achee wasn't to be had, alas. I was advised most people had it for breakfast; I told the young lady behind the counter I wasn't used to being there so late in the afternoon. I settled for jerk chicken with rice and peas and boiled cabbage. Sublime.
I stopped into the QBPL St. Albans branch.
Clearly it is not well used, or has an abysmally small budget: it has no scheduled programs for the month of March. I am not enough of a sociologist, if at all, nor inclined toward deep analysis thereto, but I found the schedule ... if it were my home library, I'd feel insulted. I checked my disappointment and went on my way.
Not many blocks away I passed this intersection. John Coltrane lived down the block from here for a spell. Not far form here, other jazz royalty lived; that is another post for another time.
My first stop was the Hollis branch of QBPL. As I've written before, defining a neighborhood can be tricky: google maps places this QBPL branch outside its definition of Hollis. Wikipedia has two zip codes for Hollis: 11412 and 11423, and the latter includes the public library. Searching census.gov for data on the zip codes doesn't clarify matters, and no maps are included.
As Wikipedia has it, Hollis is a residential middle-class predominantly African-American neighborhood ... with small minorities of Hispanics and Indians. I agree. I parked a long block away from the library, off Hillside Avenue (the major thoroughfare in the neighborhood). As I walked from my car an adorable girl who might've been three engaged me; as she babbled she reminded me of my grandson, who isn't yet two, but is as cute as that girl. Her sari-clad mother seemed pleased by our conversation; I know I was.
The library was built in 1974, in an architectural style someone in 1974 must've thought, what, attractive? functional?
Futuristic? Ugly?
I mustn't be so harsh in my judgements, I suppose. Yet I must add that in this picture the library looks better than I did when I went there. It has an institutional feel, and that is not meant as a compliment.
Inside, it resembled other QBPL libraries I've visited recently. A librarian's desk, shelving with books and films and music, material displays, and computers. It is one large room divided into sections by imaginary boundaries. The building area measures 7,500 square feet — which doesn't sound as small as its 92 feet x 89 feet size; it's small.
Just one big square room.
Yet I felt comfortable in it. Having worked as a librarian for twelve years, having attended library school in my 50s as I transitioned from an unsatisfying business career terminated by yet another corporate downsizing, I well know how public libraries fit into our society: reluctantly accepted as necessary by many, grudgingly funded, their budgets are early victims to belt-tightening at precisely such times when people can most benefit from their resources.
A couple of decades ago New York City libraries had their hours slashed, budgets lacerated as politicians sought to stanch red ink and punish those least capable of voting them out of office. Taxes are abated for business which don't need the help but desire it, while kids and parents are told tough it out, we all have to tighten out belts.
I'm reminded of the song Somebody else's troubles by Steve Goodman, a singer whose work I loved; he sang
And I saw the boss come a-walkin' down along that factory line
He said, "We all have to tighten up our belts."
But he didn't look any thinner than he did a year ago
And I wonder just how hungry that man felt
Anyway. I mustn't get serious or nostalgic, I suppose, though I'm allowed, cause it's my blog. Back to libraries.
I headed back to my car after using the bathroom —facilities, rest room; we're still stuck on not saying that word — and returning the key, which was attached that that thingamajig which holds books at the end of a shelf. I said to the librarian, well, that won't get away, and she said to me that is actually a replacement; the prior one, I joined her in saying developed wings. We librarians know about books and DVDs and bathroom keys which magically disappear.
Heading out, I passed this pitiable sight. I gotta admit, and do readily, that (as usual) I am damned sick of winter; but this is pitiful, a few square feet onto which people mindlessly throw this thrash and dogs pee on —this is a garden? My old suburban library had a nice garden tended to by conscientious librarians (there aren't many of any other kind, I well know), and that garden was larger. But I suppose you gotta take what you can get.
I walked back to my car, and headed south, not along traffic-chocked Francis Lewis Boulevard, but along side streets: I know this part of Queens well enough to feel comfortable driving, especially with my map app as co-pilot.
Across Hollis Avenue, I found a parking spot on 204th Street, across from the Renaissance Middle School. Walking back to Hollis Avenue, and took a picture:
That this library building was constructed in 1974 does not surprise me; what is a surprise is that it was renovated in 2009 — really? Renovated? How did it look in 2008?
Remember Vince Piranha? Cruel, but just.
On walking inside the library, I saw th usual arrangement: computers, a Teens section, shelved with books and media — and a ping pong table. Say again? I was taken aback, to say the least. Looking around for a bathroom key, I kept glancing at it.
Sir? a soft, resounding, gentle baritone asked; when I said I was looking for the rest room key he told me there was no key. I went in, still thinking about what I'd just seen. When I went back out I walked over to the librarian's desk — I didn't need a sign to tell me whom that was — and said, I must tell you this is the first time I've seen a ping pong table inside a library.
In the Phoenicia Library, upstate, I've seen fishing tackle and ukuleles, but I have never seen a ping pong table inside a library.
That led to a long conversation. Mister Reginald St. Fort s the Community Library Manager (I like that title), and he is a presence. Affable, friendly, he is a commanding presence, a librarian with unabashed ideas and boundless enthusiasm about what a public librarian and a public library can and should be. I liked him greatly. He and I talked for a good quarter hour, and I enjoyed myself greatly.
When I said I was on my way to get lunch at an old favorite, a tiny Jamaican restaurant which well earns the loving sobriquet a hole in the wall, Reggie said he loved their fish soup; he, too, knew Fishnet. And he suggested an easy way to get there from here.
Achee wasn't to be had, alas. I was advised most people had it for breakfast; I told the young lady behind the counter I wasn't used to being there so late in the afternoon. I settled for jerk chicken with rice and peas and boiled cabbage. Sublime.
I stopped into the QBPL St. Albans branch.
Clearly it is not well used, or has an abysmally small budget: it has no scheduled programs for the month of March. I am not enough of a sociologist, if at all, nor inclined toward deep analysis thereto, but I found the schedule ... if it were my home library, I'd feel insulted. I checked my disappointment and went on my way.
Not many blocks away I passed this intersection. John Coltrane lived down the block from here for a spell. Not far form here, other jazz royalty lived; that is another post for another time.
Wednesday, March 13, 2019
Walking Queens
Walking along the Little Neck Bay promenade on this cloudy afternoon, I took these pictures at 3.30 as I walked back towards Fort Totten, then to my car. It still feels a little weird not to be working on Wednesday; for 12 years Wednesday was my night: I'd work 1-9.
I don't associate highway exits with numbers. I just know where to get off. I'm sure I've seen these signs for ages, but the numbers don't make sense to me.
These signs are yards away from the Throgs Neck Bridge.
There is no exit 35. And exit 36S is a continuation of the Cross Island Parkway into the Whitestone Expressway.
Exit 33 leads onto the Throgs Neck Bridge, 36N to the Bronx-Whitestone Bridge.
I don't associate highway exits with numbers. I just know where to get off. I'm sure I've seen these signs for ages, but the numbers don't make sense to me.
These signs are yards away from the Throgs Neck Bridge.
There is no exit 35. And exit 36S is a continuation of the Cross Island Parkway into the Whitestone Expressway.
Exit 33 leads onto the Throgs Neck Bridge, 36N to the Bronx-Whitestone Bridge.
Friday, March 1, 2019
A pair of Queens libraries
Today I went to get the DVD of one of my all-time favorite films, Back to the Future. Having checked online, I knew it was not in my local QBPL branch, and knew what branch it was in.
The North Hills branch of the Queens Library is at 57-04 Marathon Parkway. The neighborhood is called Little Neck on the QBPL website, which is debatable; when I plug the address in google maps the neighborhood is denoted as Flushing (completely wrong).
Calling up Little Neck on google maps delineates a wide area, which includes the Queens Farm Museum (its website puts it in Floral Park) and LIJ Medical Center (which calls its location New Hyde Park), as well as QBPL at Glen Okas (which is next to the Bellerose Temple). All these definitions are fluid.
It is an interesting looking library:
I don't mean that as a compliment. A website with such information tells me the building was constructed in 1986, which surprises me; it looks straight out of the age of Eisenhower.
Inside, it looks small. When I went in, the place was crowded. It was a quarter of three; school was out, and quite a few kids from PS 221, up the block from the library, were inside. Not all of them were doing school work all the time — what a shock. At least they were in the library, and kids who go to the library get to schoolwork after fooling around for a while. These days that involves looking at You Tube videos; in my school days we found other ways to fool around and waste a little time and use up energy. Technology has changed; kids haven't, much.
This neighborhood, as many others in the northeast corridor of Queens, has a large Korean presence.
In the far corner there's a teen nook; off to the side there's a children's area; in the middle there are several computers. This is the model common to all libraries I've visited thus far.
Because of its building's shape, the arrangement is slightly different in North Hills branch.
From North Hills I drove a short distance, using back roads I know quite well, to the Windsor Park branch of QBPL. This building, located at 79-50 Bell Boulevard, was constructed in 1973. The neighborhood is Oakland Gardens, which itself is considered by some to be part of Bayside. The name Windsor Park probably comes from the housing development nearby. Surely such naming conventions, with overlaps and contradictions, are common beyond the borders of the fair borough of Queens.
Its design is ingenious: one walks into a ground-level floor, but soon must go either upstairs to the adult and teen area, or downstairs to Children's. There is a Customer Service desk on that main landing (good placement, if a bit isolating). In effect there are three floors (aside from that service desk, the rest of the main level is given to staff offices and such). Windsor Park is only a fifth larger than the North Hills branch, yet its space utilization makes it seems far larger.
The adult and teen areas are upstairs.
The dynamics of the neighborhood population surely play a significant role in how the library is planned, and how it is used years after it was built. As is the case in Bellerose, the demographics can change significantly (in fact, demographic change in all of NYC has been significant over the last quarter century, and longer, for New York City is ever-changing).
The 1970s was a time of tight budgets for New York, and that might well have had an impact on how libraries were planned. I don't know, and it will take significant research and time to ascertain, far more than I intend to devote to such topics in this blog. However, I might find myself doing intensive research at some point, and will gain insight into that.
I watched Back to the Future that night, and thoroughly enjoyed it. As always.
The North Hills branch of the Queens Library is at 57-04 Marathon Parkway. The neighborhood is called Little Neck on the QBPL website, which is debatable; when I plug the address in google maps the neighborhood is denoted as Flushing (completely wrong).
Calling up Little Neck on google maps delineates a wide area, which includes the Queens Farm Museum (its website puts it in Floral Park) and LIJ Medical Center (which calls its location New Hyde Park), as well as QBPL at Glen Okas (which is next to the Bellerose Temple). All these definitions are fluid.
It is an interesting looking library:
Inside, it looks small. When I went in, the place was crowded. It was a quarter of three; school was out, and quite a few kids from PS 221, up the block from the library, were inside. Not all of them were doing school work all the time — what a shock. At least they were in the library, and kids who go to the library get to schoolwork after fooling around for a while. These days that involves looking at You Tube videos; in my school days we found other ways to fool around and waste a little time and use up energy. Technology has changed; kids haven't, much.
This neighborhood, as many others in the northeast corridor of Queens, has a large Korean presence.
In the far corner there's a teen nook; off to the side there's a children's area; in the middle there are several computers. This is the model common to all libraries I've visited thus far.
Because of its building's shape, the arrangement is slightly different in North Hills branch.
From North Hills I drove a short distance, using back roads I know quite well, to the Windsor Park branch of QBPL. This building, located at 79-50 Bell Boulevard, was constructed in 1973. The neighborhood is Oakland Gardens, which itself is considered by some to be part of Bayside. The name Windsor Park probably comes from the housing development nearby. Surely such naming conventions, with overlaps and contradictions, are common beyond the borders of the fair borough of Queens.
Its design is ingenious: one walks into a ground-level floor, but soon must go either upstairs to the adult and teen area, or downstairs to Children's. There is a Customer Service desk on that main landing (good placement, if a bit isolating). In effect there are three floors (aside from that service desk, the rest of the main level is given to staff offices and such). Windsor Park is only a fifth larger than the North Hills branch, yet its space utilization makes it seems far larger.
The adult and teen areas are upstairs.
The dynamics of the neighborhood population surely play a significant role in how the library is planned, and how it is used years after it was built. As is the case in Bellerose, the demographics can change significantly (in fact, demographic change in all of NYC has been significant over the last quarter century, and longer, for New York City is ever-changing).
The 1970s was a time of tight budgets for New York, and that might well have had an impact on how libraries were planned. I don't know, and it will take significant research and time to ascertain, far more than I intend to devote to such topics in this blog. However, I might find myself doing intensive research at some point, and will gain insight into that.
I watched Back to the Future that night, and thoroughly enjoyed it. As always.
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