My Brooklyn

Readers Report


Ann Drake

P.S. 241 in the 1940s, where my eyes were opened to a wider world and the education was thorough and rigorous. Miss McDermott's 6th grade class, where I developed a life-long interest in writing and Miss Kenney teaching 8th grade math and guarding the entry. I remember St John's Place, the bells from St. Theresa's marking every quarter hour, the crisp uniforms of the nursing students from Prospect Heights Hospital, Mr. Wahlberg the butcher who never failed to have a little slice of something for me when I ran my mother's errands, Ebinger's cheese danish, the smell of years and wood and dust and stuff in Ruder's, fiercely guarded by old Mrs. Ruder who watched everything and everybody with an eagle eye, and Mr. Lipper's rye bread . . . never equaled, anywhere. Most of all I remember how cohesive the neighborhood was despite its diversity. In those days, in the 1940s, no one thought of differences, we were all Americans, united against common enemies, and all friends, spending ration coupons, visiting the Museum and the big library on Grand Army Plaza, enjoying the walks, bridal paths, and lake in Prospect Park. Brooklyn was the Dodgers, ours no matter how bad they were, and prized because of it before counter-culture heros were known. Most of all, I remember Brooklyn as my childhood's home, safe, familiar, and the foundation of who I was and who I became.

28 April 1998


Joan Johnsen (now Mase)

Grew up 17th St. between 7th and 8th Aves. Went to P.S. 10 and Manual Training H.S. (now John Jay).

I have lived in Texas for 26 years now and left Brooklyn in April of 1968.

Anyone out there remember me?

28 April 1998


Helen Chuckrow

Home, on the 5th floor on Ocean Ave was bliss; P.S. 208 was hell. Erasmus was great and so were egg creams. The Flatbush Avenue trolley was nice. Piano lessons on Union Street were fun. When I visited the Bronx, at the age of 4, I figured they must have been amiss (not my actual words, at the time), since, when they "built" the Bronx, they left all those hills! Brooklyn was done well: it was nice and flat. 1943 was a fine year. I was 3 and my mom took a sabbatical and we spent most of our time in Prospect Park. I still remember fondly those low arch-like metal borders for the grass—they were one of the few things in Brooklyn shorter than me at the time. Does anyone remember the game, Russia? It was played by throwing a Spaulding against the side of an apartment house and catching it in various ways. The one who could get to "ten-zies" without a mishap, won.

30 April 1998


Readers' reports continue . . .

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