Remembering spring in Brooklyn as a child
Beautiful flowers in bloom along the Brooklyn Heights Promenade, under the stewardship of the Promenade Gardeners Conservancy. Eagle photo by Mary Frost
I remember fondly the long spring seasons in Brooklyn. First, would come the blue and white crocuses. Sometimes their heads would push up while there was still snow on the ground. Then leaves would unfurl bringing green to the street. Remember the unique noise that snow tires made on the cement? They were disappeared when the tires were removed and relegated back to their place in the garage. Out of one garage came a neighbor’s 1905 Willy’s Overland, crank starter, and rubber horn. The air was crisp and nippy, but we all said yes when the car stopped coughing and shaking and Mr. Marks yelled, “Who wants to go for a ride?” Down the side streets and onto Coney Island Avenue we went, Mr. Marks’ horn “A-wooga. A-wooga—ing” to the passers-by who would wave. You could see in their faces they wanted to change places with us.
Suddenly the Robins with their red breasts and blue eggs would appear as if they all arrived last night. They got everyone settled and were ready bright and early to welcome us and also stalk the lawns, heads cocked, listening for what would be breakfast crawling under the grass. Cardinals and their red coats and the bold blue and white of the Blue Jay joined the Robins. Among them were the woodpeckers with their distinctive rat-a-tat-tat beak pounding at the trees for bugs. You’d think they’d need some aspirin for the headache that such pounding must produce.
And for us kids, gone were the rubber galoshes and their squeaky, sometimes rusted metal closers. The layers of clothing began to thin out, the spring rains and the temperatures added some heft to the air. Before you knew it the jackets were no longer necessary and taken off as the game began. In short order, we were playing in T-shirts. Not infrequently as the layers came off, they were hurriedly tossed atop a parked car. With us taking no notice, the driver would be done with his chores, not notice anything on his trunk, and drive off with our clothing. This would cause my mother to mutter, “If your head wasn’t attached, you would lose that too.
Something else that disappeared was the slush. The rising temperatures melted the snow that now hugged the curbs having been pushed more than once against them by the snow ploughs. It was wet, cold, and had chocolate-chip-like black dirt packed in it. We were glad to see it begin making rivers along the curbside and running into the sewers. Glader more were the moms who did the laundry that always had post-play sopping wet socks and pants.
Joining the crocuses were the Azalea bushes, and Tulips that had shivered underground since last fall waiting for Mother Nature to tap them on the bulb and say, “Time to wake up!” The clamshell-tight rosebuds began to show slices of color in the slits that began to open. Some of the yards had Rhododendrons. They had big buds and big flowers.
The Spring vendors began to show up. The Fuller Brush man, the knife sharpener in his little truck with the grinding wheel and my favorites, Sam the Good Humor man, and I-never-knew-his -name-but-he-was-an-immigrant-with-a-heavy-accent (Whew!) flower man. While Dave the Good Humor man was heard coming from blocks away by the jingling of his truck’s bells, the flower man was different. His “truck” was a horse and wagon which he sat atop looking like he was making his way through the hinterlands to discover the Wild West. But behind him was a flatbed that had shelves built into them. Attached to the back and sides were bags of fertilizer and tools the careless gardeners discovered had vanished between winter and spring. The flower man had what you needed to ready-set-get started planting your purchases.
If you looked up the definition of bored you’d find a picture of the horse. He probably could do the route in his sleep. You could hear the clop-clop-clop of his hooves from a block or more away as they echoed from house to house. The horse, his head inside a feed bag, could be described as “hang-dog” if he weren’t a horse. But more distinctly you heard his boss. Ringing out from nowhere you could almost see his voice its call being so distinctive. “WHOOOP! FLA-WAHS, FLA-WAHS. WHOOP! FLA-WAHS, FLA-WAHS. This was my cue. I’d get going on my own (imaginary) horse and head for our house yelling, “Mom, it’s the flower man!” He, the horse, and the wagon would turn the corner. Mom would be waiting. Geraniums and pansies were her usual buy. He’d snatch off the shelves the ones she wanted, give the clay pot a sharp smack, and catch the freed plant in his hand. It went from hand to paper bag. Need the flower pot? That cost extra.
My mother did little more than read most days. Come spring she was out in the backyard digging, weeding, watering, and pruning.
Spring had its hold on me, too. Of the many things popping out of the ground were black ants. They picked up tidbits of this and that carried them in their pincers disappearing again underground to build their nests. Let me offer a confession. I would take a spauldeen and drop it like a bomb from an airplane. If my aim was good the ant whet splat. I learned many a psychotic killer did that at my age. I didn’t become one of them probably because, after a few direct hits, the ball got very sticky (I won’t elaborate) and gross.
I did do something more constructive. Our driveway had a curb. Between the curb and the fence that separated us from Mr. Marks’ compost heap was about four inches of dirt. There I planted seeds of climbing peas. I nurtured them following their progress up the fence and then harvested them for a salad. They were so much better than those from the market, sweet and crunchy!
On a day of heavy spring rains, something else popped out of the ground, the largest earthworms I’d ever seen. They looked like what you’d see in a sci-fi comic book. Not wanting to drown in the compost heap that had turned into a swamp, they fled. Dozens and dozens of long, slimy, pink worms spread out across the cement. Some were seven or eight inches long! I would pick them up and toss them back where they came from. ‘not as easy as it sounds. Ever try to pick up a worm? It squiggles madly, sometimes so madly that most of its body is off the ground. I’d put my hands on the driveway, palms up, and push them towards each other each time managing to wrangle a half dozen or more into my palm. It took a lot of time and a good handwashing once done, but I felt oddly good about repatriating them. Probably it made up for the ants.
Spring was a cornucopia of sights, sounds, and experiences. It always intrigued me as I watched the sleepiness of winter slowly warm up to spring. I got this thrill every year even though the sights, sounds, and experiences were always the same, year after year. Spring was comforting, something you could count on, unlike today.
I miss it.
