By Caitlin Hawke

Happy New Year, neighbors. Have you ever in your life been happier to slam the door shut on a year?

There is always hope, anticipation, and refreshment in the embrace of a January first. We didn't have the crazy post-holiday hubbub to heighten the anticipation of NYE this year. And of course the Times Square situation was transformed by you-know-what. It's just different.

I chose this lovely NYC rooftop picture as the way to ring in 2021. Taken by neighbor Bill Altham a few years back, the image of a cozy snowfall, perhaps a day dawning -- perhaps waning -- the lights of neighboring apartments scintillating in the crisp winter duskiness, all conjure up the current interior lives of New Yorkers. The ones we've become intimately familiar with as we changed pace under Mother Nature's huge "STOP" sign.

It's a little Hopperesque in the way it telegraphs solitude. This year, we've all been there: seated near the window, looking out in the wee hours, searching for another being, breathing in masklessly from a safe perch, breathing out patiently asking for 'serenity now' as we motor through what was not conceivable to us one year ago today. Yet all the signs were there, and by January 1 of last year, our Annus covidus was foreordained.

It was a tremendously painful year. Our country has collectively decided not to dwell on the unquantifiable losses but to focus on the upbeat news of coming vaccinations. But I take homefield pride in how our neighborhood banded together: masking up, helping each other, supporting local businesses, dining out gamely come wind and rain, gratefully acknowledging essential workers, particularly at 7pm. I have profound respect for every worker in every shop, on every subway train, and on the frontlines. I have profound sorrow for and solidarity with every business owner struggling to make it to the pandemic's end. And respect for any landlord who has forgiven rent or worked with commercial tenants caught in the clutches of the insta-nightmare that befell us early last year.

Most poetic, most powerful, most beautiful, most lasting was how a state of illbeing -- catalyzed by the inequities of covid's toll -- helped power the voices of Black Lives Matter and woke us from our sleepwalk.

We have come to. We cannot go backwards again. We hold these truths to be self-evident.

Welcome to 2021, Bloomingdalers. May it find and keep you healthy. And may our elbow bumps soon transform into handshakes, hugs.

Credit: Bill Altham, 2015: Looking southward over West 104th Street toward Amsterdam Avenue

By Caitlin Hawke • Photos courtesy of neighbor Bill Altham

There's nothing more breathtaking than nature's firework of colors on a beautiful fall day. Pre-peak, peak, past-peak: it's all good. In decades on planet earth, I am still just a babe when it comes to the seasons, each one's beauty taking me utterly by surprise. That new green of spring seems unreal every year. And those maple reds deeper.

Some years the intensity is overwhelming, such as the new growth that gave us such comfort and hope this past spring when we'd been pushed to our limits. The new season galloping in was reassuring. I have been experiencing the changing colors with similarly new appreciation. And with similar assurance that we are marching through this cataclysm.

As we face down the aerosolized gantlet once more, we will again assume -- among the powers of the earth -- the station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle us. Our mortality, for one. And our community, for another.  Mother Nature is a mighty and beauteous force. And one clearly not to be tangled with. She has protested often this year.

And so, with the events of the past weeks and the growing spread, let the untangling begin.

By Caitlin Hawke

Today, I left my home just as FDNY members were streaming past, down 100th Street toward the Riverside Park firefighters monument where they remembered their fallen for the 19th time in their annual rite. 

I realized it was, again, September 11th. 

In the first years, it was so raw. As time passed, the anniversary provided a chance to summon back the day's events, to remember and pay tribute. To mourn. Now nearly twenty years since 9/11, a generation gone by, I remain incredulous.

Waking New Yorkers soaked in the morning's perfection, readying for work. Not a hint of the waning summer's humidity. A clear, deep blue sky. A cool edge on a late summer day or a warm edge on an early fall day -- take your pick.

I get hung up when I think back, looping memories of the weather in the hours before disaster struck, the perversion of such a fine day juxtaposed with the date's murderousness.

And nineteen years later, I find solace in the poignant telltales, pictured here, left by firefighters remembering their own. It rekindles the solidarity I experienced with my fellow New Yorkers that whole autumn long. And I feel the throughline of that solidarity now in our current ordeal from which we momentarily emerge for a fine fall day. 

​
~~Dedicated to the West Coast Firefighters with respect for their valor and hope for their safety.~~

The monument -- which needs to be updated with mention of women -- is inscribed:
To the men of the Fire Department
of the City of New York
who died at the call of duty
soldiers in a war that never ends
this memorial is dedicated by the people of a grateful city.
Erected 1912.

A memorial offering, above right, to Joseph P. Spor, Jr. from Rescue 3 in the Bronx, who perished in the South Tower with seven others from his team. He was a father of four, the youngest of whom -- Caitlin Marie, like me -- was just nine months old.

FDNY lost 343 members on 9/11.

A recognition to horses, the fire engines of yore.

​In the bitter dance of loneliness fading into space
In the broken mirror of innocence on each forgotten face
I hear the ancient footsteps like the motion of the sea
Sometimes I turn, there's someone there, other times it's only me
I am hanging in the balance of the reality of man
Like every sparrow falling, like every grain of sand

​-- Bob Dylan, "Every Grain of Sand"

By Caitlin Hawke

West End Avenue is deafeningly silent early this morning as the curfew has curtailed most car traffic south of 96th Street. It's a street I recognize less and less yet one that I've come to know deeply. I find myself studying it. Each bird chirping. Each passerby. Each delivery truck. Each siren. Each neighbor at his or her window in my sightlines. All targets of my gaze in a way I have never gazed before.

Looking out my window in sleepy Bloomingdale all day today I perceived a strange vibrato. Tension thick in the air. Anticipation. Trepidation. And the gaze from apartment to street of all these neighbors still cooped up is one of watchful, worried eyes. The First Wave scarcely receded, the Second Wave is roiling and swiftly rolling in.

But I am not talking about the virus. Like a Rube Goldbergian contraption, infection has become the vector of infection. Instead of picking up with some semblance of normalcy coming off the first wave of coronavirus, we are now again waist deep in. Begat by the first wave but not precisely in its own image, the Second Wave of which I speak looks and feels very much like a growing revolution, where people the city over -- the country and the world over -- have been swept up as it crests. 

Chalked on sidewalks, hung from windows, held up in protest posters each day at 1pm in Straus Park, called out by peaceful congregants making their noontime way down Broadway, the revolution beckons: manifest in support of justice for all, manifest in opposition to police brutality, manifest in acknowledgment of the grotesque and disproportionate toll Covid-19 has had on people of color.

The solidarity of the Second Wave equals that of the first, but its fury surpasses it. Both share uncharted waters, unpredictable consequences, unimaginable cost, unfathomable pain.

Experts tell us that there will be another wave of viral infections. But they didn't tell us that our social isolation would finally make us immune to complacency and catapult us into the work we must now do. 

I'm still too jaded to believe that in corona there could be salvation. But at a minimum there is transformation. And we are most definitely not coming out of this the same.  Prepare ye.

Above photos courtesy of Sharon Waskow

Daily protest near Straus Park near W. 106th Street, where neighbors gather at 1 p.m.

By Caitlin Hawke

I can't think of fall without thinking of the beautiful love song "Autumn Leaves," of Jacques Prévert, and those who followed -- Yves Montand, Barbara, et oui, Serge Gainsbourg. Known in French as "Les Feuilles Mortes," it's an oft-covered song. I'm thinking of Sinatra, Streisand, Piaf, Clapton, Chet Baker, Miles Davis, and Robert Zimmerman. I told you the list of those who've fallen under its spell is long.

Lagniappes at the end of the post. But before we get there, I have two beauties -- photos shot by neighbors of not-quite-feuilles-mortes, still clinging to trees in their technicolor finale.

The first one is by Dee Eolin taken in Central Park's northern ravine area. The bottom photo is by the triple-threat William C. Altham a little closer to home.

Breathe it in, soak it up, feast your eyes. Enjoy Nature is all her glory. Right now. In our tree-filled neighborhood. Autumn leaves? We got 'em.

By Caitlin Hawke


Well, folks, it's July 4. Version 2.019.  Today has me thinking about Independence Days Gone By. An America that preceded this America. One of nostalgic childhood memories of fireflies in the backyard and 'Our Bicentennial' fireworks on the great DC Mall -- and the colossal city-wide traffic jam that ensued. Three quarters of a million folks showed up for the fireworks and the Boston Pops under Fiedler's baton (lagniappe embedded below -- click on the post title to see the video and see if it doesn't stir you when the audience rises one by one to their feet to the rousing trills and flourishes of piccolos and flutes). Here, there was the incredible spectacle of the tall ships in New York Harbor dubbed by Abe Beame "the most magnificent and glorious display of maritime splendor of th[e] century." Barkers dressed as colonial town criers and and hawkers on stilts with outsized Uncle Sam top hats milled around the foot of the Trade Center towers promoting the birthday events. Americans were spurred on to engage with this national event. Two hundred years young with Vietnam and Tricky Dick in our rearview mirror, we were scarred, socially shaken, but looking ahead; the country was dusting itself off and ready for the party, proud of the democracy that we were rebuilding in a new image of cleaner politicians, of inclusion, and of opportunity. Standing in front of Independence Hall that fourth, President Ford (in an address that I urge you to watch for how is resonates two score later--also embedded below) heralded "the two great documents that continue to supply the moral and intellectual power for the American adventure in self government."

Ford made the most of the birthday celebrations in '76, a hotly contested campaign year. A bizarre if not utterly opportunistic example early on in the year of how his administration maximized the occasion was how he handled the appearance of one sole case of swine flu at Fort Dix in New Jersey. For health authorities at the CDC, the case set off a group-think panic that the 1918 flu was back. At the time, Dick Cheney and Don Rumsfeld were padding around the west wing as Ford's trusty advisors. With Ronnie Reagan nipping at Ford's heels in the GOP primaries coupled with a young, idealistic peanut farmer on the rise on the left, the White House signed on to the notion that a vaccination campaign was immediately in order to combat the specter of flu that could fell Americans left, right and center. Heaven forfend on our birthday Americans dropping like flies. From a draft memo I once dug up in the Atlanta branch of our national archives, the Ford Administration's health officials argued in favor of a rapid intervention: "undertaking the [Swine Flu vaccination] program in this manner provides a practical, contemporary example of government, industry, and private citizens cooperating to serve a common cause, an ideal way to celebrate the nation’s 200th birthday."  (Emphasis mine).

Just think about that especially in light of the measles recently! Vaccinating citizens to celebrate the bicentennial.  Hard to make this up!

But the strategy behind the strategy was one -- likely concocted by Cheney -- akin to a Rose Garden offensive: keep Ford's name in the newspapers all year long with this great vaccination campaign and the birthday appearances, and he'd sail through as a strong, protective, patriotic leader of our nation, and twinkletoe his way in to a November '76 victory (not his normal mode of bipedality!). For the flu campaign, he even coaxed arch enemies and heroes Jonas Salk and Albert Sabin, of polio vaccine fame, to a détente and enlisted their help in advocating for the flu shot program and branding it for the nation. (That's a whole long story in and of itself).  Out of nowhere, cases of so-called Legionnaire's disease showed up in Philly in July 1976 -- the place and date chosen by the American Legion to coincide with the 200th anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence. Cases of the illness that struck convention goers were immediately mistaken for Swine flu as the symptoms are similar, and with this scare, health authorities were eventually able to connive and jackhammer away the legal roadblocks to Ford's national flu vaccination campaign.

Of course this whole strategy failed spectacularly for reasons I will write about another time, the primary one being there was in fact no pandemic at all. The fiasco came to be known as "The Swine Flu Affair."

Ford lost. Carter won. Reagan was but four years stalled.

All this -- and so much more -- came galloping back to me with the fabulous archival footage in Martin Scorsese's new Netflix film "Rolling Thunder Revue: A Bob Dylan Story" -- a mixed-up, crazy quilted, unreliably-narrated, utter joy of a romp back to 1975 and 1976.

If you do yourself and loved ones a single good deed to celebrate our nation's birthday this week, fire up Netflix and watch this gorgeous, lush "documentary."

You see, Bob Dylan, too, had a vision for our nation's 200th.  He, too, had been watching our leaders with cold eyes during Vietnam and Watergate. He, too, had yearned to see a better nation reboot. And reappearing after a multi-year, self-imposed fame detox, he'd conjured a traveling road show with his friends. An ideal way to celebrate our nation's 200th birthday!  

This post was triggered by the visual seen on Broadway above.  It is a shot in front of Lincoln Center earlier this month when the Scorsese film premiered. The Rolling Thunder Revue tour, mysteriously mythic for fans, was equally mythic for those musicians and artists who rode shotgun with the bard for its first leg up and down the northeast corridor, dipping into Canada. The Rolling Thunder caravan first put down stakes in Plymouth Rock for goodness's sakes. From there, a quick stop in Lowell, Massachusetts, paid homage to Jack Kerouac, natch. By day, Dylan and Allen Ginsberg made a pilgrimage to the grave to sit and wonder a while. By night, the roving gypsies became a possessed musical ensemble, jamming for four hours a show.

Vignettes -- some true, some conjured -- abound in the Scorsese film. Sam Shepard lured in Joni Mitchell who then wrote "Coyote" in reply. Virtuoso and tour-sound-defining violinist Scarlet Rivera had a sword fetish, or did she? Joan Baez donned a fedora and painted her face white in a commedia dell'arte tradition and was mistaken for Dylan by the roadies. The tremendous talent, Roger McGuinn of Byrds fame, took the stage with Bob in the most intense and eye-talking duet you'll ever see. And that first leg of the tour all culminated just on the eve of the bicentennial year at Madison Square Garden for the epic "Hurricane" concert with Muhammad Ali present to bless the cause of justice for the 'Hurricane'. Through their eponymous song, Jacques Levy and Bob Dylan brought the plight of falsely-accused boxing champ Rubin "Hurricane" Carter to the attention of the country. The song itself is a film -- an economically-written poem set to music whose narrative flickers through your mind with all the real-life characters and racists in full flesh.

I know that fireworks and picnics and bbqs and even the occasional military parade are the more traditional nods to national holidays. But by the time you've read this, it will already be the 5th. So treat yourself to streaming this film, and walk back in time with me to our bicentennial to think about all that has come since.

The best possible way to end this is in the words spoken by Allen Ginsberg at the end of the film musing on the raucous, joyful road trip and its ragtag ensemble:

"Take from us some example. Try to get yourself together, clean up your act, find your community. Pick up on some kind of redemption of your own consciousness, become more mindful of your own friends, your own work, your own proper meditation, your own proper art, your own beauty. Go out and make it for your own eternity."

In four sentences, Ginsberg redeemed himself forever for me. And how timeless these words are.

Readers, this is your community at a time we truly need one. The Block Association is a perfect example of what the Beat poet spoke. I know this was a long, winding way to get here. And don't misunderstand: it's still a great idea to get your vaccinations. But these were the thoughts jangling in my mind on the morning of July the fourth in the year two thousand and nineteen.

​Happy 243rd to U.S. all. And here's to a more perfect 'union' built together.

I couldn't find the clip with Ginsberg, but above is a whistle-wetter for the film of Dylan singing "One More Cup of Coffee." For those reading this in an email subscription, click here for the video above, here for the Fiedler video below and here for the Ford address at bottom with a great look at the tall ships of OpSail 1976.
​

By Caitlin Hawke


A holiday, the opening shot of summer, and a day to remember the fallen and our veterans.

Terence Hanrahan shared these two photographs from the nearby service in honor of our veterans today. And it got me thinking.

I've always had a thing for Memorial Day. It brings out the Main Street USA in all of us compelling young and old to stop and reflect. This year, it struck me as inconceivable that D-Day was 75 years ago. A VA estimate calculated nearly half a million WW2 vets are alive. That, too, is an incredible number, given it's out of more than the 16 Million who were enlisted. Those with personal knowledge of the combat are rarer than ever.

When I was 11, I met a middle-aged visitor who, I was told, was my cousin and had been taken prisoner and survived a concentration camp. It was hard for me to understand how this dashing foreigner with his exotic accent could be related, much less a survivor of something I couldn't much comprehend.  (He was in fact my grandmother's first cousin and hence my first cousin twice removed thanks to the two generations separating us). Over the years, I learned much more, not all good.

Family memories have probably garbled information that was passed to me, but the name of Texan Jack Williams looms large in my mind today. I was told by a great aunt that Williams was a 1st Commander in the 6th Infantry Division of the US Third Army led by General George S. Patton; the division was the liberating force at the Buchenwald concentration camp. Williams was put in charge of the Buchenwald refugees. Those refugees weren't at the camp when it was liberated because they'd been forced on a death march in advance of the US arrival by skittish guards who feared for their lives knowing Patton was upon them. In those confusing days after the camp's liberation, Jack Williams was good to my great, great uncle and his son in some of their harshest hours, Hungarian survivors of the war. To them, America was the greatest nation on earth.

For Memorial Day 2019, I find myself remembering all this, thinking of Jack Williams and the people in his division, all sparked by these photos of our neighborhood's commemorations.

By Caitlin Hawke

We've changed the clocks. We've seen the snow drops. Crocuses and daffodils are popping up quicker than in time-lapse photography. Next come the cherry blossoms and blooming trees of all sorts.  It's officially Spring; so bring on the rain. Or as someone I cherish quipped with regard to global warming, "March flowers bring April showers."

The diluvial photo below from last year is courtesy of neighbor Ozzie Alfonso, and I thought it was a good way to ring in the season. (Did anyone hear the thunderstorm on Friday? It took me straight to summer!)

For 10 years, Ozzie has run the Bloomingdale Aging in Place Photography group as a volunteer. The group's monthly output has been lovingly socked away into dozens of galleries that he maintains. If you click on the link in the previous sentence and then onto a theme, you can view their postings.

If you don't know about BAiP and feel like you could use some ways to bloom in place in sync with the spring season, see more here. There are nearly 80 activity groups all run by volunteers for neighbors who join BAiP. Most are full, but neighbors may express an interest in joining one once they've signed up for membership. For more about BAiP membership (it's free and for residents who live between West 96th and 110th Streets), see this link.

As BAiP looks to its 10th anniversary this fall, maybe you'll find something in there of interest to you! 

By Caitlin Hawke

​I love it when readers turn me on to something they've seen in the neighborhood.  That happened not too long ago when Terence Hanrahan shared that he'd encountered a young painter, Scott Benites, right outside his building and snapped a shot of Scott at work and sent it to me. You'll see Terence's photo of that painting at West End Avenue and West 102nd Street when you scroll down.

Knowing about Scott led me down a fun rabbit hole of discovery and to an appreciation of this rising artist who cites the work of Edward Hopper and Edouard Manet among his influences.

Scott kindly agreed to let me post some of his local cityscapes and to talk to me about his fondness for painting "en plein air," his training, his drive and passion for art, and, very happily, his first gallery show.

With a hat tip to Terence and gratefulness to Scott, I give you now a brief interview with the man who loves our corners bathed in a certain light: Scott Benites.  

​To see more of his work, jump over to his website: scottbenites.com.  Better yet, read on and click through for information about attending his show on March 7, 2019.

Q&A with Scott Benites

Caitlin Hawke: Why did you pick the corner where Terence Hanrahan met up with you?
Scott Benites: I was born and raised on the Upper Westside, and I was always inspired by the cityscapes and, specifically, the architecture of this city. Last summer I planned to create a unique oil-on-canvas cityscape collection. What better source than to paint the scenes in 'plein air'. 

After doing my first plein-air painting of West 96th Street and Columbus Avenue and receiving so much positive feedback from the neighborhood, I figured I should continue to paint local sites because it was so much fun. My plan was to first paint every avenue, and then to continue down the city blocks to create a unique collection. 

Caitlin: I love the originality of that idea. It seems, though, that you have a particular fondness for positioning your easel at the southwest corner or west side of the street looking toward the northeast corner of intersections. True?
Scott: Yes, it is true. Painting from a distance allows me to draw the preliminary sketch of the buildings' perspective. From this distance, I can see the light of day play on the forms of the buildings. I can also determine the composition of the painting. I strive to capture the strong contrast of light and shadow of the block. That contrast of light adds a dramatic feeling to my work. 

Caitlin:  Do you have any special connection to this neighborhood of West 102nd and 103rd Streets near Broadway?
Scott: The entire UWS is very special to me as well as to my family who also grew up in the same neighborhood. My main subjects are Manhattan buildings from Riverside to Central Park. Every time I complete a new plein-air cityscape painting, I become completely moved and inspired to create more, as well as to connect with other artists and admirers from around the neighborhood. 

Caitlin: Can you tell me a little about yourself?  
Scott: I am a born and raised Yankee, and I have been interested in the arts since I was 16. I knew at that age that I would commit the rest of my life to the arts. During my teenage years, I participated in a MoMA afterschool program where I had my first exhibition and met mentors who guided me to the best art colleges and exposed me to the galleries and salons of Pablo Picasso and other well-known artists whose works hang at MoMA.

I credit my artistic 'discovery' to my high school graffiti friends. They inspired me in 9th grade with their black book sketches and lettering. After one of my close friends passed away at 19, my desire to pursue the arts in a more professional manner grew. 

I am 27 now, and a passion for the arts is still a burning desire for me. It was a struggle to complete my bachelor's degree; having to attend three different colleges. My burning desire is what pushed me to persevere when my financial circumstances restricted me in any way. If I was short on money, art is what set me free.

​Over the past two summers I have sold over 80 paintings. 

Caitlin: It's paying off because I understand you have your first gallery show in March. Congratulations.  How can readers come see you work?
Scott: I am excited to have my first show in the New York Art Gallery -- NYA Gallery -- in Tribeca.

Over the last five years, I’ve been desperate to exhibit my work in a New York gallery. I would send numerous emails to galleries all around Manhattan and, after two years of waiting, I received an acceptance letter from NYA Gallery. I knew it was my destiny because I’m a New Yorker and what better place to show my work then in my hometown. The grand opening for the white wall gallery at 7 Franklin Place is March 7th. Anyone is welcome to RSVP at this link.

Caitlin: I can see from your website that you paint a lot of exteriors but also note there are portraits. How would you characterize your style?
Scott: My work explores the style of realism. Most of my works reflect the four seasons of the city. You can see in my paintings how the stores change their window displays and how the figures change their attire to fit with the feeling of the seasons and temperature. Selections of my works reflect my favorite season, the Christmas holiday. 
    
Caitlin: Do you draw inspiration from any particular artists?
Scott: Many. But my top five include Edward Hopper, Norman Rockwell, Fairfield Porter, Rackstraw Downes, and Edouard Manet. I love their painterly approach to life drawing and the form.  

Caitlin: I take it that your career as an artist is gaining momentum. What is the ideal way to balance your artistic goals with the pressure of high cost of living in NYC?  As a young NYC-based artist, what do you want to tell our policy makers to preserve your ability to remain here?
Scott: It is my burning desire to be successful as a visual artist. My artistic career has been my number one priority for the last 10 years and it's now off to a great start. My ideal way is to run my own online business, selling latex original giclée prints to my fans and supporters to fund my work and continue my collection of plein-air cityscapes. To make it, I also currently work for a museum in Soho called the Color Factory.

I'd like to sell my works to private collectors and museums. It is extremely challenging for an artist to afford living and working in NYC at my age. To be successful as a visual artist, you need to have superior skill, discipline, and the right connections and people skills. Learning essential business skills throughout the artistic curriculum is a valuable asset in a young artist's career. This is something a lot of art schools leave out. The artist is then forced to rely on a gallery to help with painting sales and logistics. Many artists have to learn this on their own the hard way.

Affordable housing for artists, I would say, would be the best thing to advocate for. 

Caitlin: If someone wanted to buy your work, where would they go?
Scott: All of the artwork that you see on my website is for sale, and available in four different sizes. Visit my website: scottbenites.com.  

Caitlin: Thanks for your time and your beautiful work depicting Bloomingdale, our neighborhood. And here's to a hugely successful show in March and to more paintings of northeast corners bathed in beautiful light.

By Caitlin Hawke

Ok, for folks who park on the street, this post might get your Irish up. It entails the eventual loss of three parking spaces on Central Park West.

That's the bad news.  But the good news is that what I am about to report is a story of grassroots efforts to increase safety and improve aesthetics of "Strangers' Gate" -- the W. 106th Street portal to Central Park.

Thanks to neighbors' efforts, in particular to transportation advocate Peter Frishauf with help from Henry Rinehart, in mid-January Community Board 7 passed a resolution to improve access to this entrance to Central Park by opening the curb and prohibiting parking immediately outside it. Department of Transportation signage should be updated soon so that the approach will look like the photo below instead of the view in the photo above.

This will protect pedestrians who flow through Strangers' Gate, affording them better visibility of traffic on Central Park West and giving drivers a much better chance of seeing exiting and entering park goers.

I love the name of this gate and was vaguely aware that many of the park's entrances bear names. In fact, there are twenty named gates. Each honors a special population of New York City in an early nod to the fact that this vast green space was to be 'the People's Park.'  You might have been entering the park at W. 100th Street all these years and not have realized that that is Boys' Gate. Of course, anyone can go through it. But if you want to use Girls' Gate, you're going to have to go clear around to E. 102nd Street. Or you can pop down to the Dakota and enter through Women's Gate.

The key to the 20 gates is below.

The bitter irony of naming the gates for different NYC populations is that in creating Central Park, land was taken by eminent domain, and the African-American neighborhood known as Seneca Village was demolished in 1857. You won't see a Seneca Gate on the list below, but the rich history of Seneca Village is becoming better known.

The story has been told in recent plays and films, by creative writers, historians and archeologists. I will be posting more about it over the month of February. But while thinking about our newly visible Strangers' Gate, I wanted to pause and think about those who are largely invisible, those who were dispossessed of their homes, whose community was razed, and whose story was mostly lost -- all in the push to create a park that is a stranger to none of us.

Choose any of these 20 gates and enter this urban sanctuary with a thought toward Seneca Village on your way in.

By Caitlin Hawke

​I usually reserve this rubric, 'Seen in the Neighborhood', for unexpected but pleasing things I stumble on in Bloomingdale. This time, not so much.  It's more about things not seen in the neighborhood, such as: your mail, your holiday packages, old-style mailboxes.

The good news is that the USPS has finally -- as of some weeks ago -- gotten around to swapping out most of our pulldown-lidded mailboxes with ones that have thin letter slits instead. The hope is to thwart all the "check fishing" that thieves are doing with glue traps. This way of intercepting checks is not unique to NYC, it's happening in lots of places. But, frankly, I thought the response was not terribly swift.

Putting a letter in the mail is something we all should be able to take for granted, especially in the wealthiest country in the world. In the letter goes, and delivered it gets.

Long gone are the times of multiple daily letter deliveries. And yes, modern technology has supplanted the need for much mail. And yes, too, I recognize that most mail is unwanted. But that's another story.

It boils down to this: when you mail something, you shouldn't have to ask yourself whether it will get there intact or get there at all.

But I think a lot of us are asking.

Just as these new mailboxes appeared, in unrelated incidents neighbors suffered a spate of lobby thefts. The holidays bring nothing if not packages, big and small. UPS, FedEx, USPS are regularly double-parked while drivers dip into buildings with armfuls of boxes. Because the carriers have huge volume to contend at the end of the year, many will resort to dropping your deliveries without a signature, right inside your lobby whether it is attended or not. That can be great if you can't be there to receive your package. But less great if someone slips into your building and gets to your package before you.

And that's what the M.O. seems to have been. At high delivery times, one or several interlopers were working the streets, slipping into vestibules and lobbies and ferrying out packages of all sorts.

This was happening up and down W. 102nd Street. I noticed signs along the south side of W. 102nd Street with a message to the thief in question, blaring that they had him on security cam footage. If you had a package stolen, maybe you'll comment below about where and when it occurred.

The truth is, this goes on all year long, not just at holiday times.  So make sure you tell your shippers that you want to sign for your package if you've positively, absolutely got to receive it. If not, you might find yourself in a special limbo where the package tracking system shows it was delivered, the carrier says he or she dropped it off, but you never saw it! Claims have to be made and replacement shipments are not guaranteed.

But wait, there's more. Just last week, neighbor David Olshefski posted the picture below online. It seems that within the Cathedral Station post office on W. 104th Street, there's been an ongoing issue of letters and packages being ripped or cut open with money and goods removed.

David tells me that Danny O'Donnell's office is looking into this trend and has a staff member collecting photos like the one below for an investigation. If items in your mail have been stolen or you are experiencing inexplicable incidents of mangled mail, take a photo and/or describe the incident and email it to Liam Galligan in Danny O'Donnell's office: galliganl@nyassembly.gov.
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This kind of data could help the USPS determine if patterns emerge that can narrow in on the "pain point" in the chain of possession.

I've always had a soft spot for the postal service. I love my carriers and have found their service to be unfailing. But if we want to keep these jobs, keep the postal service, and fend off the much-menaced-by-Amazon sci delivery drones that we joke are the future, USPS is going to have to tighten controls inside and outside.

And while we're fixing this, could we also get "Microsoft" to stop calling us from some far off country every day to tell us we have a virus on our computer?

Thanks, that would be grand.

H/t and thanks to David O. for this photo and contact information in the O'Donnell office.

By Caitlin Hawke

A quick hat tip to neighbor Betsy Goldberg and the shareholders of the Master building in whose gallery Betsy's art will be on display until January 26. An earnest request to the door person at 310 Riverside might get you a peek at her canvases in the lobby of the Master.

For more art, don't miss Julia Spring's "Meet Your Talented Neighbors" column in the Block Association newsletter covering other artists and their various gigs.

By Caitlin Hawke

She turns 91 today. The great Estelle Parsons. No better way to celebrate her verve, than to watch her walk the neighborhood in the interview below.  If you are receiving this post by email subscription, you'll have to go to the blog to see this video that will, I guarantee, delight you. If you don't come away shaking your head as to why she isn't in her own starring role each and every season on Broadway, I will come shake your head for you. It's an oft-repeated truism that we need more roles for women, more roles for women older than 40, more roles written by women. And more roles for Estelle Parsons. Maybe you saw her in August Osage County or perhaps as Clyde Barrow's sister-in-law, Blanche back in the day.

Her intensity and her energy are her superpowers that allow her to thieve every scene she's in.

Below, I give you, Estelle Parsons, in her natural habitat, and a hat tip to her on her birthday!

By Caitlin Hawke

​On a day when a random act of kindness might make all the difference, I give you this pop-up piece of human goodness. If you don't know about Flower Flash by this incredibly generous artist who, it must also be said, has a flair for great PR, it might brighten both your actual and virtual lives to learn more. 

​Flower-manipulator extraordinaire Lewis Miller made his way to the neighborhood shortly after resident gardener, Joseph Arbo, placed a wreath in the flower bed in memory of the hate crime in Pittsburgh. Two people on parallel trajectories of decency whose paths fused.
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Hang in there, siblings of this valley of flowers known as Bloomingdale. Hang in there.

Community is what makes us strong when we are challenged. 'Memory' and Straus Park stand as witnesses to this truth. 

h/t to Terence Hanrahan for the picture below and the notice of these happenings at our local trivium.

By Caitlin Hawke

This image is courtesy of Terence Hanrahan, and it comes from unearthed signage of The Master Apartments now on display at the Master, 310 Riverside Drive. I have a lot more coming on this unique building. But for now I just wanted to post this as having been seen in the neighborhood in all its glory.

If you see special, quirky things as you wander, feel free to send along a picture to me, and I'll post the gems.  Email to: blog@w102-103blockassn.org

By Caitlin Hawke

There is a season, turn, turn, turn.

From yesterday to today, there's a distinct change of air. Gone is that oppressive humidity and stratospheric heat. It could flop back, mind you. But we know now that the autumn train is unstoppable.

At this turn of season, it doesn't matter how old I get: those back-to-school butterflies and the urges for a sharp new outfit impose themselves like some annual version of a circadian rhythm. Those togs -- usually woolen, preferably plaid, always crisp -- chafed on the child's body that had been in a bathing suit and sundresses for the prior three months. But it was a rite of passage to go back-to-school shopping with my mom, the way she might have gone to San Francisco's City of Paris for her own new fall uniform with her mom. And to come out the other end of the mini-spree with something that said: "Fall, I am freshly clad for you and you alone."

The best were the patent leather Mary Janes. You don't see a lot of Mary Janes anymore. And Crocs still haven't caught on to patent leather. But Birks have.

And speaking of Birks, we won't give up the sandals just yet; summer technically still has a few weeks to wage on. With the warmer planet, high temps test their welcome, but the change of light always rats fall out. You've noticed the sun rapidly falling from its zenith, you've seen the equinox tugging down at the night shade. Yet tomatoes and stone fruits still roll in fast and furious.

It's been several warm weeks since I last posted, but I've been out there watching. The neighborhood provides endless inspiration as a muse. I promise, there's lots more coming as time permits.

For those neighbors who've been traveling or grinding away at work, you may not know that our ginkgo warrior at W. 103rd Street and West End finally came down on August 17. Bettina B. watched this from her window wistfully -- "like an old friend dying without a proper send off," she said.

Indeed.

That ginkgo's sad story will fade. Turn, turn, turn. 

Old neighbors are sort of like that, too. You miss them and feel as if they're still here. Then someone moves into their old space and you get used to the new normal. Then one day you wake up and you are in the old guard in your building surrounded by new neighbors who don't remember Positively 104th Street or Au Petit Beurre. The Movie Place. The Metro. The Olympia. La Casita or La Tacita d'Oro. And you think warmly of the neighbors who have moved or pushed on to the great unknown.

Reminds me of a lyric:

Which brings me to another thing seen recently in the neighborhood. This one, in flagrante grafitto, is courtesy of David O., taken from the terrace of a walk-up on the beautiful 300 block of W. 105th Street. Is it foolish to hope, 38 years after the tagging, that RC + MS are still going strong? Or were they just huckleberry friends back in the '80s?  If you are out there, let us know.

It's not all wistfulness about the end of summer around here, rest assured. There are great things to look forward to. The New York Film Festival fires up in a few weeks and neighbor Manny Kirchheimer will be on the slate with Dream of a City. You can buy tickets starting on September 9.

And there's the yard sale put on by the W. 104th St. Block Association fast approaching on September 29, 10 a.m.-5 p.m. Vendor tables are still available, but clear your Saturday and turn out. It's always fun. Plus with all the high holy days between now and then it will be here before you know it.

And last by not least, we have a primary coming up quickly. Thursday, September 13 is the day. You can find your polling place here.

Deep in December, you'll look back on mellow September. In the meantime, follow, follow, follow this blog for more.


My lagniappe today is a newly unearthed Pete Seeger demo. A piece of perfection, scratchy vinyl and all. (For those reading in an email subscription, simply click the link to hear the recording.)

By Caitlin Hawke

Thanks go to neighbor David Ochoa for his technicolor take on "Memory" in Straus Park this past weekend and to the gardeners who maintain this jewel box. (For some history on the park, click here.) And to Mother Nature herself for the glory of Spring. Is it me or does Spring's dazzle take you by surprise every time? It's like you know it's going to be pretty, but then each year it's even better than you remember.

I haven't enhanced the picture below but I did play around with it in various filters. You may be seeing more of it down the road.  Quite a shot. Thanks, David!

By Caitlin Hawke

Bloemendaal by name and blooming valley by nature.

Happy Spring everyone!

By Caitlin Hawke

With all the talk about various coming MTA station closures for "digital upgrades" on the B and C line, I am reminded that some of us lived through the IRT station upgrades at 103rd (2004) and 96th Streets (2010)--and survived to tell the story. Yes, I am grateful for those investments -- more capital than digital. And yes, they took forever.

Let me take you back. Remember the new but miscalculated staircase on the west side of Broadway exiting the 103rd Street station? Each step seemingly a different height, walking up or down it was  something of a funhouse ride or some bad Candid Camera prank -- only the risk was smashing your nose on the way up, or far worse on the way down! They sure did fix it in a flash. And at 96th, remember how prior to the renovation we used an underpass to get to the platform?  It's not that long ago and how quickly we forget. Even with my pathological nostalgia, I can't say I miss that.

Leaving the 96th Street Station, I was looking up the other day and once again saw the real-life version of the rendering above. It struck me as a nice touch. Maybe the sculpture has a function, too. (Pigeon abatement?). Quaint and already retro in its non-digital way.

The looped birdsong that goes with these 200 stainless flowers is intended to have a calming effect on riders. On most days, particularly after a post-apocalyptic commute from work, calming's a thing I am grateful for. Getting most of the way home in one piece on public transportation, is another.

With Spring galloping in, we have real looped birdsong starting up.  And Hawkes do appreciate the birds.

By Caitlin Hawke

Neighbors, I know you are out there braving the bracing chill.  How can I be sure? You keep me posted with excellent shots.  Thanks to our own Hedy Campbell for the expertly composed MTA oracle below and to David Ochoa for the autosculptures.  It's all to be seen in the neighborhood.

This dog knows how to bask in winter in case you've forgotten (do yourself a favor on click on this link).

And if you really hate it all, take comfort, despair not: the mercury rises to 50 degrees next week.

Happy sledding, pups.

By Caitlin Hawke

I've been waiting for the right moment to post this first shot below by neighbor Ralph Hotchkiss taken in 2015.  Today seems appropriate.  We forget the indignities that Père Hiver delivers each year.

Neighbor David Ochoa sent the second photo.  Let's call it "The Ghosts of Springtime."

Enjoy the season, fellow Bloomingdalers.  It will be time for your terraces soon enough, though I know it's hard to imagine here in the Arctic Circle.

This concludes the December "Spread the Blove" month.  But you aren't limited to just December. If you enjoy these blog posts, tip off a friend, family member or neighbor any time.

By filling in the box below, new subscribers receive the latest posts about Bloomingdale straight to email.  There's more "hyper-local eats," more Throwback Thursdays, more treasures from the Vault.  And it's all coming in 2018.

YEAR-END WISHES

Dear Readers,

Why do these lights always make me happy! There must be some kind of serious hard wiring lurking within from millenia of humankind's sunworshipping ways, and it gets tripped this time of year. 

College Walk, all gussied up and glittering, is all that. At least for me.

This picture comes with warm wishes to everyone this season and heartfelt thanks for tuning into the Block Association blog.  May 2018 be as gentle and kind as 2017 was not.

More to come.

Best,
Caitlin Hawke

Forget to get someone in the neighborhood that perfect gift?  Turn him or her on to hyper-local chronicles here at the blog by forwarding this post.

December is "Spread the Blove" month. Subscribing to the blog is a great way to stay in touch between newsletters of the W. 102nd & 103rd Streets Block Association. Speaking of which the Winter newsletter is out. You should have received your copy.  A pdf will be posted on the website shortly.

Spread the blove...there's lots and lots more on tap here at the B.A. blog coming your way in 2018.

By Caitlin Hawke


A couple of years ago, our neighborhood got its first infusion of CityRacks.  I wrote about that here.  Problem is they've become a victim of their own success.  Seen on a rack that I wrote about was the note below. Like the houseguest who comes and squats on the living-room couch with no end in sight, bikes have been chained to the CityRack day in and out, leaving it unusable by others. And inviting terse notes of disapproval.

City policy is moving more and more to accommodating cyclists. It's quite remarkable how relatively more hospitable the city has become to biking in rather short order.  (My inner cynic sniffs: "They don't have a choice if the pols aren't going to fix and invest in our infrastructure while encouraging so much new construction; biking is after all a great way to move people under their own steam.")

I am all for doing everything we can to have more people safely cycling, though e-bikes still leave me shaking my head.  But for cycling to work here, we need to do a lot more.  For example, more bike parking that is safe and accessible for our eco-rides is needed.  More CityRacks for short-term lock ups.  More space in work buildings and residences for locking up longer term.  It's not just Citibikes that need docking.  (And yes, I know, you don't want a dock near your building or your favorite bus stop.  And it's all daunting the older you get.  I am sympathetic. I am.)

But inevitably bikes will propagate.  Politicians and the state have not made the subway attractive. Quite the contrary.  My employer, a nearby university, recently informed the rank and file that our medical center subway stop will be closed (closed!) for a year for elevator replacement. This will send literally thousands of employees, patients, and even tenured faculty scampering to get to work via alternate modes.

It doesn't take a PhD to figure out that folks will have no choice as the subway degrades but to turn to their bikes, blades, Segways and hoverboards.  Global warming and the MTA's continued abuse of straphangers will surely incite more to ride their two-wheelers.  Unless Elon Musk, a hyperloop, or George Jetson comes to our rescue, this problem just isn't going away anytime soon.

So think locally, and act locally: if you live in a building with a good curbside spot, you can suggest new locations to the city for more racks.  We'll get the ball rolling.

True to name, New Amsterdam needs its bikes! 

By Caitlin Hawke

Rather than my riff on this, how about yours this time?  Please post your comment below.