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The Real Stories of Sunset Park

As told by the real people of Sunset Park

Please enjoy these stories and feel free to email us your own stories to share with future generations.

 

Many people have called Sunset by diferent names during the years - like Bay Ridge, Lower Bay Ridge, South Brooklyn, Bush Terminal, Finn Town and many merely by their parish - like OLPH.

 

No matter what you call the neighborhood, we would love to hear your stories.

Barbara Whitton

                                                                                                               "I spent lots of time there (the Sunset Park Library) .....had a big crush on a cute                                                                                                                        guy who lived on 51st near 4th, he used to ride his bike after school, spied on him                                                                                                                  a lot.......his name was Billy Whitton and yes I caught and married him!"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Erling "Eli" Dugan

Christmas actually started in the fall when I was a kid. Not because the stores already had Christmas items and holiday music. As far as I can remember that all happened after Thanksgiving. What I needed to do was to start saving money.

 

I spent a lot of time and effort giving just the right presents. I saved my allowance but that wasn’t enough. What I would do is sell greeting cards. I would order them and they would come a big box loaded with small boxes with greeting cards and Christmas cards that I would sell at a profit. My only problem was that people would ask me what good cause I was selling for. No, these weren’t the equivalent of Girl Scout cookies. But when I explained that this was my way of making money to my Christmas presents, people bought my cards.

 

My dad was the hard one to buy for. He was a typical Norwegian who didn’t show much emotion, including when giving him a present. The options were a shirt, tie or a book. My mom on the other hand showed lots of excitement. Though looking back I do wonder how much was real. My mom got this ugly looking vase from someone. She thanked the lady who gave it to her and told her how beautiful it was. I knew I would never see it again. I was wrong. My parents had moved toNorwayand this same lady came to visit. My parents panicked trying to find the vase. They did and when she arrived it was sitting on display in their living room. I wonder how many of my presents she actually liked.

 

The one present I was extremely proud of the Norwegian Family Bible that I gave my parents for Christmas. It was this gigantic thing that weighed a ton and had beautiful illustrations. I arranged for a “layaway plan” with Thyra Fjellanger on 8th Ave.between 60th and 61st. I would go there once a week with money and the Bible was paid for when Christmas came. That Bible did get my dad to show his emotions, one of shock.

 

There were very set rules as to what needed to be done before Christmas and during Christmas. My mom was in charge of making us stick to the rules. They actually didn’t celebrate Christmas in my dad’s home. My grandparents considered it a heathen holiday and my grandmother would quote a couple of Bible verses, Jeremiah 10:3,4, about a tree being decorated and worshipped. It wasn’t until they had grandkids that they mellowed a bit. Still no Christmas tree but lots of Santas made with toilet rolls that their grandkids had made.

 

My mom had streamlined the cookie thing. She and her best friend Alice Abrahamsen would decide which cookie doughs to make and then get together the next day and bake cookies together. I always liked the dough more than the cookies and begged to have some. I only got a little because I was told if I ate too much my stomach would blow up and I would die. I tried to convince my mom to make chocolate chips cookies. You should have seen the look on her face. What would God think, Christmas means Norwegian “småkaker.” Well, I decided I would make them myself. Who knew cookies could “grow” that much without baking powder. I ended up with one big cookie the size of the baking sheet.

 

Cleaning was another pre-Christmas event. All the doilies had to be cleaned and stiffened with sugar water. The curtains were washed. The Sunday before Christmas was “Svart søndag” (Black Sunday) in our house. Not at all like Black Friday after Thanksgiving. This was like a mini “Lent” day. The curtains were down, the doilies had been removed and this was the one Sunday in the year we had leftovers for dinner.

 

The other important task before Christmas was getting a Christmas tree. It was strange to see what a stickler my dad was about a tree, knowing that he grew up being told it was an idol. This was the annual father-son bonding experience. We would go down to5th Ave.and trudge through wet snow. There was never a perfect tree so my dad would cut branches at the bottom and drill holes where there were “missing” branches. Had this been inNorwaythe tree wouldn’t have been decorated until Christmas Eve but I did get my parents to nudge on that and the tree was up a few days early. Other than the Norwegian and American flags and the baskets (flettede korger) at the bottom of the tree it looked like any other tree in the neighborhood.

 

When Christmas Eve arrived it was time for “ekte norsk jul.” Dinner consisted of pinnekjøtt (dried salted lamb), boiled potatoes, mashed rutabaga and creamed cabbage. The pinnekjøtt came from Kvinesdal, the only place they actually knew how to make it. My grandmother had it sent, illegally, fromNorway. This was her one sin during the year. She knew it just won’t be Christmas if we didn’t have good pinnekjøtt. For dessert we had “moltekrem” (cloudberries in whipped cream). Christmas day dinner was pork chops, surkål (Norwegian sauerkraut) and boiled potatoes. Dessert was “svisker med ris” (prune compote with rice and whipped cream).

 

After Christmas was “juletrefest” time. It was time to eat and gang rundt juletreet (walk around the Christmas tree and sing carols). We made the rounds to all the fests at 46th Street Church, 66th Street Church, the Norwegian Seamen’s Church and our own 59th Street Church. The best one was one of the fests at 59th Street Church put on by my mom’s ladies aid group, Freddy’s Band (Fredens Bånd). Fabulous homemade open face sandwiches and cakes. My mom always made “gomme” (a cheese that take hours to make).

 

The day after Christmas there were Christmas trees out on the street but ours stay up until about the 20th day of Christmas in the middle of January. We always had friends and relatives over for the “Kast ut juletreet” party with the last of the Christmas cookies and other food. My dad would make sure to ask my mom if she had dusted the cookies before serving them. After the party my dad would saw off the branches of the tree and the stem itself to make sure it would be easy for the ­”garbissmennan.” Christmas was over and it would be almost a whole year until the rituals would be repeated. (late 1960s) 

Yolanda Quintana 

Wow. My memory is that day - Nov 5, 1990, the day my family packed up and moved to PR. I was devastated I didn't want to move. SunSet was all I knew. I left a letter inside a closet about my heartbreak. Till this day I wonder if anyone came across that letter. I cried for days. I still miss My SunSet Park. But I am greatful that I'm a part of SunSet Parker. Keeps me up to date with what's going on. Thanks Tony and everyone else for sharing their stories and pics.

Barbara Whitton

My favorite memory of Christmas in Brooklyn is shopping in the freezing cold for our tree along fifth ave , around 48th st........my dad and I always bought it, remember carrying it down 45th st to 4th ave against the freezing wind.....guess I was about ten or eleven......no matter what it was like my mom always loved it, the three of us would decorate it, mom loved silver tinsel on it, carefully took it off each year to save it.....couldn't get it during the lean war years........Christmas day was at g'ma and g'pa Williams big house on 91st st.....near Colonial rd, whole family would be there for a big feast....remember shopping at Woolworths for presents, Davegas, Charles for clothes. Happy memories.

Sheila Hoban-Pisciotta of 56th Street 400 block shared this story from when she was 14 years old.

 

One day in the 1970's I was outside and a pregnant woman was walking with a child.  The child darted away from the mother and ran into the street.  The mother ran after her and both were run over by a truck.

 

Sheila's mom - Maryanne, who everyone called Maureen heard Sheila screaming and ran out with a blanket and Holy water.  She was so accustomed to accidents on the block that she kept Holy water at home.

 

Maureen crawled under the truck to cover the victims and bless them with the Holy water.  Neighbors tried to get Maureen out from under the truck but she refused until help arrived.

 

Sadly, the young child died, but the mom and her yet unborn baby survived.  Sheila said her mom told her "No one should die alone."

A follow-up to the above story (4/14/2018)   Hi Sheila, my name is Jim (Scotty) Mcginn formerly of 56th st & 6th ave in Sunset Park. I was reading thru a site "My Memories of Sunset Park" and I read your piece about the pregnant mother who was hit by a truck trying to save her little girl who had ran out onto 56th st. You screamed & your mom ran out, knowing what had just happened, with a vial of holy water & a towel.Your wonderful mom went under the truck & sprinkled Colette(my sister) Mcginn Keegan & the baby(also named Colette) with holy water & she stayed under the truck until medical services arrived. I was emotionally swept away by your re-enactment of that fateful day. Unfortunately the baby died but my sister survived & went on to have 4 more children. She now lives in Long Island & has 6 grandchildren. When I told my sister about your encounter, she wondered if your mum is still alive as she would like to thank her for her brave humanitarian act.My e-mail is --------------- if you would like to share in private. Thanks a million, Jim McGinn

Sheila, your mom is a saint in my eyes.May she Rest in the Eternal Peace of Our Lord. Colette remembers the Hoban family very well....Lotsa love, Jim

Milton Dorta

In the early 60’s I lived at 270-48 street between 2nd & 3rd ave Sunset Park, we treated one & other like family everyone knew & watched over each other, our apartment was on the third floor, I remember  looking out my window, I could see tug boats, ocean liners, black smoke billowing out of the ships smoke stacks, I could see trains going back & forth on 1st ave, & the Manhattan skyline, with grand lady the Statue of Liberty facing Brooklyn with her guiding light, who can beat that view, today some people are paying millions for views like that. I watched the old highway being torn down & the Verrazano bridge & Gowanus Expressway being built.

 

We played street games, stoop ball hand ball, buck buck how many fingers are up, we built our own go carts, across the street on a empty lot, we built club houses like the little rascals,  we made believe we were the  Beatles sang to the girls. I remember Miss Harris my kindergarten teacher in P.S.2. We had no auditorium in the old school building , once a week all these giant walls would slide into the walls & all the the adjoining classrooms would become one, we could  wave at the student on the other side, In the Cafeteria located in basement at Lunch time, I would try & sit  by the floor drain where I would pour the soup down that drain, we called the soup, soap soup. I remember watching P.S.1.being built, & P.S.2. being torn down, with very mixed emotions.

 

I remember Georges Restaurant he was a greek gentleman the place I tasted my 1st English muffin, I remember Kaplan where we bought our shoes, the stores stretched from 39 st to 65th on 3rd. Sunset Park  will always be in my blood, I wrote a song called “That was a world I knew” I dedicated that song to Sunset Park, there are many more stories I wish you all well, don’t let them block the view of Manhattan from the park I’m sure developers  are eyeing that location,  I love you all

Catherine R Torres

hey tony!  i won't be able to make it tonight, after all, but wanted to share a snippet of memories of my childhood in sunset park:

 

- running through the piles of leaves on the street side of the wall bordering sunset park down 41 street after school from PS 169 with my brother;

 

- christmas shopping en la quinta (5th avenue) when i was a teenager.  i felt like i was so grown up going to Mini Max, Lerner's, and Dee & Dee's on my own to buy gifts for my family;

 

- going to Juan's corner bodega on 40th street and 5th avenue for potatoes or quarter juices or a dollar of sliced ham;

 

- meeting my friends at 36 street station for the train to H.S.;

 

- walking down the aisle of St. Michael's church as part of Las Hijas de Maria - a place where many of my childhood moments were spent;

 

- waving the NYC marathoners down 4th avenue outside of St. Michael's after mass;

 

- celebrating New Year's Eve with my cousins on 50 street between 3rd and 4th avenue;

 

- saving my money to buy teenie bopper magazines from the corner store on 39 street and 5th avenue;

 

- and, so so so many more stories!  

 

i'm crying remembering the thousands of wonderful memories that make up my experience of life to this point.  i look forward to joining up with the storytellers at a  future date!

Peggy Breen

There are two places I remember best about Sunset Park.  One was the park itself, and the other was the Carnegie Library. 

I lived in Sunset Park all my life, from the age of 10 months until I was 42 years old.  I watched the neighborhood change, at first with resentment from long-time residents and them with open hearts and open minds, embracing the changes that came to my beloved home town.  Yes it is part of New York City, but to me it is my hometown, just like any hometown in any state across the country.  It had its own vibe, its own flavor, its own distinct character.  It was home and I always felt safe in Sunset Park, whether walking its streets in the rain or the fog, my favorite, listening to foghorns and seeing the eerie glow of the lamplights, or visiting the library, or spending hours in the park itself. 

 

The library was my second home.  I loved its architecture, its grandeur, and especially all the knowledge and promises it held within its walls.  I would slip away from my chores and go to the library, at first to sit on the old wooden floor in a circle amongst the other neighborhood children and hear our storyteller read stories to us every Saturday morning in the basement.  As a child, I would spend many afternoons after school roaming the bookshelves, touching the precious books, and learning about my world.  I loved climbing the circular stairs to the upper stacks, sitting on the glass block floor near the arched windows and reading for hours.  When I was of the right age, I was allowed into the reference section, and oh what a delight that was.  I read about Charlemagne, and Aristotle, about Ponce de Leon and the Mayans, about people who explored our world, both physically and mentally.  I loved that building more than any other and, when they decided to update it to the brick and steel box it is today, I cried.  It felt like my childhood memories had turned to dust and crumbled beneath the new edifice.  I never stepped into the Sunset Park Library again.  To me, something so beloved had died and was buried.  And now today, they are looking to update the library again.  The child in me is hopeful it will be something that represents the Sunset Park neighborhood and once again has a flavor of our community.

 

I lived on 46th Street off 6th Avenue and had easy access to the Sunset Park.  If I wasn’t at the library, for sure I would be in the park.  In winter there was sledding down the lawn of the long hill, building snowmen, building forts and having snow ball fights, and then after a day of play, running home for hot cocoa and marshmallows.  In the spring we would strap on our steel roller skates and dare each other to go down deadman’s hill.  Of course, after some prodding, we were all speeding down amidst yelps and laughter.  As we got braver, we would continue by bouncing down the big steps to 5th Avenue.  Then we would turn and look back up to the crest of Sunset Park and groan as we had to retrace our steps up the stairs and the steep hill.  Of course that didn’t quell our enthusiasm and quickly we would be repeating the journey, once, twice, three times, and on and on.  When we got tired, we would go sit where the old men played chess and watch them until boredom set it.  When we were little we would then head for the playground for swings and monkey bars, goading each other to climb higher and higher into the steel bars.  We fell, we scraped our knees, but eventually we conquered both the small and the big monkey bars.  When we got older, we would play handball against the tall concrete wall, and with stinging hands would eventually declare a winner.  When it started to get dark, it was time to head home and we would walk of in smaller groups to our own blocks, to have dinner and do our homework.

 

The Sunset Park pool also was a large part of growing up in Sunset Park.  As a toddler and young child, my mother and the other mothers of the neighborhood would sit on the semicircular concrete benches that surrounded the baby pool, and watched as we romped in the shallow water, fed by a central fountain.  Most of us hadn’t started school yet, so these were the first friends we made.  There would be snacks, provided by the mothers, and these would be shared and we got our first taste of different foods.  Occasionally there would be a boy or girl who didn’t like the water and would stand back and just watch, but eventually the lure of the splashing kids would pull them in too.

One day I was old enough to go to the three foot pool.  We entered through the rec center building, and stood in line for a sire basket to store our street clothes.  We were then given a little metal disk with the number of our basked and it hung from an elastic band that we would then wear around our wrist or ankle.  That disk was a talisman that we were growing up and the first season we wore it like it was a college degree.  In the three foot pool we learned to swim, to go down and touch the bottom and to dive.  But alas, the sixteen foot pool beckoned, and we kept looking at it with longing and fear, wondering when we would attempt that pool.   

My first attempt was my last, and almost the final act of my life.  A new girl (I will call her Ann) had been transferred to our school, to my class, and my mother kept pushing me to become friends with her.  I wasn’t the type of kid who needed people, so mom was always prodding me to be more social.  She kept coming over to my house all winter long to play games, but I really didn’t like Ann—she was a bit of a bully.  I was taller than she so she didn’t bully me, but she would sometimes get after my little sister.  Not a good idea.  So when the weather got warmer, on the first day the pool opened for the season, my sister and I were heading for the pool for the afternoon session, and Ann was outside our door wanting to play.  I thought, oh good I have a reason to get away from her, and told her we were going to the pool.  She undermined my plan of ditching her by saying she would get her bathing suit and meet us there. 

 

I was twelve and old enough for the sixteen foot pool, and was looking forward to my new adventure.  My sister met up with some of her friends at the three foot pool, and I headed over to the big pool.  I dove in from the pool ledge a few times, getting my bearings, and watching people as they kept diving from the high board.   I was contemplating my first dive from the lower board when I heard my name being called, and I turned to see that Ann had arrived.  Ann was 14 and had been in the big pool before and was acting all superior.  I think I ignored her somewhat and it was vexing her, and we had a little disagreement.  But I wasn’t going to be thwarted from my first dive from a diving board.  I climbed the few steps and when I got to the end of the board, she was right behind me.  She pushed me off and then jumped in on top of me, and held me down under the water.  I was drowning and could not get her off me and I lost consciousness.  I don’t know how I got out of the pool because the next thing I was aware of was lying at the side of the pool and a lifeguard was giving me mouth to mouth as I heaved up chlorinated water.  The lifeguard then took me inside to recuperate.  I stayed there until eventually my sister came in, and then we got dressed and went home.  I never told anyone this before, so only Ann and that lifeguard knows what happened that day, but I was not able to go back to the sixteen foot pool again.  I never spoke to Ann again either.

 

Of course, in winter we would go to the rec center and play ping pong and other games.  I would sometimes thing of that summer day, but there was so much to do in the park that I was easily distracted from that memory.  Sunset Park an integral part of my childhood and I am so grateful that is where I grew up.  

Peggy Breen

                My fondest memories of Sunset Park are all those mornings I spent with my grandma.  A diminutive woman, she was very committed to her Catholic religion and went to St Agatha’s 6:30 mass every morning of her life.  I loved spending time with her, and so to be with her I attended mass with her.  I would slip out of bed while the rest of my family was sleeping, quietly dress in the dark and meet grandma on our stoop exactly at 6:00 a.m.—she would give me a silent kiss good morning.  It was only a five minute walk but grandma liked to be early.   On slippery snowy days grandma would hold my hand as we walked the two deserted blocks to the side entrance of the church.  I felt safe, cherished and elated. 

But it was the foggy days I loved the most.  As we walked along, hand in hand, we would listen to the foghorns echoing through the streets, the streetlamps would cast muted rays along our path, and the sounds of our footsteps would reverberate off the buildings.   On the trip to the church, grandma would say her rosary and the soft clicking of her beads attested to her devotion. 

We would arrive at the side entrance to the upper church, open the heavy door and climb the inside stairs.  Grandma liked to sit in the third pew on the left side of the church.  We would hear mass and then after grandma said another rosary, we would climb back down the stairs to 7the Avenue.  We had not spoken a word yet not a word had been spoken.  As we passed through the gate, grandma would break the silence and say the first words of the day to me. 

We would walk and she would tell me stories about Ireland, how she and grandpa met and bought the house on 46th Street, and what the neighborhood was like in 1914.  I was enthralled, and this continued in one way or another all my life until she died in 1971 at the age of 91.   I could fill up a book with all of the things she taught me, the stories she told me, and I felt like I was there as Sunset Park grew and evolved.  So, although I was brought to 46th street as a baby in 1945, I really feel like I lived in Sunset Park since 1914.   And I love Sunset Park, its diversity and is hometown feel.  

Phantom Buildings

By: M Peggy Breen

(Dedicated to those we lost on 9/11/2001. 

Written 9/12/2001 at 4:30AM while sitting in my car across from downtown NYC as the dark night sky began to lighten toreveal that yesterday was not some horrific dream – it was all too real.)

 

Near dawn, a misty morn,

The sun veiled its saddened eyes

Behind charred blackened clouds

In a darkened sky –

Yet still it could not hide.

Shrouded beams

Caressed the day,

Twisted in the air;

Specters drifting, questioning,

A nightmare was revealed

Billowed dragons smoldering,

Reflections on the sea,

A scarred and bloodied land. 

 

Through early dawn, the misty morn,

Light shed upon the realm

Each mote and girder

Told the dreadful tale

Of desecrated horror.

Layered grime, blackened soot,

Burned flesh scented the air,

Torrentially streaked orbs,

Gazed upon the scene –

An Armageddon apparition.

Twin phantom buildings

Stood shimmering upon that site,

Reaching through the clouds.

The Portraits of the Lost

Are etched forevermore

Upon those ghostly walls,

Torn arms raised to the sky.

Innocence now gone.

September Mourn

By:  M. Peggy Breen.

 

Come, close your eyes

And soar awhile

Above the Earth, once blue.

See the tears

That Nature sheds

For all we've put her through.

Tropic forests,  

Blighted now,  

The ground so parched and dry;

A verdant land

Browned and scorched.

Can no one hear Her cry?

 

There was war –

So many then,

Man proved the lowest form;

A predator

Of his own kind:

He dropped an atom bomb.

Ideals destroyed,

Freedom crushed,

Not this his worst offense.

Godlessness,

Intolerance,

Transgressions did him in. 

 

It seems there was

A moment when

Mans' spirit soared on high,

A rainbow arc

Touched the land

The Pot 'o Gold was nigh.

Joyously

Idyllically

Innocence abound;

Thoughtlessly

Foolishly

He cast it on the ground.

One cloudless day

A ghastly act

Sent ripples throughout time;

Raped every soul,

Weighted hearts,

Black vengeance now entwined.

A beast unleashed,

Atrocities,

Exonerated rage. 

A monstrous deed!

Retaliate!

A blooded swathe was laid.

 

Why can't mankind

Just understand

It's not a noble right

To scourge, to score

And wage a war,

Or rule by arrogant might.

Causality

A sharpened sword

Held to our fellow man,

Whose only crime

Was to see

Things with a different plan. 

 

It isn’t now

To talk about,

Although aversion thrives;

It's all of time

Upon the Earth

Such ugliness survived;

And in our day

One more time

The monster grips our hand –

We dance along

As before,

Step to the devil's band.

 

 

History shows

A hellish face –

Two eyes, a nose, a chin –

Cast out by God,

It looks like us,

The harbinger of sin.

The double horns

And forked tail –

All images we scorn. 

A mirror shows

We are alike

When violence we adorn.

 

So let us pray

Each to our God

To grant us grace and peace,

Enlighten us – 

Our neighbor's too –

And let us share the feast:

On the Earth,

Goodwill to men.

A paradise to be

If each of us

Conquered our pride

And learned true liberty.

 

Come, close your eyes

And soar awhile

Above the Earth, so blue.

Thankfully

Shed joyous tears

For all it's worth to you.

The symphony

Heard 'round the world

Is freedom for all men.

This verdant land

God's great Earth:

Majestic – our heaven.

 

Thomas Marine 

When I was about 12 or 13 years old (1977/78)  I was out with some friends on 55th between 4th and 5th.  It was just after New Years and it was snowing.  It was maybe around 7 pm and I believe we were still on holiday from school.  A bunch of us kids were standing on the corner of 5th avenue skitching (holding onto a moving vehicle and skidding along on your heels, or roller skates or  skateboard) down the block when a car would go by.  While standing there waiting for a car a bus goes by with some kids from 61st street skitching by.  They see us and let go of the bus.  We are all standing around (about 20 of us) talking about the proper skitching technique when one of us comes up with the brilliant idea to make a huge bonfire in the middle of the avenue.  So, you have 20 boys aged 12 -13 setting out in all different directions to hunt down Christmas trees that were thrown out.  Fifteen minutes or so everyone had returned with a Christmas Tree in tow.  When the moment was right one of us lights a tree on the sidewalk.  When it started to go pretty good he dragged it into the middle of 55th and 5th with the rest of us piling on our trees as well.  At one point rather quickly the flames were 3 stories high.  The fire department was quickly on the scene to put it out.  My favorite part of the story though, is when the police showed up.  As they get out of the car one of the kids runs up and says "Officer, they ran down to 4th Avenue". We tried to get them to stop but they beat me up.  (He had fallen off a car while skitching and smashed his face on the pavement leaving a pretting nice raspberry on the side of his face)  "There were only 5 of us and they beat me up trying to stop them."  The police got back into there car put there flashing lights on, and sped towards 4th avenue.  With the fire put out we all decided it was a good time to call it a night in case the police came back

 

Christina Lanes 

My brothers & I used to walk down 39th Street to 4th avenue, to the FIRST supermarket in the neighborhood - A&P  every Saturday to do grocery shopping.  Before that we used "Carlino's" he would run a tab and my parents paid on Friday's. Then the butcher on 5th Avenue who always gave us a slice of baloney to eat.  I loved to get dead chicken feet from him and run around the neighborhood scaring people.  We were something.  I could tell you stories you wouldn't believe.  The Bazooka bubble gum factory was there, (they gave us rolls of gum & comics to send away for free stuff).  The coffee factory (what a smell), we knew all the firemen at the firehouse.  We played down at the docks and used to slide down a coal shoot and go home for 6:00 dinner filthy.  My favorite was the "Diamond Factory".  We would get thousands of rhinestones there.  I still have a few left in a hope chest charm.

 

Robert Planakis

 

 

I want to tell you about a boy from SUNSET PARK, the late JOHN BOSDALE. John was born in 1952 and grew up on 48th St, (approximately 520 48th St) He attended PS94 and graduated in 1964, same year as me. All through school, he was the tallest kid by far. His large frame and light blond hair made him stick out in a crowd. In my life, I have had several business partners, but John was my first. At age 11, we shoveled snow together for the shops on 5th Avenue, splitting the proceeds. One cold Saturday, we retreated to his house to warm ourselves with hot cocoa. While we relaxed, we listened to a 13 year old named Little Stevie Wonder sing "Fingertips" on the radio, followed by the news which this day featured the sensational young boxer: Cassius Clay, who would later change his name to Muhammad Ali. It was early 1964 and we were slightly agast at the brash talk coming from this fellow. Though we were somewhat "put off", at the same time we were captivated by this charismatic future superstar. Little did I realize at the time what a profound effect this moment had in John's life. He became an insatiable devotee of the sport of boxing and Mohammed Ali's biggest fan. He developed an encyclopedic knowledge of the game from the Pros down to the lowest newcomer. He was so well informed and attended so many events he eventually caught the attention of the power brokers of the boxing world. He became friends with Don King, Angie Dundee, Mike Tyson and the rest. His advice was sought by these people when they were looking to match their fighter with an appropriate opponent. He alone knew all the stats, facts and figures in his head. He was a walking Boxing Database. He became the Matchmaker Extraordinare. He changed his name to Boswell because people kept calling him that (instead of Bosdale), and became known by all as JOHNNY BOZ. He was invited to sit ringside at all the big fights and would show up flamboyantly wearing his trademark sheepskin vest. You can see him recount his life in the boxing world on YOUTUBE. Look up the LEGEND OF JOHNNY BOZ.

 

(Pictured are the young Robert Planakis and below his photo, the adult Boz)

M Peggy Breen                            The Carnegie Library

 

What did the Carnegie Library mean to me?  Was there any one specific day I remembered?  Well the Carnegie Library wasn’t just a beautiful building to me, it was the whole world, because that’s what It contained—the whole world.

 

My awakening happened one Saturday when I was probably about eight.  It was a usual Saturday and I was sitting on my stoop on 46th street between 6th and 7th avenues, where I was pondering something or other.   I was a thinker—I thought about everything.  My friend, Mary, who was a few years younger than me and lived two doors down, came outside with her mother and you could tell they were going somewhere.   As she passed by my house they both stopped.  In those days no one was in such a rush that they couldn’t stop for a few minutes to chat. 

 

“Hi Peggy,” Mary said, “whatcha doing?”

 

“Oh nothing,” I replied, “where ya going?”

 

She told me she was going to the library, and I thought she meant the one at school—

but, she was walking in the wrong direction.  So I asked “What library?”

 

 She said “Ya know, the one on 4th avenue.  Mom and I go every Saturday for Children’s

Hour”

 

I must have looked a little wistful because just then her mom asked “Would you like to

come with us.”

 

I turned and looked at my house, and she seemed to read my mind, “Go ask your

mother if you can come.”

 

Now just so you know, I was being punished that day for refusing to give my younger sister my favorite teddy bear, so I figured mom would say no.  Oh! But I really wanted to go.  So I opened the front door and softly yelled, just loud enough for Mrs. Burke to hear, “Hey mom can I go to the library with Mary and Mrs. Burke.”  I waited a few seconds, praying mom didn’t hear me, and then I said “Thanks mom.  See ya later then.”   And off we went.   I kept expecting my mother to come up behind me and grab me and take me home to the stoop, but once we crested 6th avenue and were halfway down to 5th that worry fell behind me and the excitement of this adventure started to build.

 

We walked along 5th avenue, and then down to 4th.  When the library came into view, at first glance I was awestruck.  It was the most beautiful building I had ever seen.    I just stood there, on the other side of 4th avenue, just absorbing it all—the beautiful façade, the tall windows, even the smaller windows near the top.  It was magnificent.  I was so much in awe that when the light changed and it was time to cross the avenue, I was afraid to get any closer—that it was a mirage and would disappear.   My chest was expanding by the minute, holding in all the emotions I was feeling.  I thought I would burst.

 

I was paying so much attention to the building that I wasn’t looking where my feet were going and I tripped and fell.   I scrambled to my feet, a little abashed, and finally we arrived at the other side of the street.  I started to head for the main entrance, but Mary took my hand and yanked on it and told me that we go in the lower side entrance. 

 

If I close my eyes I can still see me walking down the few steps and into the dimly lit lower floor.  There were stacks of children’s books all around, and kids were already gathering near a lady sitting in a chair.  Permeating the space were odors of paper, book glue, wood, kids, and time.  Motes danced in the air where the sunlight peeked through. 

 

Mrs Burke found a chair for herself near the back where other parents were sitting, as Mary pulled me forward and found a place for us.  We sat down on the old scarred wooden floor, tucking our legs underneath us.  I missed the first half hour of the reading as I drank in the space, the books, the smells and the quietness.  I reveled in it.  The only sound was the lady reading.   

 

I don’t remember what that first story was about but after that, every Saturday, I would be at Children’s Hour.  Of course, I was severely punished when I got home that first day and was sent to my room—I wasn’t even allowed to be outside.   Ah!  But it didn’t matter.  I laid down on my bed and relived every moment of that day, over and over.   I had found my nirvana at the Carnegie Library.

 

One Saturday Mrs Burke took us through the main entrance, the portal to the world.  We were getting library cards that day.   As I slowly walked up the few interior steps to the main level, I was embraced by the two-story high entry room.   I slowly spun around marveling at the high windows from the inside, the long shafts of sunlight slanting through the dust motes, and all the books—so many books.  I immediately wanted to read them all, to move into the library and live there. 

 

At the kiosk, Mrs Burke told the librarian we were going to be joining for the first time.  She made such a lovely little fuss over us, as we printed our names and information on a large card, and then received our stiff cardboard library cards, our official entry into this mysterious realm.   The larger card was kept at the library and whenever we took out a book, the librarian would enter the information about the book on this card.  Then she would take another card out of the sleeve in the back of the book, and in the next open box would write our name and the due date—on the sleeve itself she would stamp the due date.   Everything was done by hand then, there were no computers yet, just a Royal manual typewriter.  That first day she carefully explained that for each day we kept the book past the due date, it would cost us a penny.   

 

The lovely librarian even gave us a tour of the library that day, pointing to the area on the left, telling us this was a reference section and we wouldn’t go there until we were older.   We walked among the stacks of books on the main floor, and she showed us how the little label on the front of each row was to let us know what kind of books were in the row.  She then took us to this wooden cabinet with all little drawers.  She opened one, and let us look at all the cards.  We learned that books were categorized using the Dewey decimal system, and that every book in the library had three cards—one for the name of the book, another for the author, and another for the genre.  It was a lot to learn and it did take me a few months to get it all down. 

 

But when she took us up the fancy wrought iron stairs to the balcony level, I knew I had found my paradise.  Lit by the upper part of the tall windows, it had a glass-block floor, stacks of more books, and a lovely wrought iron rail where you could look down on the main library below—or even play at being a princess in a tower waiting for your prince to arrive.   Whenever I went to the library, my favorite place to sit was on the balcony level, on the cool glass floor, near the window.  I would read for hours and I think that I may have worn a butt print into my favorite spot.

 

I never regretted disobeying my mother that first day when I left the stoop.  I never regretted all the subsequent times I was punished for coming home late—I hated leaving the library.  The Carnegie Library far outweighed all the penance I had to do.    

 

It broke my heart when they changed my beloved library into a modern box.  I mourned its loss and never set foot in the replacement building.  But whenever I seek peace, I only have to close my eyes and picture the Carnegie Library, to see myself once again among the book stacks, inhaling the library smell, watching the dust motes dance in the sunlight, sitting on a glass block floor, and I find my nirvana again.

Moved to Sunset Park in 1978

Sonny Grave 

 

           I want to thank you Tony Giordano, my family moved to Sunset Park in 1978 from Bedford Stuyvesant Lafayette Gardens projects.  When our moving truck arrived to 45th St between 5th and 6th i was so amazed and felt like I went to heaven, every store imaginable was right around the corner, the people, oh my god the people, the most beautiful diverse people who greeted you with a smile and hello, I was so not used to that coming from Bed-Stuy, the girls my age, instead of a snarl and "what you looking at" attitude they gave a smile.

 

            I really can't put into words, I think no one can, the ambiance that Sunset Park has within, you can't put into words the feeling one gets when you step outside ur home on a Saturday morning, the holidays are shared and celebrated thru each diverse nationality, Chinese, Spanish, Jewish, middle East, it's all here in Sunset, my heavenly place with a smile 😊

 

PHOTO: 45th Street looking towards 44th about 13 years before moving to Sunset

Rachel Grave 

Well my brother gave his story about his memories with sunset park, well we move to 45th street from the projects in 79 we have a 3 family brownstone which is occupied by our family, my dad purchased our home for 53,000.00 and till today we get offers up to 800-to 900 thousand, and have refused the offers, couldn't even think of starting over again with residency anywhere else. We are Sunset 😆 our dad then bought a house in Puerto Rico to move to with my mom since we all were old enough to be on our own there were 8 of us now 7 cause we lost a brother, but I was left to continue to keep mortgage payments up and all other responsibilities that come with owning a house, well I pat myself in the back because I've been able to make this happen, my dad passed in 89 and i managed to keep what my dad bought for his family our home. So now that I've given all a little of our story of being here in sunset park for 3 decades we love sunset park.

ABOVE IS PUBLIC SCHOOL 140 BUILT IN 1902

Mickie Ruiz 
I attended the school on 60th street and 4th Ave from 1962 - 1967 (2nd - 6th grade)...at my young age, I only knew it as PS 140. The things that are scarred in my memory are: lining up in the gym before going to class, Mr. Fleming was a scary man, Mrs Brooks (2nd grade) best teacher in the world, Mrs Haven (5th) and her dozens of plants and we took turns changing the stinky water on Fridays, Miss Poster (6th) worst teacher and narcissist, Mr. Lang, the science teacher who taught us the mnemonic (My Very Educated Mother Just Served Us Nine Pickles) for the nine planets in order and I never forgot them. Also, soup was served every day for lunch and fish every Friday, it's also where I learned to eat grilled cheese sandwiches. I moved to Texas 40 years ago and I love to read what others write because it brings back those forgotten times. 

Wow, other memories are coming into play...I remember a Mrs. Rosedale, she was my 6th grade reading teacher and a character. One time she forgot to put on her skirt...as she walked in late to class and took off her coat only wearing her half slip...everyone's eyes popped out of their faces! 

She also gave me a dirty look when I gave her a Valentine heart where I ate half the chocolates...hoping she didn't notice. She also cut a classmate's long hair, because it was always in her face.

Danny McGillivray  

I went to P.S. 140 on 60th St from 1955 to 1960 (1st grade to 5th grade). And then P.S. 140A on 4th Ave from 1960 to 1965 (6th grade to 8th grade). (editor's note: above is Danny & his mom at his 8th grade graduation in 1965)

In P.S. 140A we had assembly on the top floor. The ceilings were very high. Higher then normal. I'd say about 12 feet high or more. The boys had to wear white shirts with red ties. The girls had to wear about the same. On the first floor there was a gym where we would play dodge ball, basket ball, etc. Second floor there was a music room where we would listen to opera and practice singing. Christmas time we would go caroling though out the school itself. After school there was a after school center in the basement where we would play games like schuffle board and such. One of the teachers(Mrs. MaGee I will never forget her name) was there to watch over us. On the other side of the basement is where we had lunch. If you did anything wrong she would call you into her class the next day and line you up on the side of the classroom and tell you what you did wrong. And you would have to write on the board something 100 times or clap erashers. The school yard was very big. It was in the back between P.S. 140 and P.S. 140A. there was a lot going on back there, Fun times. By one of the fences where the houses werw going down 59th St a lady had this big old turtle which was a snapping turtle. If you got too close to the fence you had to watch out for that turtle. He could get you. I lived on 4th Ave and 59th St between 1950-1965. Lots of great memories.

L. Palmer
From PS 169 in Sunset Park, I went to PS 118 from 1960-62. Our Home Room and 7th and 8th grade academic and gym classes were held in 118, (the Annex) but for Home Economics we went into PS 140 (though the schoolyard so as not to go onto 4th Ave and 60th Street around the corner).

In Home Economics we were required to learn how to cook and to sew by making an apron in grade 7 and our own graduation dresses in grade 8. 

Because the auditorium, with its stained glass back wall, was so small in PS 118, our 8th grade graduation ceremony was held in PS 104 in Bay Ridge.

In those years, the District 20 school offices were also in PS140 on the first floor, along with the office of our Principal Miss Mulhearn. We had two Assistant Principals, Mr. Fleming (who many years later became the Superintendent of District 20) and Mr. Vitalo.

On Wednesdays, the students who went to Religious Instruction at 2PM were walked up to OLPH by none other than the Principal and some aides. If a student didn't have money enough for a Communion dress  or suit the Principal paid for it. In any instance, any religion, any situation where some student was in need financially, the Principal came through for them (and we never knew about it unless the classmate or student told us).  Teachers in the school for the most part were the same way. 

Sandra Rivera Callari 
I attended PS 140 from 1st grade through 5th grade (September 1954 to June 1969) I was in PS 118 (140A) until June 1962, when I graduated 8th grade. Ms. Mulhern was principal and Mr. Fleming was an A/P. He later became Superintendent of District 20. Mr. Vitalo was A/P in 140A when I was in that building. Home Economics was in the newer building and the wood shop was in 118.

Dorothy Velazquez Rios 

I started at PS 140 (60th street) in 1955 (1st to 5th grades); then I went to the annex (59th street) 6th to 8th grades). Mr. Hazel worked in the office in the annex. He was such a sweet and loving man. My 1st grade teacher was Ms. Johnson. When she got angry and yelled a vein on the side of her neck would pop out (I hated seeing it). My 6th grade teacher was Mrs. Duffy who was sister to Mr. Fury.

 

My husband had Mr. Paterson in the 6th grade. I had a short teacher in the 7th grade called Ms. Mazzola but she was there for 1/2 a year. We got a new teacher who was very pretty and young. My husband had Mr. Flaster (spelling) for shop. Mrs. McNulty was the music teacher. We also had a teacher called Ms. Magee who always wore blue. When I graduated from the 8th grade she wore a pretty yellow floral dress.

 

My husband and I always talked about this man that came around the school pushing a cart selling jelly apples and jelly apples rolled in shredded coconut. They were delicious!!! There was an ice cream parlor on 4th ave between 59th & 58th streets. I begged my mother for lunch money one day so I could have lunch there and when I went for lunch I felt so out of place. Never went back until I went on a date with my husband. Those were the days. For me, I wish I could turn back the clock in time.

     I ADD THE NEWEST STORIES TO THE BOTTOM (HERE).     

     SO BY SCROLLING UP YOU WILL READ THEM IN THE ORDER OF THE MOST RECENT ADDITION.     

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