March Madness

(Originally published 3/6/17)

Since that seventy-degrees—no jacket required—day last week, we here in New York City experienced the coldest weather of the winter. It was fourteen the night before last. If that turns out to be the worst of Winter 2017, I will file this one away as a meteorological nothing burger.

Walking through Van Cortlandt Park a couple of mornings ago, it was in fact glove-wearing cold. The park was desolate. I did, though, pass a couple of hardy souls jogging, both of whom said hello to me. That one-two salutary punch is an exception to the more familiar silence is golden rule that most of us practice. You know: Do not talk to strangers. One of the joggers—a young fellow—said, “Good morning, Sir"—the Bronx equivalent, I suppose, of being knighted. It is also indicative that I am perceived as an old guy now—a geriatric strolling through the park on a frigid winter’s morn. Old Guy Me could not resist snapping a picture across the barren Van Cortlandt Park flats of the Russian Mission Residency in the adjoining neighborhood of Riverdale. The Bronx White House, as it were.

There was a time—a simpler time—when the month of March embodied hope and renewal: sprouting spring flowers and nascent tree buds, Major League baseball players limbering up in Florida, and the slow but sure winding down of another grueling school year. But when I spotted a few daffodils flowering in the park the other day, I did not imagine happier tidings—like playing stickball, getting out the baseball glove for a catch, or gearing up for the Mets’ opening day. Instead, nothing! Life has become a monotonous grind. The seasons change, but the grind endures winter, spring, summer, and fall.

Grind aside, at least there is good pizza around me—in walking distance always. Of late, I have patronized a place near Manhattan College that has been owned and operated by the same Italian American family for half a century. I had not visited the shop in years but remembered the guys—father and sons—from my college days. Longstanding family businesses like theirs are dinosaurs.

I will include one more comforting constant vis-à-vis my higher education experience. Manhattan College students still have a thirst for beer—preferably the cheap kind. For some reason, unbeknownst to me—with their ample dorm space—the college leases several area private homes for its students. The telltale indicators of the residents therein are empty cans of Natural Light—or Natty Lights as they are affectionately called—in and out of garbage cans. When I began my four years at that very college, the legal drinking age in New York State was eighteen; the year I graduated, 1984, it turned twenty-one. The fake ID industry thereafter flourished.

Switching gears altogether, a humorous YouTube video is making the rounds, playing off the fact that New York City subway conductors are required to point at a hanging black-and-white striped zebra board when their trains arrive in each station. They must perform this Uncle Sam Wants You gesture—confirmation of proper alignment—before opening the train doors. I had long noticed these boards and speculated on their purpose, but I never consciously observed a single conductor pointing at one. And so, my mission yesterday was to stand near a zebra board and see for myself. You are there! Mission accomplished. When life becomes a slog, missions like this assume a higher meaning.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)