HELLO LIFE, GOOD-BYE CANARSIE !

A week before Memorial Day, I came back to my street in Canarsie, to complete the sale of my parent's house. Down the block, on the corner of Avenue N, I nodded at a mounted police officer. Cops on horseback seem so old-school but in all my 54-years there, I never saw one. So by today's standards, he really seemed out of place.

DESPITE THE OBVIOUS SIMILARITIES, I DID NOT THINK OF THE VILLAGE PEOPLE, THE MARLBORO MAN OR MY NEIGHBOR'S STRANGE AND MUSTACHIOED, UNCLE MORTY. RATHER, THIS GENTLEMAN MADE ME FEEL SAFE AT A TIME WHEN I WAS SWEATING-OUT TONS OF LAST MINUTE DETAILS.

The guardian of the peace ignored my friendly and supportive gesture. I took it as macho posturing and still appreciated him as a positive omen. The police, fire department, emergency personnel even the armed forces have always been a welcome sight in my neighborhood.

Halfway to the house, I took great solace in seeing that the cop's stallion had left its steamy horse-sized business behind. I smiled because I remembered the old adage that, stepping in dog shit is good luck. I got another internal laugh when I realized that the cop didn't clean-up Seabiscuit's mess, (so much for pooper-scooper laws).  But heaven forbid if that same cop caught somebody leaving their Chihuahua's half ounce of doggie dirt behind.

My family's ownership of that house started on Valentine's Day 1956. Before the area was developed, Canarsie was a distant, rural outpost and little more than a punchline for New York hillbilly jokes.

BURGEONING CANARSIE, (APRIL 1956), WAS A CLEAN, MODERN AND SAFE COMMUNITY. IN FRONT OF OUR HOUSE, SNUG AS A BUG IN A RUG, THAT'S ME INSIDE THE CARRIAGE WITH MY SISTER AND MOM.

When I tell people I'm from Brooklyn, they imagine that I had a survivalist childhood. This perception might have been accurate in 95% of the borough but Charles Dickens would never have sold one book if he wrote about my calm and fulfilling childhood. In fact at the age of six, I had the autonomy to go and come as I pleased as long as I was home for meals.

Our street wasn't perfect...there were bullies and signs of the desperation from the drug culture. Plus home invasions, sexual assaults, stolen cars, armed robberies, shootings and the like. But they were so rare that our surroundings remained pleasant and our sense of security never wavered.

NATIVE AMERICANS, (THE CANARSIE TRIBE),  DWELLED IN MY TOWN LONG BEFORE THE EUROPEANS ARRIVED. ONCE THIS SLICE OF HEAVEN REALIZED ITS REAL ESTATE POTENTIAL, THE LOCAL FARMLANDS AND SWAMPY CREEKS WERE CULTIVATED. THE BOGGY WATERFRONT WAS LAND-FILLED AND THE PASTURES DEVELOPED. THUS, THE NEIGHBORHOOD WAS LEFT WITH PLENTY OF ATYPICAL (FOR NEW YORK), GRASSLANDS, PARKS AND GARDENS.

Nearby Floyd Bennett Field was used by all branches of the military. It was not uncommon to see an army convoy drive down Rockaway Parkway, fighter jets zooming in formation over Bayview or naval ships in Jamaica Bay.

IN 1976, THE TWIN TOWERS, LIKE A PAIR OF SENTINELS, WATCHED OVER BROOKLYN. THESE DAYS, IT HURTS COMING HOME OVER THE VERRAZANO BRIDGE AND SEEING THE MISSING TEETH IN THE MANHATTAN SKYLINE WHERE THIS SYMBOL OF THE AMERICAN WAY OF LIFE WAS...AS WELL AS THE NEEDLESS DEATHS OF CIVILIAN AND RESCUE PERSONNEL.

I remember on a summer night in 1977, my friends and I saw "STAR WARS," in the Seaview Theater. In the parking lot, (far left in photo above), we heard that a kid had fallen into the bay. We rushed the short distance to Canarsie Pier.  We cheered as the emergency crew screeching to a stop at the water's edge. The limp body was tenderly placed on a gurney and whisked away. The next day, we found out that the boy didn't make it. Nevertheless, I never forgot the exhilaration and appreciation that I felt when the heroic EMT squad arrived.

CANARSIE PIER.  I ONLY REMEMBER BEING THERE THREE OTHER TIMES. THE LAST TIME, TWO YEARS AGO, I TOOK MY MOM AND WE SAW A COAST GUARD CUTTER PATROLLING THE WATERS NEAR KENNEDY AIRPORT.

By the late 1970's, Canarsie's long run as something fresh and new had run its course. In an attempt to maintain its reputation for being a clean and safe place, the federal government designated Canarsie and some of its neighboring districts as Gateway National Recreation Area which included a bird sanctuary.

THE DERELICTION OF MY TOWN WAS OBVIOUS AT FRESH CREEK, WHERE 108th STREET ENDS AT THE BELT PARKWAY.

Unfortunately, even with federal tax dollars behind it, coastal Canarsie as well as the whole town continued to go downhill.

Today, thirty years after I moved to Las Vegas, my old street looks tired. The trees are fatter and their roots are busting through the formerly perfect sidewalks. The homes lack pride and the properties aren't well kept. Sadder still, the neighbors are all strangers.

The pleasant thought of the mounted policeman remained on my mind, as the buyers inspected my parent's house during the final walk-through.

This final page of my childhood was to sign the papers. The closing was in Westbury on Long Island. On my way over there, I didn't see the cop or his horse. But I was re-assured that the rest of the deal would go smoothly when I intentionally drove through his steed's pile of horse waste.

The closing was a two-hour ordeal that went as well as it possibly could.

My return to South Jersey included re-tracing my steps.

TO SIGNAL THE END OF THE ERA, WHEN I PASSED CANARSIE, (EXIT-13 ON THE BELT PARKWAY), I THOUGHT I'D GET A LITTLE MISTY...BUT I DIDN'T.

I was surprised that I didn't get nostalgic as I went by. But I was so removed from the house and more so from the community that the only emotion I experienced was satisfaction and relief.   I glimpsed at my town in the rear view mirror as I whispering to myself, "Hello life, good-bye Canarsie."

In Staten Island at Todt Hill Road, I reflected on the mounted police officer and all the others who beyond September 11, 2001, routinely willingly risk their lives to protect us, our freedom and way of life. That idea made me feel safe again.

Back in Jersey, on the Garden State Parkway, as I zipped by the exit for Spring Lake, I added to the respect I have for emergency personnel with the warmth my parents put into that happy home. I reflected on the inner peace they provided throughout their lives...and long after they were gone.   At that point, I indeed got misty.