Holy Moses!

By Ken Thompson

     Being a kid and growing up, even in Brooklyn, wasn’t always fun and games, literally or figuratively. I’m not just talking about the things under the bed or in the cellar. I’m talking about real things that scared us. Sometimes the fright was so vivid and horrible that we shook all over and almost wet.

     I knew that my parents would take care of me but sometimes I feared even for them.

     As a kid you often are not told all you want to know, or all you think you ought to know, and probably rightly so. Not knowing can be as fearful as knowing; maybe even scarier.

     Peter, from grammar school, was a good friend. We didn’t live that close to each other that we played together a lot but when we were in school we were like best friends… he stood up for me and I stood up for him. We had no secrets. Once in-awhile we would get together directly after school to play at each other’s house or on the blocks.

     I liked going to his house ’cause his Mom always asked me to stay for dinner. I’d always reply, “Thank you, Mrs. Petracelli, but I don’t want to impose… … I’m sure my Mom will say I can stay… … I’ll call her.” Mrs. Petracelli made great pasta and giant meatballs with sausage and cheese in them. My Mom just made spaghetti with meat sauce that tasted a little like ketchup; it was out of a jar.

     Peter’s size showed what a good cook his mother was. I wasn’t far behind.

     I guess it was in the fifth grade and 1953 that Peter began to seem changed and looked worried. I asked him if I had done anything. He said I hadn’t but he still remained a little apart. After about a week, I suggested that we each tell our mothers that we were going to the others house the next day and that instead we go over to Prospect Park and walk around. We plotted the plan and we got permissions. Each of us got the same warning… not to get our school clothes dirty.

     We never made it to the Park; we just sat on a bench on Ocean Parkway across from the Park Circle Skating Rink. Once I got him talking it all came out.

     "About two weeks ago I heard my Mom and Dad talking at the kitchen table. They were saying things like “I don’t know.” … “What’ll we do?” … “Could we lose everything?” … “This was my mother’s house, I was born in this kitchen.” “Are we gonna have to move?” … “I don’t want to.” … “I don’t know.” … “When will we know?” … “I don’t know.”… “You have to do something.”

     “They were huddled and were talking in serious, low tones. My Dad had some papers in his hands. He was hunched up that showed he was tight and was mad. I could barely make out what they were saying. I stayed outside, behind the wall, so they wouldn’t see me. I knew I wasn’t invited into the conversation. I’m not sure I wanted to know what they were talking about. I was afraid. I’d never heard them talk like that before.”

     “They kept talking, I listened for awhile. I slipped down the hall into my bedroom and got in bed. I kept thinking what it might be. I knew my parents would take care of me. I fell asleep.”

      “What was it about?” I asked.

      “I don’t know. I just know I’d never seen them like that and I was scared.”

     Peter and I stayed there and talked for awhile. I didn’t know what to say to him. I finally told him that if he wanted he could call me at home. He said he couldn’t ’cause he didn’t think his parents knew he knew anything or that he was worried.

     He then said he’d like to meet and talk, maybe. His final words swore me to secrecy, even to my parents, concerning what we talked about. I agreed… he was my friend.

     It was about a week later that some of the other kids in the schoolyard were talking about a new highway. They all seemed to know stuff that I didn’t. Peter just stood on the outside of the group and said nothing. They said the city was going to build a new highway and that it was going to go through Windsor Terrace, a small piece of land between Prospect Park and Greenwood Cemetery at the north end of Immaculate Heart of Mary parish and would join with Ocean Parkway at Church Avenue, near where I lived. They said all the people who lived up there would probably have to move to make way for the highway.

     I just listened. I didn’t want Peter to move away. I didn’t want to move either. I liked my class, I pretty much liked my school, and I liked where I lived.

     Later that week I had a sneak meeting with Peter again and got brought up to date.

      “Last night, after dinner my Dad was starting to read the Post and I asked him, “Are we gonna have to move when they build the highway?” My Dad looked at me and then at my Mom and she looked at him. He put down the paper on the oil-cloth tablecloth and said, “What are you talking about?”

      “I told him what I had heard at school. I told him I didn’t want to move.”

      “My Mom sat back down at the table and kept the dishtowel in her hands. My Dad said, “Don’t worry, we’re not moving. They’ve been talking about a highway through here for years; it may be just talk. They’re talking about building a road along Prospect Avenue to connect the Gowanus to Ocean Parkway but that’s blocks over from us. Some people there will have to move but not us.” My Dad looked at my Mom who was wringing the towel. She said nothing. I wanted to believe him but I wasn’t sure. When my Mom tucked me in that night she told me everything was going to be all right. I wanted it to be… I wanted to believe her so much.”

     We talked some more and for the first time I really saw that Peter was really and truly scared. Even with weeks since we had last talked I hadn’t figured out what to say.

     After a few minutes, just looking down at our feet or at the cars going by, I said. “No matter if you or me move, we’ll still be friends.” He agreed and we went to our homes.

     After we came back to school from Christmas vacation, the kids in my class were again talking excitedly about the Expressway. Some of their parents had gotten letters saying that the Expressway was going to come right along Greenwood Cemetery and then down East 5th Street and connect with Ocean Parkway at Church Avenue. I was scared sick… that was Peter’s block… He was gonna have to move.

     That afternoon in school Peter told Sister that he didn’t feel well and she walked him to the nurses’ office. His Mom came up to pick him up and take him home.

     Later on, Peter told me that his parents had gotten a letter that day but his Mom was afraid to open it till his Dad got home from work.

      “When he did come home, they took the letter and went into their bedroom and closed the door. When they came out they didn’t look happy. They sat at the kitchen table where I was doing homework and my Dad said, “We got another letter that our house is in the proposed path for the new Prospect Expressway through Windsor Terrace. They are now planning not to go along Prospect Avenue but go by the Cemetery. If they go that way we would probably be right in the path.” He kept looking at me and glancing over at my Mom. “They haven’t decided so let’s not panic. How was school today?”

     Peter said that he couldn’t believe that the conversation was over. He didn’t really know what to believe. He was afraid to ask questions. He was afraid to make them think about it and afraid of what the answers might be.

     He could see his Mom was sobbing into her dishtowel with her back toward them. He could see her whole body shuddering.

     When we got together again Peter told how his father had come home from work and threw his paper down on the kitchen table and announced loudly, “I see the McGuire’s have a “FOR SALE” in their yard. They’re panicking. Who would buy their house? They’re stupid!” The question wasn’t to be answered.

     Peter kept on talking saying how his Dad continued to stomp around the kitchen and to speak loudly and more excitedly. He told me how more agitated his Dad became with each sentence he spoke.

      “Who the hell does he think he is? He’s not God. He doesn’t care about people; he only cares about building his damn highways. Hasn’t he done enough damage with the Gowanus, the Belt Parkway, and the bridges? Why does he want to come through Windsor Terrace? This is the heart of Brooklyn. We don’t need the road. Does the bassert think he’s God to play with people’s lives?”

     Peter said that when his Mom was tucking him in he asked her who Dad was talking about. She told me his name was Robert Moses and that he was very powerful. I just though, “How could a man named Moses be bad?”

     Peter continued telling me that how, the next night, after dinner, his Dad took out their old typewriter and said he had some letters to write. He said that his Dad had never typed; he always wrote notes with an old Parker fountain pen. He said that every night now his Dad typed letters. He said he was writing to the Mayor, to the Congressmen, to the newspapers, to anyone who would listen, but particularly to the Mr. Moses.

     Peter also told me that typing letters was hard for his Dad since the typewriter was missing the “J”-key. He said his Dad was able to work around it though.

     At the end of the term, Sister told us to remember all the friends we had in school and that no matter where we lived we would always be friends. She seemed to hug some of the kids extra hard. Maybe she knew something.

     During that summer I’d sometimes see Peter at the Beverly movies on Saturdays and walk with him up to Church on Fort Hamilton Parkway and he would tell me what was happening.

     He said that sometimes his Dad would get typed letters back but he said they said nothing; they were usually from “The Offices Of”. Peter and I didn’t know what that meant. Peter said his Dad had begun telling anyone who would listen and even his family at every dinner, “No one cares about the Expressway unless it’s in their yard.” Peter’s Dad was having a tough time getting people to care about his community, his family, and their lives. He seemed to be always angry and frustrated. His Mom seemed to be always crying. Peter said how his Mom said his Dad just wanted everything to be perfect for his family and that he felt helpless at times. She said that no matter what his Dad loved them and that no matter where they lived they’d forever be a family.

     One night when Peter’s Dad came in from work he announced, to no one in particular “The McGuire’s house sold and they got thirty cents on the dollar. They probably could have gotten more if they were bought out by the city.” He went into the bedroom. I didn’t know what he meant.

     Peter told me his Dad went to meetings at night and said that he took off sometimes to go to daytime meetings about the Expressway. His Dad never seemed happy anymore.

     After the summer break, when we went back to school there were some kids missing. The new Sister said, when asked, that some of the children had moved to other Parishes and that we were going to learn Civic Studies this term. That’s all she gave us.

     One morning in October, Peter came to school all smiles. He took me over into a corner of the schoolyard and said, “Another “The Offices Of” letter came yesterday that was thicker than the others, it was marked “Official”. My parents took it into the bedroom. In a short minute they were out and were all smiles. My Dad said, “The Expressway’s going up 19Th Street and is cutting over to Ocean Parkway by Fort Hamilton. We don’t have to move!” We ordered in pizzas.”

     I hadn’t seen Peter this happy in a long time. Actually that was the most happy I had ever seen him.

     The next day Sister said that the Principal and Monsignor Brennan would be coming in to talk to us. Evidently, they were going to each class to speak. When they came in we all said in unisance, “Good Morning Monsignor Brennan, Good Morning Sister.” Monsignor told us that a new, important road was going to be built and that our parish would be changed by it. He told us that many of the families near Prospect Park would have to move and that we should pray for them. He told us to all be strong and to help each other. The Principal just stood there with her hands in her cassock and said nothing. Tommy Kennedy started to cry and sister took him out in to the hallway.

     Over the next three months about eight of the 60 kids in my class moved.

     Their houses were left empty. Someone would always show up to do a Safety Inspection of the empty homes. They would knock out the glass windows, take down all the inside doors, remove any remaining fuels, turn off the water and electricity, and if there was any furniture remaining they would have it carted off. The last step would be to seal up the front entrances.

     The empty houses never stayed sealed up for long. Kids would break in and rummage through whatever remained. Sometimes they would break things or steal things. I can remember the smell of the wet plaster from the broken pipes in the walls, it was very distinct. Even to this day whenever I smell something like it I flash back to the boarded up vacant houses of The Prospect Expressway.

     Sometimes the homes would stay empty for months. They looked sad. Their families were gone. They weren’t homes anymore; they were just empty buildings. They were dark and they were lifeless. Where once there were families, and children, and playing, and laughter there was only now grayness and the smell.

     Peter said his Dad wasn’t sending any ore letters. Once in awhile his Dad would say something like, “The Capabianco’s are trying to fight the Expressway. They got a lawyer. They ain’t gonna win. I hear they’re demolishing over by Eighth Avenue.” It was all said so matter-of-factly.

     I knew a lot of the kids who had moved. I had played with all of them. No new kids were coming in to take their places. Each Sunday at Mass we would pray for all the people dispossessed by the construction and for the conversion of Russia.

     One day I went home with Peter to play at his house. We could hear the bulldozers and the sounds of demolition. We all ran to the end of the street where barricades were put up and a policeman was standing. We could see trees being uprooted, buildings being smashed, and streets disappearing. With all of this we could see the dust rising and the tops of machines moving. It was all very exciting.

     Peter changed the way he went home from school so he could see the machines and the changes. It seemed endless. He told me they were always loading dirt and stuff into trucks and hauling it off. They would take it down Prospect Avenue to someplace he didn’t know. When Peter told me, I asked my Dad and he said, “They’re probably dumping it somewhere so that Moses can build another highway on it.” That was his answer, he kept reading his paper. It was true.

     We got used to the noise and the dust and the trucks going through our neighborhood dropping clumps of dirt on the street. I loved watching the construction. I’d try to understand why they did something and what they would do next. I was most always wrong.

     The construction continued up until about 1962 but parts of the Expressway were opened earlier. Peter’s Dad always refused to drive on it. He would go around, under, take back streets to avoid giving Mr. Moses the satisfaction of using his Prospect Expressway.

     It was about 1960, the summer before college, that there was an epiphany.

     Peter and his family had to go to LaGuardia Airport to pick up Aunt Rose, his Dad’s sister, who was coming down from Boston on the Eastern shuttle. Peter asked if I could come along for the ride and they agreed. After we loaded up into the station wagon and headed off to what we thought was going to be a long drive through Prospect Park to Eastern Parkway and take all the streets to the Airport, Peter’s Dad simply pulled onto the Prospect Expressway and then took the Gowanus and the BQE out to the Airport. The ride was quick and smooth and had no stops. When we got to the Airport, we were early and Peter’s Mom went in to meet Aunt Rose and help her with her bags. Peter, me and his Dad just waited in the car.

     When Peter asked his Dad why he took the Prospect Expressway this time, his Dad simply said, “Shit, it’s there, might as well use the damn thing.”

[end] © Copyright by Ken Thompson - 2004.

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     Peter and the Prospect Expressway were, and are, not unique. Their stories were echoes from decades prior and went on into the sixties ‘till the building just seemed to wind down.

     The anticipated building of a basketball arena and commercial complex together with the relocation of the Nets to Brooklyn is causing fear, sorrow and outrage among Brooklyn-ites of all ages who view themselves “in harms way”. They may fight the battle and they may even win the war, it has happened, but in the mean-time they are burdened with fear so vivid and horrible that they shake all over and possibly even wet.


 TTFN,