It's often been said that the world is a small place…
While it's only a figure of speech, there is a truth to this. Almost everyone has at one time or another run into someone we knew from the past, but haven't seen in a long time, or we would encounter someone who, while we don't know them personally, comes from the same neighborhood. This was the case with me this morning.
Earlier today, an Hispanic man in his forties asked if I was familiar with New York City's borough of the Bronx. I smiled as I told him I was raised in the Bronx, in a section called Soundview. He smiled back and said he grew up there, too. Although his parents were born in Puerto Rico, he explained, he grew up in the "Randall Houses," which are located in Soundview. They're one of the many city owned housing developments New Yorkers usually refer to as "the projects."
I told him I grew up on Stratford Avenue, just off Watson Avenue. This brought back a flood of memories for the both of us. Of the many things we reminisced about were some of the neighborhood fishing spots his dad would take him to every so often. While I never went fishing in the City, I would sometimes ride my 3-speed bicycle to these very same places.
He's been in prison for eleven years already. It's been forty-three years for me. Talking about the old neighborhood was nice, but sad in other ways. He told me about some of the changes. Vacant lots I once played in as a kid now consist of houses. While at the far end of Soundview Avenue, which is the main street that cuts through our section, is the Long Island Sound. Here, clusters of mostly older men would fish from the rows of rocks and boulders which jutted into the water, making it a favorite spot for them.
I liked to watch as they as fished in the cold, murky waters off the Sound. The area was especially known for its eels. The first one I ever saw up close was when one of the fishermen called me over to where he was standing. He then held up a live eel in his hands that he'd just caught for me to look at, before tossing it into an old, banged-up cooler.
When I asked him what he was going to do with it, he said, eat it. His wife would cook up whatever he brought home at the end of the day, he told me. I couldn't believe anyone would want to eat such a slimy-looking, slithery creature.
The fishermen were usually friendly to us. Most of these weekend anglers were really destitute. So those eels and whatever else they managed to catch, meant food on the table.
I loved peddling my bike to places like this. I have good memories of these hearty men who braved all kinds of weather. They'd come with coolers filled with beer, their fishing poles, and cans of worms. As dedicated and passionate as they were, they'd fish until sundown. This was the neighborhood I grew up in, and loved. This was the Bronx.
D.B.
Earlier today, an Hispanic man in his forties asked if I was familiar with New York City's borough of the Bronx. I smiled as I told him I was raised in the Bronx, in a section called Soundview. He smiled back and said he grew up there, too. Although his parents were born in Puerto Rico, he explained, he grew up in the "Randall Houses," which are located in Soundview. They're one of the many city owned housing developments New Yorkers usually refer to as "the projects."
I told him I grew up on Stratford Avenue, just off Watson Avenue. This brought back a flood of memories for the both of us. Of the many things we reminisced about were some of the neighborhood fishing spots his dad would take him to every so often. While I never went fishing in the City, I would sometimes ride my 3-speed bicycle to these very same places.
He's been in prison for eleven years already. It's been forty-three years for me. Talking about the old neighborhood was nice, but sad in other ways. He told me about some of the changes. Vacant lots I once played in as a kid now consist of houses. While at the far end of Soundview Avenue, which is the main street that cuts through our section, is the Long Island Sound. Here, clusters of mostly older men would fish from the rows of rocks and boulders which jutted into the water, making it a favorite spot for them.
I liked to watch as they as fished in the cold, murky waters off the Sound. The area was especially known for its eels. The first one I ever saw up close was when one of the fishermen called me over to where he was standing. He then held up a live eel in his hands that he'd just caught for me to look at, before tossing it into an old, banged-up cooler.
When I asked him what he was going to do with it, he said, eat it. His wife would cook up whatever he brought home at the end of the day, he told me. I couldn't believe anyone would want to eat such a slimy-looking, slithery creature.
The fishermen were usually friendly to us. Most of these weekend anglers were really destitute. So those eels and whatever else they managed to catch, meant food on the table.
I loved peddling my bike to places like this. I have good memories of these hearty men who braved all kinds of weather. They'd come with coolers filled with beer, their fishing poles, and cans of worms. As dedicated and passionate as they were, they'd fish until sundown. This was the neighborhood I grew up in, and loved. This was the Bronx.
D.B.
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