I grew up in New York City's borough of the Bronx, where for me, life was an adventure.
I loved riding my 3-speed English racer almost everywhere. And when I was a teenager one could often find me zipping around on it, going up and down the streets, traveling to what many would consider to be far distant places for a kid my age. After my mother died in 1967, and with my dad having to leave for work very early in the morning, on Saturdays I would leave the apartment that we lived in on Stratford Avenue. Shortly after a breakfast that I'd make for myself, I would take my bicycle and ride until the evening.
One particular place I loved to peddle to, even in the middle of the winter, was Ferry Point Park. Back in the 1960s and up until the 1970s, Ferry Point Park was a poorly kept swath of land which New York City's Department of Parks and Recreation must have forgotten about. Even in the summer months, the park was sparsely populated. Many benches were broken. The water fountains were always off and the restrooms were often closed. There were lots of water rats running around, too.
The Park's boundaries went from the far end of Brush Avenue to the Long Island Sound. On one side was the mouth of the Westchester Creek, while on the opposite side was the Hutchinson River Parkway and the Whitestone Bridge's toll plaza. Small winding blacktopped trails allowed me to breeze along a usually deserted park at a fast pace. Across the Sound, I could see the borough of Queens.
And of course there was no swimming permitted at Ferry Point Park or along this section of the Long Island Sound. Local Fishermen would sit along the rocks hoping for a catch of eels, crabs or small fish. Here the murky East River mixed with the Sound, and with the mouth of what was and still is known as Westchester Creek. The Creek was a filthy body of water which ran parallel to Zerega Avenue on one side, and desolate Brush Avenue on the other. Junkyards, a line of oil tanks and greasy looking barges made for nasty run-offs into the Creek which washed out passed Ferry Point Park. In addition, the New York City Department of Sanitation's huge garbage burning incinerator, which was located at the intersection of Lafayette and Zerega Avenues, likewise helped to give the Creek its unique selection of pungent smells and odd odors. None of this bothered me, however. For me, the Park and its neighboring industrial area proved to be an oasis for bicycle riding.
While in Ferry Point Park, I would ride my bike back and forth along the road which looped under the Whitestone Bridge itself. I would then speed down Brush Avenue until I got to Bruckner Boulevard. From here I would peddle my bike across the small drawbridge which allowed motorists and pedestrians to cross the Creek. And from the sidewalk of the drawbridge I could see the spectacular Whitestone Bridge now about half a mile in the distance.
Finally, when it began to get dark, and after I crossed the drawbridge to Zerega Avenue, from here I would peddle on either Story or Watson Avenues for another mile or so to my home. This is one of many good memories I have of growing up in the Bronx.
D.B.
One particular place I loved to peddle to, even in the middle of the winter, was Ferry Point Park. Back in the 1960s and up until the 1970s, Ferry Point Park was a poorly kept swath of land which New York City's Department of Parks and Recreation must have forgotten about. Even in the summer months, the park was sparsely populated. Many benches were broken. The water fountains were always off and the restrooms were often closed. There were lots of water rats running around, too.
The Park's boundaries went from the far end of Brush Avenue to the Long Island Sound. On one side was the mouth of the Westchester Creek, while on the opposite side was the Hutchinson River Parkway and the Whitestone Bridge's toll plaza. Small winding blacktopped trails allowed me to breeze along a usually deserted park at a fast pace. Across the Sound, I could see the borough of Queens.
And of course there was no swimming permitted at Ferry Point Park or along this section of the Long Island Sound. Local Fishermen would sit along the rocks hoping for a catch of eels, crabs or small fish. Here the murky East River mixed with the Sound, and with the mouth of what was and still is known as Westchester Creek. The Creek was a filthy body of water which ran parallel to Zerega Avenue on one side, and desolate Brush Avenue on the other. Junkyards, a line of oil tanks and greasy looking barges made for nasty run-offs into the Creek which washed out passed Ferry Point Park. In addition, the New York City Department of Sanitation's huge garbage burning incinerator, which was located at the intersection of Lafayette and Zerega Avenues, likewise helped to give the Creek its unique selection of pungent smells and odd odors. None of this bothered me, however. For me, the Park and its neighboring industrial area proved to be an oasis for bicycle riding.
While in Ferry Point Park, I would ride my bike back and forth along the road which looped under the Whitestone Bridge itself. I would then speed down Brush Avenue until I got to Bruckner Boulevard. From here I would peddle my bike across the small drawbridge which allowed motorists and pedestrians to cross the Creek. And from the sidewalk of the drawbridge I could see the spectacular Whitestone Bridge now about half a mile in the distance.
Finally, when it began to get dark, and after I crossed the drawbridge to Zerega Avenue, from here I would peddle on either Story or Watson Avenues for another mile or so to my home. This is one of many good memories I have of growing up in the Bronx.
D.B.
