Preservation of American Hellenic History
Preservation of American Hellenic History
by Jason C. Mavrovitis
During the summer of 1940, on one of his visits to Carelas' farm to see us Papou told Nitsa and me about a watermelon growing in our garden in Brooklyn. He said it was huge and promised to keep it untouched until we returned home on the first weekend after Labor Day.
The trip back to Brooklyn was filled with the expectation of seeing our neighborhood friends, the new school year, and the great watermelon. Nitsa and I were wedged between pieces of luggage, fruit baskets, pillows, toys, and an ironing board that would not fit in the trunk. The nomadic gypsies of the Balkans were surely our cousins. At her feet in her front, right navigator's seat from which she gave commands like, "Pass him, Jimmy!" Mom had a basket of huge aromatic peaches that Dad had purchased at a roadside stand. We must have eaten half of them on the trip.
The long, hot, and humid drive south from the Catskill Mountains to Brooklyn took four or five hours on the two lane roads of 1940. After reaching Kingston on the Hudson, we traveled south on Route 9W until we came to the George Washington Bridge. Crossing it to Manhattan, Dad drove south along Riverside Drive and on to the cobblestone paved, slick, West Side elevated highway that at that time stood below Fifty-seventh Street. (The badly rusted elevated highway collapsed in December of 1973. The immediate cause was the weight of a concrete truck that was making a delivery for road repairs.)
The car's windows were all open, allowing the noises and smells of the traffic to reach us. There was no air conditioning. The Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel was still a dream, so Dad followed the slow traffic over the Brooklyn Bridge and made his way along Fourth Avenue, delivering us finally to Bay Ridge.
We arrived at home to the damp and particular smell of Brooklyn at the end of summer. It was early evening when Papou greeted us at the door. Nitsa and I ran through the house to the garden, Papou on our heels. As we opened the door our eyes searched for the giant watermelon, and there it was. Nitsa saw it first. We caressed it and marveled at the size of this single great watermelon amidst the tangled vines. Then, Nitsa found the string that tied the watermelon to the plant.
A lone, slender mulberry tree softened the hard-surfaced courtyard to our home. The tree had few branches and was only six or seven feet tall. It seemed tenuously to cling to life. When the snows were gone and spring temperatures revived it, it budded and broke into leaf having survived to live another summer.
The courtyard faced north, so the tree that would have been at home in the Peloponnesos received little of the warm sunshine it needed to thrive. Nonetheless, each year the little tree provided a handful of berries that Papou and Dad happily harvested and shared with the family.
The late 1930s and early '40s witnessed the decline of horse-drawn carts in New York City. From them, mobile vendors delivered ice and milk, and sold vegetables, fruit, fish, and sometimes pots, pans, and clothing. Italians, Greeks, Irishmen, Jews, and other ethnic groups were in the diverse body of men who hawked their portable goods.
The wood carts were simple, with wheel rims covered sometimes with rubber, but more often, bare metal. Most carts had a stepladder hanging in back and a tent-like awning to protect cargoes from rain and sun. Some had rails surrounding the space that held the vendor's goods. Wood boards covered with fabric or old carpet gave the men a place to sit as they drove their wagons.
Tired horses pulled the carts and their contents through the streets. Typically, a horse's traces were worn and heavy blinders covered its eyes. Occasionally, a shabby but ornately-beaded head ornament with feather plumes crowned its head. On hot summer days, flies attacked the animals unmercifully. Moving slowly with their heads bowed, sounding clip-clop through the streets, they were a sorry sight.
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