It was November 1965 and the commuter train had barely reached the end of the platform in Brooklyn. I was returning from a business trip to Hartford, Conn., when it all happened: The lights went out. It later became known as The Blackout and lots of babies were born nine months later.
Little did I know that this was a glimpse into future events, like a big transit strike when many of us walked to work — unless you drove to Wall Street from Westchester in your black limo and parked in an inherited parking garage spot. (One morning I was walking with a coworker down the middle of Madison Avenue in between the stalled cars. She, being a bit more aggressive than me, opened the door to one of the stalled black limos and we just climbed in. Not one word was spoken but we had a warm ride to work with a very startled driver.)
I was from a small town in Oregon and in high school had pretty much made up my mind that I was going to New York, where I continued my education and then worked on Fifth Avenue.
I lived in Manhattan, which most native New Yorkers called “The City.” Their name for Brooklyn was “The Disease,” and they also had names for New Jersey. Anyplace beyond Ohio was the West.
The commuter train I was on reached the end of its platform in Brooklyn, but I was stranded and in a daze. I knew nothing about Brooklyn, except for its nickname. How was I going to get back into The City?
Someone did know and he led five of us down a darkened platform and through dark winding streets to a bus stop. Would you believe the fare was only 25 cents? And, would you believe, after the first stop, someone got up and I was able to sit for the long ride back into The City?
And, would you believe, I had my knitting with me? I was making a black sweater for my brother.
When we finally reached Manhattan, I had to make my way up five flights of dark stairs to my apartment. (After that I said I would always carry matches in my pocket — yeah, that didn’t last long.) Then I became concerned about a friend who was supposed to meet me at the Port Authority bus terminal, which had turned out not to be my final stop.
I decided to go back out to try and find my friend. Walking down a deserted, darkened Madison Avenue was a new experience. The Port Authority looked like a war zone with all the litter left by stranded commuters.
When I was able to connect with my friend, he told me he had ridden the bus from uptown all the way down to Wall Street and back up to Harlem, playing his guitar and entertaining the riders. He was a native New Yorker!
When I looked at the 8 inches of knitting I had accomplished on the bus, it was a row of purls that should have been a row of knits. I tore it all out and corrected the error and was able to finish the sweater for Christmas.
I only had two experiences in Brooklyn because it was one place you did not go. Neighborhoods that are so fashionable today were verboten back then.
When I was going to school I had an assignment to go to the Brooklyn Museum, but when I exited the subway there was no museum in sight. Some nice people told me I was on Washington Street and needed to go to Washington Avenue — another lesson learned about addresses, having come from a small town where you really didn’t need a specific address. People used paper maps.
I left The City with the feeling that it was the true native New Yorkers who were the nicest, most helpful people ever, and the relocated Midwesterners who weren’t always so nice. I think they weren’t well adjusted to a new way to survive.
People often refer to rudeness, but I see it as expeditiousness. I remember walking the wrong way down a busy, crowded sidewalk and someone kept saying, “Keep to the right, keep to the right.”
I never had a raincoat or used an umbrella growing up in Oregon, but I had both in The City. My umbrella was big and could be used as a walking cane; it gave me a little space when it was opened.
One rainy day when my umbrella was open and the sidewalk was very crowded, a man simply walked with me under that umbrella, not one word spoken. You share, OK, no big thing.
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