By Adam Brownstein
Parenthood is fertile ground for maxims. The Greeks wrote that to a man growing older there is no greater comfort than the love of the a daughter. Yiddish wisdom suggests that you are only as happy as your most unhappy child.
Some parental wisdom has come to me by way of family and friends. My Cousin Benjamin notes that when kids are young “the days are long, but the years fly by.” Joy Kellman, the venerable parenting coach, explained once that kids are like an amazing seed. You give them water, soil, and sunshine (parroting love, education, and health) and then see what they turn out to be. Some are plants. Some are trees. Some are flowers. You don’t get to decide which. You just get to input the basics, love them, and cheer them on as they grow.
When a man becomes a father of a son, the potential of the universe is newly refreshed. I’m not sure where I heard that one, so maybe I will lay claim to it. There is hope and, for shallow-minded folk like me, flair ups of judgement. My oldest son declared recently that he intends to become a marine biologist. Hearing this evoked a disturbing image of him (clad in a Senor Lopez, bearded, and bejeweled in dreadlocks) aboard a Greenpeace sloop. I became unsettled and went for a run to calm my nerves.
A mile into the run, reason and curiosity began to flow. I recognized that marine biology, like many science tracts, was noble. Who was I to second guess the pursuit of deep knowledge about important things related to the future of life itself. By the second mile I was conjuring up questions about the sea. Somehow, I got to thinking about salmon. A fishmonger friend at the U-District Farmers Market in Seattle would regal me with stories of Silver Heads who would run off the northeast shores of Hokkaido, only to make their way to the precise inlet where they had once been hatchlings in the Copper River thousands of nautical miles away.
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On a subsequent run in Central Park during a work trip this month I returned to the story of the Salmon. Having ingested goodly amounts of Gaspe Bay from Russ & Daughters (along with the requisite hits of sturgeon from Barney Greengrass), I suppose I had fish on the brain. The Park itself afforded a feeling of swimming home. The lawn at Sheep’s Meadow, the distant glimpse of the Museum of Natural History, the Dakota, the noble façade of the Plaza. It was as though the inanimate objects of my early childhood were watching over me as I gently jogged along.
Ending my run in Columbus Circle, I made short pilgrimages to the pressed juice guy (ABC – apple, beetroot, celery) and the Guatemalan cart lady on the southeast corner of 57th and Broadway (small coffee regular in the blue and white Greek cup). Sipping on my two-fisted breakfast bonanza, I began to meditate more deeply on the joy of returning to a place that you once called home. And then it struck me that I had a free morning before
work to walk (swim?) even further down memory lane.
Freshly shaven and armed with an MTA card, I hopped the new(ish) S Line across town to Grand Central just in time to catch the 10:18 Hudson Line North. Rambling in the late morning August heat past 125th street is I gazed out at the waterways of my youth. In the distance to the left flowed the grand Hudson and close on the right, the Harlem River. And whence the two met, I alighted at Spuyten Duyvil Station in Riverdale, The Bronx. Crossing over the tracks and schlepping up the steep climb on Edsall Street, I found myself striding along the leafy sidewalk of Palisade Avenue.
Finally, in between the post-War gingerbread houses and the massive mansions of the North Bronx well-to-dos I arrived at 2727 Palisade Avenue, my home for the first six years of my life. The red brick mid-rise loomed larger than I remember, the southern balconies gazing out beyond the freight line tracks and over the river. Still in place was the same semi-circle driveway and behind the building the swimming pool where we waded for hours on end in summer. To the right of the building cascaded a narrow roadway, traveled by the ice cream man who rang his bells each afternoon in prelude to hocking toasted almond bars and bomb pops for a quarter.
I entered the lobby with a bit of hesitation and explained the purpose of my journey to the front desk gent. He feigned amazement at my tale to indulge me and noted that the building had gone condo and enjoyed a few upgrades over the years. Exiting back on to Palisade Avenue I encountered two retired ladies named Shirley and Stella with thick New York accents and sunglasses to match. Shirley was attached to a mild-mannered terrier with a rose pink collar and matching leash. I shared the story of a happy childhood on the block and the long, strange trip of life that had ensued henceforth.
“Tokyo!” quipped Stella in her faux-Jackie O shades. “How EXCITING!!! I love sushi!”
“Yes, but do you even have a SHUL there???” inquired Shirley, peaking out from behind her brown line frames.
“Do we have a shul?!?!” I proudly retorted. “We happen to have the best shul in the east! The far east that is!”
I proceeded to regal them with tales of klezmer jazz night in Ebisu, pilgrimages to the Meiji Jingu Ballpark, the soulful crooning of Cantor Yoni during the Days of Awe and kiddish tables laden with tabouleh, dry cookies and Elite instant coffee to wash them down.
“Who knew!” they chortled in unison.
The walk down memory lane left me famished, so I called an Uber to usher me up Kappock Street and over to Liebman’s Kosher Deli on 255th Street. A fleishig essential established in 1953 to cater to the frum legions of Riverdale, Liebman’s is famed for its cured meats, quarter dills and mini black & whites.
Encamped in a comfy booth waiting for my pastrami on rye, I got to talking to the elderly couple who had taken their position at the closest table for two. As my sandwich arrived (yes, dear reader, de-LISH!!!) their plates of kasha varnishkes and steaming bowls of matzo ball soup soon followed. I went through the whole shul-in-Japan schtick much to their astonishment.
“Such a life!” noted the husband.
“Indeed,” countered the wife. “But it must be so nice to come home to Riverdale!”
“Indeed, ” I retorted. “Indeed.”
Just like a salmon . . .
The Tokyo Yenta 