Snow in Brooklyn

I wrote this post on February 12, 2007 but apparently never published it. Just read it and thought it needs to be up here.

This morning, while I was cutting up some soppresata in the kitchen for my breakfast, I heard someone outside chipping away at something icey. No doubt an iced up stair or a driveway or a chunk of ice keeping a gate shut. I myself was out there this morning hammering away at the edge of the driveway so that we wouldn't skid out onto the street. But something about being in the kitchen with the sun coming through the window and hitting the side of my face at just the right angle took me back to memories of Brooklyn.

Sometimes I forget I ever lived there. Much about my childhood is fuzzy or shoved down and out of sight. But the chip-chip-chipping sound made me think how things here in suburbia are slow. I suddenly had a flashback to snowy, icy mornings where I grew up and all the sounds came towards me all at once like some sort of orchestral flood except the instruments were shovels and hammers and car horns and all the players were Puerto Rican. I marvel at the difference between where I am right now in my life and where I grew up as a child. There, an icy morning would be filled with noise.

You have to imagine the following bit of dialogue being screamed at the top of the lungs by people who didn't grow up wearing coats and hats and scarves. They well convinced they could neither hear nor be heard while wrapped up like this. Now, imagine they're cold and desparately want to go back to their apartments which are like 90 degrees, because that's what passes for "comfortable" in New York. They are excited and speaking at a speed of 60 words per second complete with flailing arms while jumping up and down to stay warm. This following exchange is just a blur of a moment but I swear it's coming to me from the past.

"No, no, pon lo en riversa! pon lo en riversa!" (No, no, put it in reverse! put it in reverse!)
"Ahi! Ahora si que se chabo!" (Ah! Now it's trashed.)
"Tienes que sacarle mas hielo! Chui, ve y traeme la mangera!" (You have to get more of the ice out! Chewey (a nickname), go get me the hose!")

Chip, chip, chip, chip, chip (coming fast and furious from across the street). Nothing slow, nothing soft. Everything sounded like it was in your bedroom and your bedroom was on fire. So you got up to look cuz you sure weren't going to sleep through it anyway. And that memory brought a smile to my face. I thought to myself, "My childhood Brooklyn was a funny and energetic place to wake up to on a morning like this."