Maybe he did, or maybe he didn’t, but whether it’s legend, or fact, the story goes that young George Washington chopped down a cherry tree. But in Brooklyn, after journeying to America from Bari, Italy, my immigrant grandfather—aka Poppa—simply slept under his.
His Eden was a small backyard wedged between two other homes on Seventeenth Street between 9th and 10th Avenues in Windsor Terrace, Brooklyn. The neighborhood was a fairly urban, concrete and asphalt one, bordered by the ditch Robert Moses had ordered dug for the Prospect Expressway. But it still retained a sense of nature, or at least green, thanks to trees that dotted the sidewalks as well as being nestled between the verdant borders of Prospect Park to the northeast and Greenwood Cemetery to the south and west.
Seventeenth Street remains largely a residential block. Back then, in the 1950s and well into the 1970s, it featured a small garment factory on the 10th Avenue end, where the whine and grind of women working at individual sewing machines could be heard throughout the day. A saloon capped the corner of 9th Avenue, which in later years was crowned Prospect Park West.
Midblock, opposite Poppa’s home, was a curious estate, now long gone, which featured a large Victorian mansion in a fenced, wooded enclave owned by spinster sisters from an old Brooklyn family. As kids we no doubt annoyed them to no end by our noisy games and the multitude of pink rubber Spaldeens, footballs and eventually Frisbees that made their way over the fence into their yard. The estate easily covered property equal to ten homes the size of my grandfather’s.
Further up, toward 9th Avenue, was a small shop owned by George, a wonderful Lebanese guy who had an import company dealing in Middle Eastern products. Although a wholesaler, he was very patient and kind toward kids who would stop in to buy a package of red pistachio nuts, or cashews. Sometimes he’d be holding the phone with one hand, doing business with one of his many wholesale customers, while using tongs with the other to fish a pickle for a nickel for us kids from a barrel which they brined at the front of the store.
But away from the hubbub of the street, Poppa had his tranquil arcadia. As any good Italian immigrant must, he had a fig tree which he protected from brutal NYC winters with tar paper, canvas and plastic tarps, topped with an old circular wooden basket from the fruit store. Among many other plants and flowers, he had an arbor with waxy white concord grapes that somehow never made it into a wine bottle. The arbor lined a short pathway from his three-story brick and shingle home, leading to a circular sitting area that was crowned by his amazing cherry tree. The tree was vast, its original provenance unknown, having been planted long before he had purchased the Seventeenth Street house in the early 1940s. And it had continued to grow very tall and wide over the years. It bore distinctive red and yellow colored fruit, not sweet like a Bing cherry, more tart with just a hint of sweetness in its yellow flesh.
By the time I knew him, he had retired from his numerous careers as a fisherman, salesman, restaurateur, laborer (one who helped in the construction of the Brooklyn Grand Army Plaza Library, which would become a mecca of sorts for this grandson), and carpenter/handyman at a Brooklyn Kosher winery. But he could still often be found during the week at his goombah’s fish store on Prospect Park West. It was unclear if he ever got a real paycheck there, or if – as it seemed – he took his pay in seafood. At home he was a master chef, especially at the Italian Catholic holidays. The Feast of the Seven Fishes, cold seafood salad, mafalde pasta with shrimp, pasta con sarde, fried or broiled fish of all kinds—he was proficient in them all.
One of the family legends regarding Poppa had its origins during World War Two. The FBI came to the door to question him – an Italian immigrant who still spoke strongly accented English, despite his many years in America, and often traveled back to Bella Paese to visit his extended family there. Poppa informed them that his oldest son Rocco, my wonderful Uncle Rocky, who was still just a teenager, was at that moment serving in the United States Navy, seeing action in the South Pacific. With great indignation, and no doubt a few tears in his eyes, Poppa asked them how they could question his loyalty as an American citizen when he was asked to make such a sacrifice. My uncle survived his military service and went on to have a long career as a New York City firefighter.
Despite all the obligations and responsibilities of raising a large family with his dear wife, and the noise and clatter of Brooklyn streets, Poppa could, in the cool of a summer evening, always be found out back, relaxing in his Brooklyn idyll, often chatting with his neighbor Cosmo through the chain link fence that separated their yards. He had actually cut a small opening in the fence that was just big enough for them to pass a tazze di espresso, maybe with a drop of anisette, that they (or more likely my grandmother or Cosmo’s wife) would take turns brewing.
Although Poppa would occasionally go back to visit his family in Santo Spirito, a maritime area on the northern end of Bari, nothing seemed to satisfy him as much as his little Brooklyn Eden.
As dusk settled over Windsor Terrace you might catch his soft breathing as he dozed off bit. If you listened carefully, on some summer nights you could actually hear the fireworks from Coney Island in the distance, which drifted up to the high point of Windsor Terrace.
And though he often snoozed for a few minutes in his rocking chair, he would inevitably be woken up by the gentle plop plop of cherry pits, dropped on his head by the squirrels feasting on the fruit at the highest branches.
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Anthony Napoli is a Brooklyn native who now resides in the Hudson Valley.