My grandmother owned an apartment building in Brooklyn once upon a time.
She lived there until she was mugged, and the family decided for her that it was best to move.It was on a dead end street, with tall fencing over which the hill tumbled down toward the railroad tracks.
They sat there in a trench between two hills with tall fencing.
I always remember them strewn with autumn leaves of varying colors.
They probably always were.So many things happened there, and I can precisely remember the layout of the apartment to this day.
I will probably use that in another thrilling 'story' another day.But this time I want to talk about Frank.Frank was the African-American super, before they used that term.
I loved Frank.
I have no idea how old he was, where he came from, or anything about his life,
Except that he used to sit with me on the stoop, smoke his cigars.
And emanate a rare sort of peace that I loved to be around.He slept in the boiler room in the basement. On a cot.
He was one of the kindest people I've ever met, and I will not forget him until my dying day.
His has long passed, and I miss him.There was an empathy in his presence that made me feel good about life
When childhood wasn't going so well.
I think that was the only time I ever remember liking the smell of cigars,
surrounding Frank like a halo.One time I went into the basement when I was staying over at my dear grandmother's place.
I happened upon Frank in his room sleeping on his cot.
He woke up.
I think he was sick and resting. I had been looking for a dollhouse I used to play with there.
I wish I had that dollhouse now, as I remember it being so intricate and beautiful,
Like the one in the famous 'Twilight Zone' episode you may have seen.
It's one of my dozens of favorites, called, "Miniature."That was the only time I ever saw Frank's room.
But it made a big impression on me.
He lived so very differently that anyone else I knew.
And he was happy.
I could feel it.I miss you and think of you, Frank.
Maybe you're back in my life now, and I don't even know it.
She lived there until she was mugged, and the family decided for her that it was best to move.It was on a dead end street, with tall fencing over which the hill tumbled down toward the railroad tracks.
They sat there in a trench between two hills with tall fencing.
I always remember them strewn with autumn leaves of varying colors.
They probably always were.So many things happened there, and I can precisely remember the layout of the apartment to this day.
I will probably use that in another thrilling 'story' another day.But this time I want to talk about Frank.Frank was the African-American super, before they used that term.
I loved Frank.
I have no idea how old he was, where he came from, or anything about his life,
Except that he used to sit with me on the stoop, smoke his cigars.
And emanate a rare sort of peace that I loved to be around.He slept in the boiler room in the basement. On a cot.
He was one of the kindest people I've ever met, and I will not forget him until my dying day.
His has long passed, and I miss him.There was an empathy in his presence that made me feel good about life
When childhood wasn't going so well.
I think that was the only time I ever remember liking the smell of cigars,
surrounding Frank like a halo.One time I went into the basement when I was staying over at my dear grandmother's place.
I happened upon Frank in his room sleeping on his cot.
He woke up.
I think he was sick and resting. I had been looking for a dollhouse I used to play with there.
I wish I had that dollhouse now, as I remember it being so intricate and beautiful,
Like the one in the famous 'Twilight Zone' episode you may have seen.
It's one of my dozens of favorites, called, "Miniature."That was the only time I ever saw Frank's room.
But it made a big impression on me.
He lived so very differently that anyone else I knew.
And he was happy.
I could feel it.I miss you and think of you, Frank.
Maybe you're back in my life now, and I don't even know it.
