Marathon Man
A writer’s life on the run
By Kevin Lynch
If you happen to be like me, one of those people who will be cheering on the ING New York City Marathon, which takes place Nov. 7, you should know it’s not just an awe-inspiring event with 40,000 runners from all over the world—it is an occasion that can change lives—like it did for me in 2006. Read more
The Ghost that Haunted the Basement
By Thomas Pryor
As a boy in the early 1960s, I’d go up to my grandmother’s second floor apartment on York Avenue several times a week. Her hallway was lit by one low-watt, exposed bulb. The dark hall frightened me. Sometimes my fear was compounded when I’d hear fuzzy radio sounds coming from the usually locked basement. I assumed it was a foreign station, maybe German based on the marching music, waltzes and the announcer’s accent. I told my grandmother.
“You’re hearing things,” she said
“What’s down the basement?” I asked.
“Nothing and it’s none of your business.”
I choose to believe her because I had no courage or interest in going down the cellar to investigate. I began taking the single flight of stairs in four long jumps to get into the apartment as fast as I could. I never looked back.
Over the years, the radio echoes from the cellar were there on and off. In 1964, my grandfather died, and I began to stay over at my grandmother’s on the weekend. The noisy avenue was right outside our front window. I was a light sleeper. Lying awake at night, I would hear odd pacing throughout the apartment. My ears perked up like Nipper the RCA dog, as dread sharpens my hearing. Through the airshaft next to my bed, I heard a man talking to himself. Based on my movie knowledge, he sounded German. He spoke rapidly with quick pauses as if he was reading a list of pressing things to do. I didn’t move a muscle. The old lady above us spoke in a whisper, lived alone and walked with a cane. It was a waste of time to check in with my no-nonsense grandmother.
“You’re hearing things,” she’d say. Eventually I’d fall back to sleep or it’d get light outside and chase my terror away.
In 1977, my parents bought a house after a lifetime of apartment living and had extra space to place new things. The day they moved in, I noticed Dad carrying a wide chair.
“Dad, what’s that?”
“It’s a love seat.”
“Where did you get it?”
“From your grandmother.”
“I’ve never seen it.”
“It was stored in her cellar.”
“Huh?”
“It belonged to someone else who never retrieved it.”
Dad told me a story. When his father, my grandfather, contracted late-stage tuberculosis in the mid 1930s, Mr. Volk, the German man upstairs, cared for Dad’s family, bringing them food and fetching a doctor when one of them was sick. After my grandfather died in February 1941, Mr. Volk gave my grandmother a couple of dollars anytime she was short. As a thankful gesture, my grandmother invited Mr. Volk in for coffee at the kitchen table. While Dad spoke I pictured this with ease, because I had seen my grandmother do the same thing hundreds of times in my lifetime. She was strict but kind.
In mid-1942, Mr. Volk knocked on my grandmother’s door. With his hat clutched in his hands, he greeted her urgently, “Mrs. Pryor, how are you? You work hard. I have something to ask, it is difficult. You know I’ve been good to your family. When your husband was ill and after he passed, I care for you and your sons like they’re my own. Immigration came yesterday and said I’m being deported in two weeks. There are problems with my papers. I have one chance to stay; I must be married and do it quickly. I ask you because I trust you to trust me that this is purely so I can stay. I’m desperate!”
My grandmother paused, took a deep breath and politely turned Mr. Volk down. He didn’t grow angry; he thanked my grandmother for her kindnesses and asked her a favor.
“Would you take care of my love seat until I return after the war? It belonged to my parents.”
She agreed to care for it and felt obligated to store it safely to avoid damage until Mr. Volk’s return. The love seat sat in the cellar of 1582 York Avenue from 1942 until 1977. It’s in my living room today. I hear no voices. Mr. Volk is at peace.
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Thomas Pryor runs the radio show “Yorkville Stoops to Nuts.” He can be contacted at yorkvillestoopstonuts.blogspot.com.
Stop Stealing My Paper
As a 26-year-old working in the IT business, I’m the only person in my group of friends who subscribes to a print newspaper. My comrades react with amusement when they ask how I’m spending my Sundays.
“Reading the paper?” they howl. “You’re so weird.”
I’m proud of my subscription. I’ve been addicted to newsprint ever since I started clipping articles for current events assignments in 3rd grade. Hearing about the impending “death of print” makes me feel like I’m part of a rescue mission sent to save a civilization. Yet all of my satisfaction falls to pieces when I check my doorstep in the morning to find my paper has been stolen. Read more
How to Putter
My partner Bryan surprised me this year with a very thoughtful Hannukah gift: a gray velour Ralph Lauren tracksuit.
This luxurious outfit, however, is not for jogging on the treadmill; in fact, the soft, thick fabric and sagging lines suggest the very opposite of physical activity. Bryan was instead recognizing my favorite weekend ritual: puttering around the house.
To be clear, puttering is not about being lazy, nor is it “dawdling,” which is about delaying something you should do. To putter is to move aimlessly, usually indoors. We zone out much like we’re stoned, but are in motion and vaguely productive. Read more
Monday Morning Football Flashback
My only son announced that Jerry Rice will be voted into the upcoming 2010 Hall of Fame Class during Super Bowl weekend. He specifically relayed this factoid to me because he knows that Rice will always hold a special place in my heart—not because of his maneuvers on the football field, but because of his special play on Columbus Avenue.
In 1994, I was one of five female producers at Live with Regis & Kathie Lee. Regis would often come into our meeting and request a specific guest, always a sports star. I consistently volunteered to take the assignment because the other female producers had no idea who he was talking about. Read more
Nice Jacket, Where Are My Pants?
Nearing the 1964 Christmas break during my 5th grade, 13 inches of snow blanketed my street late on a Thursday evening. Friday morning, my friends and I mushed over to Central Park, towing our sleds through the middle of the street. Back from the sleigh ride, I plopped down outside my apartment on the hall stairs and began undressing. As I worked my top layer off, I heard my father’s familiar step coming up the stairs.
He mumbled to himself, “Damn, I forgot the suit.” Noticing me, his eye focused on my half untied snow boots. “Tommy, here’s the ticket, hurry to the cleaners. I need that suit for the wedding.” Read more
Lessons in Humility
When I said, “I hope to learn as much from my students as they’ll learn from me,” during my interview for a teaching job, I wasn’t sure what I’d meant. I was vying for a position as a social studies instructor at an Upper East Side high school for recent immigrant English language learners. It seemed like a noble line at the time, though I had nothing more in mind than learning how to swear in 12 different languages. I loved foreign cultures and wanted to work with kids who had been marginalized. Only now can I laugh at just how low I had set the bar for what my own “learning” would entail. Read more
City of ‘Motherly’ Love
I reach the top of the Arc de Triomphe and catch my breath. Paris stretches in every direction. Oh, how I love this city! Filled with emotion, I give my companion’s hand a squeeze and we gaze at the view. Then she turns to me and asks, “Now can we go to a playground, Mommy?”
My traveling partner is my 8-year-old daughter Coco, with whom I have spent the past three Thanksgivings in Paris visiting friends. When I tell people that we’re Paris-bound, the follow-up question invariably is, “Are you bringing Coco?” I tell them that “we” is Coco and me. Phil, my husband, is staying home. Read more
If You Can’t Take the Heat
As the air gets cooler, I’m reminded of my own first autumn in New York. One night in early winter, not long after I’d moved from my hometown of Baltimore, stands out.
It was 3:02 a.m. when I was jolted awake by an ear-splitting racket. BANG! BANG! BANG! From my spot on the couch, I scanned my first-floor apartment for the source of the sound. As a bubbly, blond 22-year-old dying to prove I could make it in the big city, I had thought my stretch of East 54th Street was safe. Read more
Mouse Games
Mice and rats in New York City are called a lot of things: vile, filthy, scary, ugly. I’d also add inconsiderate.
I recently moved from my childhood home in Queens to an apartment on East 83rd Street. After a failed three-year relationship with my college boyfriend, and dating a few guys thereafter who proved disappointing, I decided my mid-twenties could be better spent single. I resented when men wasted my time but was more irritated that I let them. Read more
