THE WAY THINGS USED TO BE

By Gloria Kivytaitė O’Brien

Before the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway was built, Brooklyn’s Williamsburg neighborhood was a vital, thriving enclave. Grand Street ran through the middle of Williamsburg, starting as Grand Avenue in Maspeth and ending at the East River, by the giant Domino Sugar plant. A major commercial thoroughfare, it was bisected by others just as important and historic - Roebling Street, Havemeyer Street, Bedford Avenue, Lorimer Street, Graham Avenue, Bushwick Avenue. Most important to my family was the intersection of Grand Street and Marcy Avenue, where we lived for many years. Our tenement house at 48 Marcy Avenue was owned and occupied by Lithuanians - two branches of the Laukaitis family, Mrs. Slagus and her son Eddie, and ourselves, the Kivetas.

Marcy Avenue ended at Metropolitan Avenue, which faced North Fifth Street, where Annunciation Church stood, with its rectory, elementary school and convent.

Next door to the rectory was Aromiskis’ Funeral Home, where a majority of parishioners received respectful final services. In those days, the funeral parlor was open all day, and members of the bereaved family had to decide who was going to keep watch during which hours of the day. Many of the parish’s elderly ladies would spend a couple of hours keeping the family company, or just quietly praying the rosary. It didn’t matter, whether they were acquainted with the deceased, or not.

One block down on Marcy Avenue toward Metropolitan Avenue, lived some other Lithuanian families - Mr. & Mrs. Bagdonas, with their son Albinas and daughter Aldona; Mr. & Mrs. Mockeliunas with their daughters Regina and Diana; the Dabulis family, and Mr. & Mrs. Lutus (the plumber), wth their daughter Amy.

If you made a left on Grand Street at Marcy Avenue, you would find Šimanski’s Butcher Shop. Šimanski was a handsome, sturdy fellow, a Lithuanian Jew, who ran a prosperous business and made the world’s best skilandi. He was a sharp and honest businessman.

A couple of blocks further south on Marcy Avenue, Pastrami King reigned, selling the tastiest pastrami and long, fat french fries. The steaming, fragrant pastrami was pulled from a heavy pot, speared on a great big fork, and sliced paper-thin.

Havemeyer Street ran parallel to Marcy Avenue, and was the main shopping venue for most of the area’s inhabitants. It was an immigrant’s neighborhood, and a great many of the shoppers, as well as the shopkeepers, spoke little English. That did not impede commerce on Havemeyer Street, where many languages were spoken and business was brisk.

There were several general grocery stores, as well as apparel stores that sold clothing for the entire family. One tiny store was devoted to hosiery of all kinds. Stockings came in pairs, of course, as that was well before the days of pantyhose. The stockings were packaged, delicately folded, in slim cardboard boxes, since that was also well before today’s ubiquitous plastic packaging. The salesperson would display several different shades of silk or nylon stockings, by inserting her own hand, fisted to prevent snags, into one of them.

“Izzy” sold ladies’ undergarments from a tiny shop whose entrance was guarded by a small section of iron fencing. Izzy would search through box after box on his crowded shelves, to find the exact model and size of bra to suit his customer. Extracting one bra after another, he would delicately unfold them, propping the cups open for display and gazing inquiringly at his customer, before moving over to the next model. Often, there were as many as ten bras arrayed on his counter, before the customer finally made her decision, but he never lost his “cool”. He also sold panties, girdles and housedresses. As a young girl, accompanying my mother and elder sister on shopping excursions, I often thought what a chore it must have been for Izzy to re-fold everything and put it all away again in all the different boxes.

There were a few dairy stores, but Mama usually patronized the smaller one, that had a life-size black & white cow in the front window. Pre-packaged butter wasn’t very popular and couldn’t compare with barrel butter in texture or taste. The proprietor carved the required amount of pale yellow butter from a large barrel that prominently stood on its side on a middle shelf. Milk and cream were sold in glass bottles of various sizes; these had to be washed when emptied and returned to collect the deposit. Eggs were sold either by the dozen, half-dozen, or even singly.

One corner store had a window from which fancy things like charlotte russe and fresh-cut halvah were sold.

Another tiny store on Havemeyer Street belonged to the pickle man. Large barrels of pickles in various stages of sourness gave off a wonderful dilly, garlicky scent. The pickle man also sold herring and smoked fish. His store was always crowded, especially at Christmas and Easter time.

Every Lithuanian housewife had several strong shopping bags that she had sewn herself, and carried on her shopping trips to Havemeyer Street. More often than not, she was accompanied on these trips by a young son or daughter, drafted for the job of porter.

Meyers’ Bakery did landmark business every Sunday; there were long lines of customers stretching around the corner when each Mass let out from Queen of Angels and Annunciation Churches. Their fragrant, yeasty rolls and rye bread could not be beat, and their cakes and pies were incomparable. Of course, if one lived in a different neighborhood, a bit further away, such as Holy Trinity parish, then one would buy one’s baked goods at the famous Lithuanian-owned Scholes Bakery.

A person didn’t necessarily have to go out oneself in order to buy - there were many street vendors, who made their way through the neighborhoods with horse and wagon, or truck, selling fresh fruits and vegetables. I particularly remember the watermelon man, who used to call “watty-mellow”! Another fellow had a little push-wagon with a heater attached, and customers could choose an apple or pieces of coconut, to be speared on a stick and dipped into the warm jelly. The same man sold hot sweet potatoes and roasted chestnuts in the wintertime.

The knife-and-scissors grinder made his rounds periodically by horse and wagon at first, then with a primitive little truck, sounding a loud bell to announce his arrival. Kids gathered around to watch the sparks sent out by the wheel as the grinder did his work.

One of the most important vendors during those days was the iceman, the same person being the coalman during the heating season. For several years following WW2, many families still used the old-fashioned ice-box for food storage and cooling. Our iceman brought in the required square of ice on his shoulder, and placed it in its space in our ice-box, where it sat for a few days, melting until it had to be replaced. The melt traveled down a pipe that led to a basin under the ice-box, and it was our job to empty it before it could overflow. Most times, Mama had to remind us. In wintertime, we had a metal box, about 18 inches long, 12 inches deep, 12 inches high, with one shelf and sliding doors, that was kept on our fire escape, and served as a freezer.

Each family in our house had an assigned shanty space in the basement, and our coal was delivered to our shanty by a series of interlocking chutes that were sent through the small cellar window at the front of the house. It was brought up bucket by bucket as needed to fire up and feed the squat black coal stove in the kitchen. We had a small, neat gas stove that stood alongside, and this was used for most of our cooking. But Mama’s cheese blintzes, kugelis, baked whitefish, and pyragas were delicious products of her cooking expertise and the coal stove’s oven, and unbeatable.

Few homes had washing machines, which at that time were big, round, clumsy clunkers that would take up almost half the available floor space in the kitchen. So most families took their washing to one of the many neighborhood laundries. These were often in a half-basement location, a few steps down and behind a plate glass window. The clothing to be washed was weighed, and notes taken as to the type and brand of washing materials desired. A family could pick up their finished wash, or have it delivered. On sunny days, wooden frames were brought out to stand in front of the laundry, drying the lace curtains that had been stretched onto the pins set into the frames, spaced about a half-inch apart.

Grand Street was home to a few Lithuanian-owned saloons, one of them being Johnny Valens’, where a generous free lunch was set out, according to the customs of the times. Ham, roast pork, hard-boiled eggs, rye bread and other fare was offered, to encourage you to “wet your whistle”.

Ginkus’s Ice Cream Parlor on Grand Street was a successful business, run by a Lithuanian family for many years. Delicious home-made ice cream was offered along with candies, chocolates and lunches. This was, for a long time, a regular “pit-stop” for some Annunciation Church choir members after Friday night rehearsals.

St. Catherine’s Hospital was on Bushwick Avenue, a red-brick gothic building that appeared the epitome of Victorian architecture. It served the community for many years, also training generations of nurses in its nursing school, whose residence was named Jennings Hall, before closing and being demolished. The nurses’ cap was a beautiful miniature version of the large coif worn by France’s Notre Dame nuns.

Knipes’ Drug Store was an old landmark drug store on Grand Street near Bushwick or Graham Avenues; it had a gazebo-like structure in the middle of its floor that was a U.S. Post Office Branch.

Annunciation Parish held its annual picnic in a bucolic place called Klasčiaus Clinton Park, a large grassy picnic area in Cypress Hills. Families would send someone out early, to reserve a good table under a tree or close to the bandstand building. Ladies made arrangements to share table space with close friends, and arrived with younger children laden down with foods of their own preparation. At dusk, the band struck up a tune, and the dancing began: waltz, fox trot, and of course, one furious polka after another. Later on, Miss Lithuania would be chosen from among the young ladies in attendance. As the evening wore on, the older folk grouped together, singing old Lithuanian songs, bringing memories of home and lots of nostalgia.

Ours was a neighborhood whose ethnic majority was Italian. Their parish, located a few blocks away, was Our Lady of Mt. Carmel. Each year, during the summer, they would have their Feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel and San Paolino, during which more than a hundred men came together to lift and carry the “Giglio”, a platform and tower weighing more than a ton, “dancing” the tower, with its band playing hymns and old favorites, throughout the neighborhood, distributing scapulars, collecting contributions and entertaining everyone.

That was all of at least 65 years ago, and the passage of time has brought many changes, including several wars and “urban development” that ruined neighborhoods instead of developing anything worthwhile. Just about the only thing that remains the same,

is the Annunciation Parish Picnic, which is now held in the old schoolyard and basement hall of the school, and the Feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel and San Paolino. The Giglio will “dance” this year, just as before. Patrons will stream into the streets, to enjoy Italiian delicacies like sausage & peppers and sugared zeppoli. Buon Apetito!

Skanaus!

© Gloria O’Brien 2008

This article was printed in Bridges Sept. 2008

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