My flirt with this side of Brooklyn is soon to come to a halt.
It was probably a warm day in 1899 when Dean Alvord, sans coat and hat doffed from the harsh winter months behind him, spread his arms wide and said "Let this be a testament to all of New York."
And with a urban developers mind, he was to have a rus in urbe, a rustic countryside in the middle of an up an coming bustling neighborhood of mixed ethnicities. The challenge that lay before the new residents was the same: bringing some air of apple farms and long after dinner walks where there were no apple farms and no places to walk? Every home was required to plant a certain number of trees, and the sidewalks wind and wind around the neighborhood, snaking their way into intersections and ending abruptly, if not friendly, at neighbors doorsteps. With a click of Red Mike's heels, the ground was dug, parasols were opened and some people were still supposedly cured by getting sand poured in their ears.
I know that I'll move on resting assured that this part of Brooklyn will still be here.
In other news, the grill on the backporch has been cleaned, there are many imported beers being had (I'm sure even as I type this) and lists of restaurants featuring patios are being accumulated.
