It is 1954, Brooklyn, N.Y., Crown Heights. I am 8 years old, playing outside our apartment building. All the mothers are across the street sitting beneath the shade of the maple trees, in lawn chairs, watching us play.
With chalk in hand, we form boxes on the pavement for hopscotch or potsie. The Good Humor Man drives by and rings his bell.
The Chassidic kids are not allowed to play with us; they stand in front of their houses and watch us slurping our icy cold treats. Their mothers call them inside. We are the goyim, they say.
We are Jewish, but our fathers are clean-shaven and our mothers don’t wear shaitels. Our little boys have no payes.
On some days, we walk around the corner to the deli where in the large oak barrels float sour pickles. They are a nickel each, and two of us can share one.
Down the street from the deli is the corner candy store. We can have a 2 cents seltzer or an egg cream for 5 cents.
At 6 p.m., we go to our apartments for supper. The kitchens all face a courtyard, and you can hear the sounds of dishes clanking, babies crying and mothers calling their stray children to come home.
After supper we go downstairs again to see the stars and light punks to keep the bugs away. Lightning bugs flicker everywhere. We are happy to enjoy the warm night air and escape from the heat of our apartments.