“You remember the bagel lady?” Ms. Johana says.“Oh, the bagel lady! You know where Blake Avenue is?” Joe asks me.I don’t, but from the tilt of his head it seems to be due west of us.Ms. Johana cuts in. “I used to send my daughter over and she’d get two bagels with butter. The lady had this big ladle and she’d scoop out butter.”“From a barrel,” Joe adds.“And she scooped it out of the barrel and put it in wax paper to take home. You talk about a bagel! A bagel was a bagel back then, you didn’t have to eat nothing else all day,” Ms. Johana says.
The Yonkers Motorcycle Club park in neat long rows and dismount, walking as one towards the riverside marina where just by arriving in one piece they’ve raised a bit over $50,000 for one of their favorite charities.
Keith May, Cambridge educated and now the Yonkers Motorcycle Club’s resident historian, enumerates all the evidence he’s uncovered over the last decade to prove the club, established 118 years ago, is the oldest in the country.
At the top of my street lies the access road to the Verrazzano Bridge’s onramp. Cross into Staten Island and keep on the expressway toward the exits for one of two bridges that will lead a traveler to the rest of America. Now that travel restrictions have been lifted, Friday afternoons are particularly clamorous, every driver dead focused on being the first to go up the ramp, over the Verrazzano, and on their way to be anywhere else. Anywhere at all.