The Streets of Yonkers

by Rebecca Malone

What struck me when we first moved there was the absence of sidewalks. Houses were big and set back from the road, but yards abutted right onto the street, with just a little rain gutter made of stones separating grass from road. In August, when we moved in, the trees were thick and moist; they shaded the road and the dampness could almost be oppressive.

I am glad that I had learned to ride a bike on the safe streets of Milwaukee, where sidewalks were there to protect you, because once we were in Yonkers, we were on our own. To make matters worse, there were hills everywhere: steep ones to pump up with all your strength, long slow ones to glide down for minutes at a time. Noticeably absent were long flat stretches that went on for blocks, where you could just let loose and ride.

We relied on our ears as much as on our eyes as we biked. On hot afternoons my best friend Patti and I would cross Kimball Avenue and slip into Lawrence Park West, a labyrinth of small curving roads and giant mansions where (rumor had it) Richard Nixon was looking to buy a house.

Almost on purpose, we would try to get lost. The roads would wind and circle back; there was no such thing as a cul-de-sac and the story went that these roads followed old cow paths that were there when the area was farmland. As we biked one of us would slip into the lead, making the decision when we reached a crossroad whether to turn left or right. A bad choice could lead us to a hot, lengthy uphill climb ending at a busy street. A good choice took us to new, uncharted areas, where big dark houses sat behind deep hedges.

As we grew into our early teens, the best choices of all took us past the houses of boys we knew. No one was ever outside playing; even in those days, I think, those who could afford it sent their kids to camp or a tennis club. The two of us, with just each other to keep us amused, were the exception. But we would look at the big houses, try to guess which window was “his,” never really stop to question why no one was home.

I remember the silence, actually, the way you could be riding your bike in these inhabited neighborhoods for long stretches at a time and never see a car or a person. Our voices would be the only sounds, as we would call to each other under the dark trees and stop for a rest and a snack.

These were my springs and summers, somewhere in those years when I didn’t have much homework and I was too young to babysit. I was free to explore in ways that I wouldn’t allow my own children to wander now. I was free to wander and look, absorbing the silence, contemplating the wealth and the hills and the absence of people. I had my bike, I had my friend, I had a snack in my pocket, and home was just a short ride away, across a big street and down a long, wonderful hill.

August 2002

What Shall We Call the Next Decade? It Couldn't Be Simpler

by Rebecca Malone

I have been waiting for a couple of months now, figuring that someone clever with a column or a website would come up with this idea and publicize it, but as far as I can tell, no one has. So it's up to me, a thirty-something schoolteacher who spends far too much time mulling things over while commuting, to make this proposal:

Let's call the next decade "The Singles."

"Singles" is a common word, a familiar word, a decent, normal, already-in-our lexicon word, and it won't take much of a stretch, the way some of the other proposals I've heard would. "The oughts"? Antiquated, moralistic, and requires a dictionary to comprehend fully. "The onesies"? Rather cutesie, don't you think? "The oh-ohs"? Come on.

What do "The Singles" suggest? People without partners, obviously, but also . . . old 45's . . . very cold weather . . . inflation that's not so bad.

To someone like me, with an established career, a durable spouse, and three very solid kids, "the singles" suggests youthful potential, openness to possibility, lightness, a beginning. Not bad for a new decade; even better for a new millennium.

When I proposed the idea to family and friends, they scoffed. Didn't like the sound of it. Hadn't heard of it before. Figured there must be something better out there, and figured someone will think of it soon.

Well? Heard anything better yet? Right. I didn't think so. Bear with me for a moment, then, and roll this around on your tongue for a while: Are you looking forward to The Singles? . . . The Nineties were intense; maybe things will simplify as we move into The Singles . . . By the time we're out of The Singles and into The Teens, my student loans will be paid off and I can start saving for my retirement in the Twenties or the Thirties . . .

Not bad, is it? Not too awkward. No dictionary or tongue-twisting required.

Once the decade is named so simply, we can turn our collective attention to the far more challenging and creative task of finding a nickname for it. The Singular Singles? The Simple Singles? Maybe, if we're really lucky, something lovely and fresh from the past will somehow revive itself and these Singles might even be . . . Swinging?

The nicknaming of a decade doesn't seem to happen through a pronouncement or a declaration, but through commonplace usage whose origin no one can readily trace.

I remember a few years ago, when Canada introduced a new two dollar coin, there was much talk and speculation about what its nickname should be. The one dollar coin had been quickly dubbed a "loonie" because of the picture of a beloved water fowl on its back, so speculation about the nickname for the two dollar coin continued in this vein: doubloonie, twinnie, and so on.

Yet as it turned out, on the day of the coin's release, one of my fifth graders came up to me and said, "Look, I got one of the first Toonies." No debate, no weighing of choices -- she called it a Toonie, so I called it a Toonie, and I've never heard it called anything else since. Doubloonie? Too contrived. Twinnie? Still a bit of a stretch. But Toonie? It just sort of rolls off the tongue.

That's what's going to happen to the next decade. Someone is going to start calling it something, and eventually we'll all start calling it something, and my guess is that the "something" that we call it will be simple. It will already have a familiar ring to it. It will just sort of roll off your tongue.

The Singles. Simple. Why not?

1.11.00 (talk about singles)