Chicken in the Park

Dear Diary:

It was spring 1975. My father had come to visit from Seattle. I was starting my career as a dancer with the New York City Ballet.

On Monday, my day off, we rented bikes and proceeded to check out the blossoming trees in Riverside Park.

All was going well when I noticed a rustling under some shrubbery. A rat, I figured. Instead, we were surprised to see a red hen emerge from the greenery. Was it an escapee from a ritual ceremony? What should we do? How would it survive?

We decided to take action. I found a paper bag in the trash and we coerced the bird into it. With the bag swinging from my handlebars, we made our way to a nearby police station.

My father waited outside with the bikes while I did my civic duty.

“I found a chicken in the park,” I told the officer behind the glass.

“Living or dead?” he asked.

“Living,” I said.

After some discussion, it was agreed that the bird would live in Queens with one of the officers. He had a hen house.

I handed over the bag with the rescued hen and resumed my bike ride with my father. The park was in full bloom. It was one of the best days ever, for us and for that chicken.

— Cate Morris Leach

My Harlem Window

Dear Diary:

The city finds its way through my Harlem window.

The commuter train wails from the tracks above Lexington Avenue. Planes going west and south crisscross every half-minute without incident. Sirens blare down Fifth Avenue.

There is a gruff man who goes west in the morning, east in the afternoon. He is known around the neighborhood by his singular dress: a head-to-toe paint-splattered canvas, a walking Pollock.

There is the woman who waddles down the sidewalk, her thick hair bouncing in step and obscuring her face entirely except for the peepholes around her eyes.

There is the actress who was on “Law & Order: Special Victims Unit.” There is a speckled Great Dane whose head is the same size as the newborn it is sniffing in its stroller.

By three o’clock, there are children on low-riding bikes and young women howling with laughter as they rap in unison down the street. There is a couple fighting in the park. There is a painter whose house is boarded up after nearly burning down last year. He is unlocking his bike.

There used to be a man whose faded suit hung over him loosely and bunched at his ankles as he crossed diagonally through the park at 5:45 p.m. each day for years. He wore a hat and looked down as he walked alone, mostly indistinguishable from any other man, from time itself.

And then he vanished, and I often wonder to where.

— Selin Thomas

The Greengrass Is Always Greener

Dear Diary:

You can have your Barney Miller,
You can keep your Barney Fife,
But gimme Barney Greengrass
And you’ve salted up my life.

The nova there is unctuous,
The sturgeon’s like a dream.
And the latkes are rambunctious,
While the herrings dance in cream.

Have a LEO (very well)
A side of toasted rye
Kippered salmon? What the hell!
A plate of matzo brei.

Wash it down with Dr. Brown,
And don’t forget the borscht,
Westside, bestside, deli crown
A black and white? Of courscht!

So, you can have your Barney Gumble,
And a plate of beans and franks,
But gimme Barney Greengrass
And you have got my thanks.

— Lou Craft

Window Seat

Dear Diary:

I am in my house in Brooklyn Heights when an unexpected rain hits. There is thunder and lightning. I go to the window to check it out.

Across the street, I see a boy, around 8, doing the same. He is sitting on a window seat with his headphones on. He is holding some kind of glowing device.

He looks at me and leaves the window briefly. He returns with an actual book that he holds up for me to see.

I give him a thumbs-up, and he grins.

— Vicky Schippers

Strolling

Dear Diary:

I was sitting on a bench in Prospect Park on a beautiful Sunday afternoon waiting for my niece and her daughter to join me.

A young woman walked past. She was leading a dog on a leash and pushing a stroller with a little girl sitting up in it.

As I watched, the young woman stopped, took the little girl out of the stroller, picked up the dog, put it in the stroller and went on her way.

— Isabel Hoth

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Illustrations by Agnes Lee

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