Fort Bo-Ga-Ko-Te-Za. That is the name the neighborhood kids created to christen the new “fort” – a collection of used plywood, tin, and old scrap material lifted from our parents’ garages and assembled into a shaky but relatively sturdy tent-like structure in the woods behind our houses. The name, of course, was an amalgamation of the first syllable of each fort builder’s last name. We thought we were so clever — young New York Times puzzle masters before we had ever heard of an anagram.
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A couple of years ago, an ingenious neighbor of mine, decided to organize a block party. She wanted to create what neighbors felt in years past, a sense of belonging, socialization, and friendship. It was a brilliant idea and we have continued the tradition in our neighborhood and have held one at least once or twice a year. All neighbors are invited by placing a simple flyer at each door.
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From blocks away you can hear the ice cream man’s call. A warbled melody of “Turkey In The Straw,” or some other musical oddity, crying out to children’s ears. Within seconds a chorus of “ICE CREAM MAN! ICE CREAM MAN!” sounds. Kids throw down their baseball bats, climb out of pools, leap from the couch and race outside. The truck turns the corner. Kids panic. They rush back to their parents for coins or snatch money from piggy banks. Anything for a Big Stick, 50/50 Bar or Bomb Pop.
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