Free My Old Neighborhood Remembered by Avery Corman

radio broadcasts from the Metropolitan Opera House would follow you through the neighborhood.
    A barber shop war broke out in our neighborhood. The barber shop I went to was located on the east side of the Grand Concourse between Field Place and 184th Street. My uncle went there and, therefore, so did I. The decor was basic, a narrow space with white walls and traditional barber shop furnishings. A contributing factor to the particularly long waits in this barber shop was that the barbers were older men and old-fashioned craftsmen, each scissor snip made deliberately, painstakingly, which translated into a haircut rendered very slowly.
    In the early 1950s, a competing barber shop opened directly across the street on the west side of the Grand Concourse, nothing old-fashioned about it, black and white furnishings, slick floors, modern, and they used clippers extensively, and they got you out fast. The new barber shop was in the next building from mine. When I passed the shop I could gauge how long a wait I might have and I could duck in if they weren’t busy, knowing I wouldn’t be there for an interminable length of time as with the old barbers.
    I switched over to the new barber shop. Many people did. Rumors circulated that the old barbers would go out of business. I wish I could say that craftsmanship won out, that the men in the neighborhood rebelled against fast and modern in favor of the deliberate, old ways. But the new barber shop caught on and was successful. The old barbers did manage to stay in business. Sufficient numbers of men appreciated them and were loyal.
    As a teenager my hair was thick and wavy and couldn’t get too long or the sides would curl up like the points of an elf’s shoes. I failed to appreciate the care the old barbers took in dealing with me and making me look presentable. The new barber shop dealt with my hair by keeping it short on the sides, clipping away, rather like putting a bowl on my head. My pomade-reinforced pompadour on top served as a general distraction from the overall look.
    I went to the new barber shop until I started college downtown and then had my hair cut in Manhattan. I never reached the age in the neighborhood where I was one of those men waiting, chatting, small-town style, in that old-fashioned barber shop. What I know now is the ritual of waiting was important to the men. And I know now those two old barbers were great.

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GROCERIES, DELIS, BAKERIES, APPETIZING STORES
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    Several “Mom and Pop” grocery stores were located within walking distance of our apartment. These small stores were sometimes actually run by a husband and wife, justifying the “Mom and Pop” designation. Loyalty to your grocery was important. If you happened to buy something in one grocery store where they had an item your regular grocery didn’t carry and you went into your regular store directly from there, you hid the bag so they wouldn’t know.
    The delis usually had a few tables for dining. Seldom did I or any of my friends sit and eat in our neighborhood deli. We ate grilled hot dogs, primarily, which you ate standing. Or I bought scrap pieces of deli for my dog and tossed them to him on the sidewalk, so it could be said Paddy also ate standing.
    Sending us to the bakery for a rye bread was a dubious proposition for any adult who ordered up the bread. For most bakeries the goods were baked there, not shipped in. The bread was fresh, often recently out of the oven and it was the rare bread that arrived home via a child without one end or sometimes both ends of the loaf eaten.
    The neighborhood appetizing store with its smoked fish and pickles — the store smelled of pickles — was a place my aunt particularly liked. We had smoked sturgeon and baked salmon routinely in the apartment the way other people had American cheese sliced and purchased by weight from the grocery.
    This made for a rather bizarre experience for a child. My classmates