Chapter 9 Part 1 Chapter 1 Brooklyn (1)

Tranquility is an apt word for Brooklyn, New York.Especially in the summer of 1912.Quiet is probably a better word.It just doesn't quite fit Williamsburg in Brooklyn.The cuteness of the prairie, the sweetness of the Shenandoah, are not suitable for Brooklyn.Serenity is the only word to use, especially on a summer Saturday afternoon. The afternoon sun shone down on the moss-covered yard of Francie Nolan's house, warming the battered wooden fence.Looking at the slanting rays of sunlight, Francie felt a good feeling in her heart.She also had this feeling when she recalled a poem.She had recited this poem in school, and it went like this:

This is the virgin forest Pine and hemlock whispering Moss-like beards, full of emerald green Standing in the dusk, vaguely like druids The trees in Francie's yard were neither pine nor hemlock.The green branches on the tree diverge from the trunk to the surroundings, and the branches are covered with pointed leaves. The whole tree looks like countless open green umbrellas.Some call it the Paradise Tree.No matter where its seeds fall, a tree will grow, facing the sky and striving to grow.The tree grows in vacant lots surrounded by hedges, or emerges from unnoticed dumps; it is the only tree that can grow on concrete.It grows luxuriantly and only in residential areas.

On Sunday afternoon, you go for a walk and come to a nice residential area, quite a high-end residential area.You will see such a small tree through the iron gate leading to someone's yard, and then you know that this area of ​​Brooklyn will become a residential area.The tree understands.The tree will hit the front stand.Later, some poor foreigners gradually came to repair the dilapidated brownstone houses into bungalows.They pushed feather mattresses out of the windows to dry.The tree of paradise grows lush and lush.This kind of tree has this habit.It likes the poor. It was the tree that grew in Francie's yard.Near her fire escape on the third floor, small "umbrellas" on the trees curled up one by one.An eleven-year-old girl sitting on a fire escape feels like she lives in a tree.Francie imagined this every Saturday afternoon in the summer.

Ah, what a Saturday in Brooklyn.Ah, so beautiful everywhere!People still get paid on Saturdays.Saturday is a weekend holiday, but don't abide by the rules and regulations of Sunday.People have money to go out and buy things.They'll have a good meal, get drunk, date, have sex, stay up late, sing, play music, fight, dance, because the next day they'll have a free day to sleep in, at least until Evening Mass. On Sunday, most people would crowd to attend Mass at eleven o'clock.How should I put it, there are also some people, very few, who will go to the six o'clock show.People praised them for being early, but in fact they did not deserve such praise, because they had stayed outside for too long, and when they returned home, it was already morning.So they went to this mass, dealt with it, washed away their sins, and went home to sleep peacefully all day.

Francie's Saturday starts with a trip to the garbage dump.Like other Brooklyn kids, she and her brother Neeley would go out and pick up scraps of cloth, paper, metal, rubber, etc., and stash them in boxes in the basement, locked, or under the bed.From Monday to Friday, on the way home from school, Francie would walk slowly, looking in the gutters, hoping to find the tin foil of a cigarette box, or the wrapper of chewing gum.Later she would melt these in the lid of a small jar.The dumpster does not accept unmelted solder balls, because many children put iron washers in the middle for weight.Sometimes Neeley would find a soda jug.Francie would help him get the spout off and melt the lead out of it.The people at the garbage station are afraid that the people from the soda company will make trouble, so they dare not recycle the complete spout.The spout is good stuff.After melting, it can be sold for five cents.