The Indian Rock
Polished by the forces of erosion, and then delivered by a glacier, this erratic stood sentinel on a hill overlooking Crotona Park Lake.
It was a landmark to the neighboring residents who rented rowboats in the summer to escape the stifling heat of their tenements. It stood unfazed during frigid January and February. “Parkee”, Solomon, would raise the red ball on a white field next to the boathouse indicating the ice was thick enough to support the skaters. My blades would nip at the ice as they carried me over its four acres.
Four smooth, well-worn notches in the rock provided a grip for my Keds in order to reach its crest. Seated on top I felt like a hunter in a blind waiting for the activity to begin.
The pretzel man in his white apron was lugging salted pretzels stacked on dowels projecting above his woven wooden basket. His curses were saltier than the pretzels. Ah! There’s the black derby with the little, old man underneath it. He carried one bag of polly seeds and one bag of pumpkin seeds in a cardboard box.
“Two cups for a penny,” faintly left his mouth as he shuffled along the perimeter of the lake.
There’s a teenager in a rowboat! Where did he get the fifteen cents to rent it?
Using his shirt as a pillow, he stretched out over two seats to sun himself.
Near the boathouse, some kids were digging for worms as bait in order to catch “sunnies”.
To my right, in front of the benches, a group of men (my father called, The Parliament) were in their usual heated debate about the International Ladies Garment Workers Union.
Crotona Park Lake, in 1939 was drained in order to search for Peter Levine who was kidnapped coming home from school in New Rochelle, NY. The drainage yielded nothing but the garbage lying in the muck at the bottom of the lake. The Indian Rock knew. If only they would have asked, it would have told them their search was in vain.