Window into This Woman's Life in Brooklyn

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A story from last week and a family favorite recipe* : )

By Norma Jaeger Hopcraft

I called my girlfriend Jane to talk over something that had just happened.

“There’s this man,” I said. I heard her catch her breath. She’s hopeful for me, and for herself, especially around the holidays when most single people deeply miss having a partner. We agree that we just have to live our lives and find other happinesses, but that we especially feel it at the holidays.

I immediately set the record straight.

“Not a desirable man, a homeless man.”

“Oh, nuts!” she said, laughing.

I recounted to her that this man is wheelchair bound and lives surrounded by shopping carts jammed with what he may call belongings but appear to me to be detritus. And he has drums—small congas and bongos. In summer he camps under a big umbrella in Prospect Park near a semi-circle of benches called “Drummers Grove.” I can hear the drums on the opposite side of the park, and I’m not wild about it. I would prefer to hear birds.

Caption: These geese are walking amusingly on ice on the opposite side of the park from the Drummers Grove. In summer, I can hear the drums from here...You've heard of the March of the Penguins, filmed in Antarctica? This is the March/Skate of the Geese, in Prospect Park. Just 7 seconds of fun.

Anyway, I see this homeless man every day as I walk through the park to the subway to go to work. I avoid him because I feel I can’t afford the time—and he undoubtedly needs money—and I don’t want him to shout out at me every day and have expectations of me every day and to depend on me every day. So I skirt him when I see him. From behind him, one time though, I saw him reading what looked like a Bible, with double columns, and I’ve hoped for him to have a relationship with Higher Power.

The police must have forced him to leave the park because since October he’s been camped outside of the Lincoln Road B and Q station, one-half block east of the park. He lives under three layers of tarps: two clear ones, and a blue one, the kind I used to drag autumn leaves around my yard when I still lived in New Jersey and didn’t have to studiously avoid homeless people in Brooklyn.

My daughter, son-in-law, and grandbaby came to visit me just before Christmas, and we passed this man, or rather the hump of plastic over and around him. Maybe because my kids were there and I felt I should set a good example, or maybe because it was Christmas, I stopped postponing doing something for him.

I called 911. They referred me to 311, which referred me to the Department of Homeless Services, the DHS. I described the man’s location and asked them to check on him. I knew he might not accept help, but I thought I’d at least get the man on their radar for the upcoming nights when the temperature plunges into the 20s, the teens. He'd been through two nights in the 20s already. He must be holding out on going into a shelter to the very last minute. I've heard the shelters are terrible. Can they be that much worse than sitting in the freezing cold for months at a time with tarps rattling around your ears?

The DHS took my email address and gave me a case number. They updated me over the next two hours: A unit has been dispatched. A unit has arrived. The subject has refused services.

I decided to take him some dinner. I had purchased a huge ham for Christmas (every ham was huge, there were no small ones to be had). So I had lots of leftovers.

I cubed and warmed up some ham, some pineapple pudding*, and some broccoli. I covered it carefully to keep in the heat, figuring a hot meal would be so enjoyed on a late December day. I wrapped the dinner in a dish towel, put it in a thermal bag, and walked the mile to the Lincoln Road B and Q station. I even included a huge paper dinner napkin and a sturdy plastic fork.

I felt good. This is the way I like to live, I thought, helping others. Getting involved, even a little bit, even though it’s inconvenient. I felt Mother Teresa-ish, perhaps a bit Jesus-ish.

When I got to his campsite, I lifted the edge of tarp, which was flapping and rustling in the breeze.

“Hello? Hello?” Under the tent, it didn’t smell bad, which I’d been concerned about.

The man turned his head. He had on a leather hat lined with fleece, and a parka unzipped to reveal a big chest and tummy under a bright red shirt. The rest of him was lost in blankets, tarps, and detritus.

“Hello, mammy.” That’s a greeting of endearment that the other Caribbean black men in my neighborhood use.

“I brought you some dinner.”

“What’s in it?”

I thought that question was a bad sign. I steeled myself for something weird to happen.

“Ham,” I began—

“I can’t eat that, I’m Jewish.”

Never in a million years could I have anticipated that.

“Yeah, I eat kosher,” he said.

“Okay.” And I dropped the flap and took a step away.

“Would you do me a favor, though?”

I lifted the flap again.

“Yes?” I felt like I was about to be taken advantage of, if I couldn’t summon the strength to resist being taken advantage of.

“Go to Chick Filet and get me some dinner?”

I called Jane as I walked home.

“Jane, isn’t that….” I struggled to find the word…”I guess amazing? He’s homeless. Talk about someone living with food insecurity. And he turns down homemade food? And it took a lot of nerve, didn’t it?” I really wanted to know if she thought so too. “To turn down my food and ask me to spend $15 or $20 for something else?”

“Yes, that took nerve.”

“I was so happy at first to be taking him dinner and then so relieved that I hadn’t brought any cash or cards with me. So relieved I couldn’t do it even if I had been fool enough to go do it. And I’ll never take dinner to him again. I walked a mile and he turned it down.”

“He’s not very hungry.”

“No.”

“He must have someone who helps him regularly.”

“I think so. I hope so. But from now on my attitude is, ‘You’re on your own, kid.’”

I was glad to know he wasn’t very hungry. I was relieved—for him, and for the fact that I’d never have to try taking dinner again. Would I? The good and the bad of me, always at war.

I prayed for him. I had not gotten his name, which I’d meant to ask for. Homeless people complain of being invisible. I should have at least learned his name. When I pray for him, I refer to him as Mr. Kosher. It’s got a little bit of an un-prayerful edge to it, doesn’t it? I give this man so much credit for physical toughness -- he's out in the cold day and night, not able to move to warm up. 

Later I checked the upcoming nighttime lows in my weather app and put a reminder in my phone so that the next time the temp plunges I remember to call DHS and ask them to go offer him some help. But take him a hot dinner or a hot drink?

I’m off the hook.

I think.

A few pictures from Prospect Park in early winter, and then a delicious recipe!

*My mother’s Pineapple Pudding recipe, one of the most delicious foods I’ve ever tasted. Great with ham (don’t forget to serve Dijon mustard with the ham):

Pineapple Pudding (to fuel you in your search for the American Dream)

1-3/4 sticks salted butter, melted
10 slices white bread, cubed
4 eggs, beaten
1/2 Cup sugar
2 Tblspn flour
1/4 tsp salt
1/4 tsp pepper
2 #2 cans crushed pineapple (#2 cans = 15 to 17 oz.)
2 tsp grated lemon peel (1 lemon)

Heat oven to 325. Butter a casserole. Mix everything together. Bake 1 hour. Makes 6 to 8 servings.

My American Dream Is Only Half Come True

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But My Search for My American Dream Has Given Me Unexpected Gifts

By Norma Hopcraft

Today I'm offering other people's links--selfless of me, I know. Actually, I do hope these links are highly useful for you as you plan your trip to Paris -- or dream of planning your trip, which is the foundational step to making it a reality.

I believe in dreaming big. As a kid who played piano diligently, thanks to my mother's influence, I one day decided, while watching an episode of the TV show The Name of the Game (glamorous sports cars, beautiful women, settings in the great capitals of Europe), that I wanted to live and work in Europe. The only means I had of making that dream a reality was my skill at the piano. So therefore I would study to be a concert pianist.

I practiced like crazy, four hours a day, for a year, and I mastered complex music by Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, Chopin, Tchaikovsky, Rachmaninoff, and many others. And then I changed my mind. But in that year I made huge strides as a pianist.

For the last 30 years, without changing my mind, I've been dreaming of being someone who is just about as rare as a concert pianist: an author who makes enough money on their books to quit their day job and just write. That's been my American Dream for three decades.

Another way to say it is my BHAG: a Big Hairy Audacious Goal. The United States had a BHAG, writes Jim Collins, who invented the phrase, when we decided to put a man on the moon. A simple, clear, memorable, compelling, engaging BHAG that can be expressed in several ways.

My BHAG: Have the financial and artistic freedom to write lots of novels that grab people's hearts.

In other words, "to publish my writing to critical and popular acclaim." Even more succinctly: "great reviews and bestseller sales."

I've known for those three decades, each jam packed with writing, that I was taking a risk pursuing this dream. I put hundreds of thousands of hours into writing, knowing my dream might not come true. But hoping. Plugging away anyway. I felt like I just had to write.

I think what my dream was really about was to earn the chance to feel good: the feeling that my life and my art really mattered, that my self-discipline to sit down every day to write had paid off, as I deserved. That my fans loved me and therefore I could finally, finally love myself and feel fulfilled and satisfied and loved.

In addition to satisfaction and fulfillment, I wanted a financial payoff. I wanted my writing to  provide for my old age, and also to free me from the daily grind of supporting myself in order to devote big chunks of time to writing.

I've gotten half my dream. I've gotten terrific reviews.

The second half of my dream, acclaim from the populace as shown in bestseller sales, has not come true. There's a chance that word of mouth will take off, but I'm not counting on it. When I look at the funds I'll someday retire on, I don't add in one single dollar from book sales. The royalties I make I plough directly back into Amazon Ads. 

I'm telling you all this because I've really wrestled with my Higher Power over the financial half of my dream. I tell him I've worked diligently for 30 years, I've done the right thing by developing my gifts, and I've exercised the Protestant work ethic (he who hustles wins). Not only that, the American Dream that I've grown up steeped in says that hard work will pay off financially. And I haven't seen it.

Have you felt this way, too? I've gotten really upset over it at times in the last six months, to be honest.

But after wrestling for six months, I've come to believe that my Higher Power is trying to wean me away from finding my fulfillment in "success" as I defined it in these previous paragraphs. Instead, he's asking me to look to him to provide the love, life satisfaction, self-acceptance and appreciation that I crave. As I sit with him each morning with spiritual literature, I do Step 11 from the Twelve Steps ("Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for us and the power to carry that out"). Most mornings I get enough of a sense of his love for me that I'm filled up enough to go out and be kind, even on the overcrowded and frustrating streets of New York City.

I still feel sad that the financial half of the dream hasn't come true because I want so dreadfully badly to write several more books before I die. Right now, while I work full-time and commute two hours a day, I only get 600 words written per day. That's on a good day. A large number of days I accomplish 0. I'm a frustrated artist. I want to write! I want all aspects of my BHAG to be true right now!

But good things besides financial rewards have come to me because I worked toward my BHAG:

• I've lived more richly and fully as I've looked for insights and details about people, places, and things that I could use in my novels.
• I studied two topics that fascinate me for 30 years--writing, and the human psychology behind storytelling--and I made huge strides, just as I did in piano when I applied myself diligently.
• I delved into the world's greatest authors to deepen my own understanding and craft (and still do). 
• I took a journey around America on a bus. Never would have done that if I hadn't been enamored of John Steinbeck's classic, Travels with Charley.
• I finished a creative writing degree at New York University (magna cum laude, I might add).
• I lived in Paris for a year and wrote a novel there.
• I lived in Barcelona for three months and wrote several travel essays there.
• I've been part of writer's circles where I've gotten to know amazing human beings very well.
• Now, for my next novel, I'm interviewing amazing theater people and getting involved in productions. Fun!

None of that would have happened if I hadn't been dreaming my dream, pursuing my BHAG, developing the gifts my Higher Power gave me, and working diligently toward making my dreams a reality.

And lightning may yet strike my books. They're quite worthy of it -- and you're free to understand that two ways : )

So I believe in setting a BHAG.

I believe it's never too late.

I believe in dreaming big dreams, overcoming obstacles, and running the race. Not that I'm perfect at it.

My daily, real life is different from the dream I nurtured for 30 years. I am free to write, actually--not because I've been able to shed the day job but because I get up at 5:30 a.m. to carve out an hour to write.

That isn't to say I haven't been deeply frustrated with this. I've kicked against the goads. But lately I've decided to just accept what is and to get on with my writing BHAG.

Now, if your BHAG includes exploring Paris, I can help.

Some terrific links about Paris have come to my attention, and I've saved them up for you. I highly recommend these links as you dream, as you set your BHAG to be in Paris by X date:

The 25 Most Beautiful Places in Paris, from Conde Naste Traveler.
https://www.cntraveler.com/gallery/the-25-most-beautiful-places-in-paris?utm_source=nl&utm_brand=cnt&utm_mailing=CNT_Daily_PM_082619&utm_campaign=aud-dev&utm_medium=email&bxid=5c92ab7afc942d0bdffd2afb&cndid=29138620&hasha=b8e1d618699dc140ef8d724de26c7780&hashb=92c166ee0d1f598b6186d738cee7db1e4f48ee28&hashc=ced626f2dac9faee8de4511b015a1eb9a07a05c3409d94caa719e8fa28c2e2c8&esrc=SLVNA_16&utm_term=CNT_Daily

The 7 Best Places in Paris for Literature Lovers, from Newsweek:
https://www.newsweek.com/7-best-places-literature-lovers-paris-1456124?fbclid=IwAR0x8o1kms6NQlY6Z_Mtg3x0i9g1lNvTRGpdVMT3cLT7r-fNoczPzWTaddo

And for children, 5 Little Museums of Paris for Little Travelers, from the New York Times:
https://www.nytimes.com/2019/06/14/travel/5-little-museums-of-paris-for-little-travelers.html?fbclid=IwAR1fphU2hzf1bhEWFuryPoUofEZE_IJ4IILO5MRcFwLXQATJV1Orx4ewOnY

Au revoir, mes amies! Dream big! Comment below if you'd like a big dose of encouragement for your quest for a BHAG.

Admiring the "Success" of a Much-Admired Author

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JRR Tolkien -- It Depends on How You Define Success

By Norma Jaeger Hopcraft, the Traveling Writer

Today I bring you with me to a mini-adventure in New York City, in the palace-like home and library of financier JP Morgan, now known as the Morgan Library.

I visited the JRR Tolkien art exhibit there. It was mobbed. Stood on line for an hour. Feet hurt for two days.

How many writers can attract people from all over the world to see their doodles in the margins of their notes? To see the book covers that they designed, the maps they made in order to keep the landscape they imagined consistent throughout their writings, the timelines they meticulously charted in order to keep complicated story lines straight for the reader? And for themselves? I've done all those things and nobody troops to my Brooklyn studio apartment to see : )

A book cover that Tolkien designed.

Tolkien worked full time as a college professor of Middle English and had a family of four children that he told bedtime stories to. The Lord of the Rings started as bedtime stories for them, and they reportedly resented their father publishing what they considered to be THEIR stories. 

He had a lot of demands on his time. Students clamored for his time and attention too. 

In other words, he was as busy as I am -- but he had a wife, and I don't have anybody to help me. But he still found time to devote to imagining the world of the Hobbits in great detail. He made up a language, Elvish, with its own vocabulary and grammar. He kept notes on all this, and his notes are pleasing to the eye. 

I wish I could have taken more photographs to share with you, but they were prohibited inside the Tolkien exhibit. I did fire off one shot that reminded me of my grandson before the museum guard told me that photographs were prohibited.

I think Tolkien loved babies, as I do.

So people trooped from far and wide to see Tolkien's drawings, doodles, maps, and diagrams. People are still reading and enjoying his works, which have been made into blockbuster movies.  He was a successful author, no? He certainly has all the signs of authorial success.

JP Morgan had the money and power to build a lavish temple as his home. In financial circles, he was a tremendous success.

Both men's names are immortal.

My name, as an author, has scant chance of being immortal. One reason: My books compete with the 3 million new books published yearly on Amazon. I'd like to think they're as full of life as Tolkien's books--I certainly worked to make it so--but readers will decide that question.

Long ago, I decided that for me, success as an author was twofold: critical acclaim and banner sales.

I do feel they're a success in one way: I've received great reviews. I got the critical acclaim, in my opinion. Still waiting for the sales so I can write full-time...I've set the bar for "success" so high, I'll probably never achieve it. 

Besides, most writers always feel like a failure anyway -- we try for certain effects, we labor to engage our audiences, we ache to pick the right words, we work to take advantage of every opportunity that our story opens up to us. And we know we've failed. Samuel Becket, the Irish playwright, said of writing, "Try again. Fail again. Fail better."

I'm editing another novel now and will publish it soon, a prequel to Why Spy. I'm also doing the research for a new novel set in Brooklyn. The title is so good, I can't go public with it. But I'm interviewing theater people and Copts in order to prepare for the writing, which will be all morning every morning in Paris! Starting July 21!! For three weeks!! Can't wait to fail better.

I was able to take pics in the JP Morgan Library and exhibit room, so here goes:

Me with JP's Gutenberg Bible

The ceiling of the library is gorgeous, but the room is NOT cozy.

The fireplace.

The books don't look well-read : )

The Gutenberg Bible, again.

The dazzling marble floors

I have a weakness for Assyrian art.

As a Francophile, I like maps that show who lived in France 2,000 years ago.

A drawing JP owned by Leonardo da Vinci showing two designs for machines: a maritime assault mechanism and a device for bending beams.

A detail from the Stavelot Triptych, from Constantinople in the 1100s, by way of a Belgian monastery, and now at JP's library on Madison Avenue.

 How about you? How do you define success for your life or your art? Comment below!