An ode to the Brooklyn summer block party

Though summer block parties are often maligned here and in the printed press for their noise, trash and occasional late-night gunfire and violent ends, I want to praise the one on my block today -- Union Street between Franklin and Bedford.

The day started early with 8am snap of red "No Parking" signs being staple-gunned to trees. As I walked for a morning coffee at the corner bodega, the grills and folding tables were coming out, trash was being swept and hoses drenched the sidewalks -- the urban red carpet being rolled out. By mid-day, the foil-covered heat trays of Caribbean food were being gently put in place as smoky grills ignited. The rental trucks backed down the street, unloading a 20 foot wall of speakers and two large inflatable bouncing contraptions for the kids.

And, yeah, us older people were well-represented, but this was about the kids. Jumping and sweaty and soaked with water and riding beat-up scooters and dribbling semi-deflated balls -- the kids ruled the blocked-off streets while the Island-accented-women fussed over the rice and beans, macaroni and cheese, stews and greens, and the white t-shirted men tended the grills packed with burgers, hot dogs and chicken coated in a variety of time-honored sauces.

I overheard my older son pointedly convincing a group of boys that, yes indeed, he did live on the block, despite his white chest bared against a sea of dark kids in the August sun. Balls were kicked, wrestling ensued in the garden hose soaking the one bouncing contraption dressed in Disney characters and bikes popped wheelies up and down the street. My youngest learned the ways of commanding a space in line against the other kids cutting and pushing for the next chance to climb and slide down wet colorful canvas pumped full of generator-powered air. I saw my older one chatting up a hispanic girl who caught his 10-year-old interest.

I tossed the usual organic-focused rules out for the day, as the boys downed dogs, sugary juice and baked macaroni and cheese. My older one commented on how tasty his drumstick and rice was, and how unlike it was what he usually found at home. Ladies patiently took care of my "little ones" as people jockeyed for places in line at the tables, and I stood back seeing a truly Brooklyn experience opening up before their eyes.

And then, by 7pm, the speakers which had blared reggae, ska, dancehall and hip hop all day were being loaded into the UHaul while men poked at the last of the meat on the grills. People picked up trash, hugged and swigged the last of their rum-laced punch in Styrofoam cups. My older son said it was one of his best days in Brooklyn ever and the younger beamed with how he had mastered the inflatable climbing wall.

Tired, full, spent and happy, the block is gasping the last of its shouts now from the sidewalk out front and the final bits of music are fading from the last stereo down the street. Tomorrow, we'll be back to just another block in Brooklyn, but today, this was the best party in the world.