Posted on 10/02/2001 11:51:35 AM PDT by Marc-Yves Tumin
Out of the Past
Manners, Patriotism and Reverence Make a Comeback Amid a Catastrophe
By Marc-Yves Tumin
I have been a great lover of vast machines from the time I was a boy. So, until recently, on my way to work each day, I made it a point to walk past a construction site on West 17th Street to watch a big Manitowoc crane put up a new apartment building.
Sometimes I would chat with the laborers while I snapped pictures of the “4100.” And sometimes Chris, the crane operator, would salute me as I passed the gigantic engine.
Number 897 seemed an anachronism in bright red paint; its mighty heart rumbling in low tones; its cables humming; the engineer’s bicycle parked incongruously between its enormous tractor treads like a lion cub within the paws of its mother.
At night, as I passed the stalwart behemoth on my way home — its massive luffing jib and main boom folded down; its lift lines slackened; its gargantuan metal ball banked on the asphalt — the Herculean hoister resembled a slumbering dinosaur.
To me, this classic machine was a steadfast symbol of another era, when America was low-tech but built the best cars; our steel industry was the envy of the world and our waterfront was bustling with ships and dockworkers.
And then, one day, as I walked by the site, I saw to my dismay that there was an awful gap where the indomitable 897 once presided from its concrete platform, swinging its mammoth head about and belching smoke. I called its owners at the New York Crane Company, who told me it was back in the Brooklyn Navy Yard awaiting rental.
How bittersweet that, a few weeks later, the tragic events downtown have resurrected the old-fashioned world symbolized by my resolute, beloved crane.
Suddenly, in the swan song of summer, the city is united and small town values are the hot ticket. Fellowship is the anachronistic trend on the East Side. Low tech is the rage on the West Side. Retro America is cool in the Village.
Who would have thought that Manhattan would be transformed into the capital of God, family and country? For this golden moment, amid the death and desolation, our city feels startlingly human.
Old Glory adorns the windows and street lamps. People are at peace with one another. They’re downright neighborly. It’s all right to have manners, smile at strangers and be friendly.
Sarcasm and short tempers and are out. Candlelight vigils and sidewalk memorials are in. Foul language and elbowing are out. Courtesy and deference are in. Sneers and disrespect are out. Helpfulness and reverence are in.
The smallest acts of kindness elicit a “thank you.” Folks help each other tote luggage up the subway stairs. They hold doors. They give up their seats. No one tries to beat you to a cab. The hacks seem to drive more carefully. There’s far less honking than ever before.
On Columbus Avenue, I saw a fellow hand someone a wallet he had dropped. In my local supermarket, a woman on line waved me past her. “Go ahead of me; you have fewer groceries,” she insisted.
After working rather late recently, I emerged from the subway kiosk at West 72nd Street and bought some of the next day’s papers. As I turned to walk up the street, the newsvendor called me back.
“Sir! Sir!” he sang out.
As I approached him, I saw that he was holding out his palm. There were coins on it.
“Didn’t I give you enough money?” I asked.
“No, no. You gave me too much,” he said. “This is not a quarter; it’s a silver dollar. Here is your change, sir.”
Just think, a day before the cataclysm, front-page headlines declared that ours was a city divided. Candidates traded barbs over race. Political acrimony trod on the heels of public apathy.
As I thought of the ghastly crater on Liberty Street; “the strengthless dead” stacked like matchwood at ground zero; the sad faces of firemen promoted to replace their fallen comrades and the effect this has had on the city, I asked myself, “How long can this moment of civility last?”
Then, the other day, in the war zone where the World Trade Center once stood, I spotted a lattice-boom crane picking its way through the pile of burnt rubble. As it clanked around inside the cloud of smoke rising from “the bear’s cage,” I observed that it moved slowly on thick metal treads.
It was painted bright red. It was the big Manitowoc, Number 897 — steadfast, resolute, indomitable — resurrected to scrape up shattered structures and broken dreams and perhaps pave the way for better things to come.
Marc-Yves Tumin is Managing Editor of New York Resident. This article appeared in the September 24, 2001 issue.
Admit it - you've done this kind of stuff before. ;-)
Do they know that there's a Red Zone infiltrator in the Big Apple?
Of course, after 911, lots of Blue Zoners discovered that they were Red Zoners at heart. It wasn't a fair way to find out. :-(
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