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Hail Windsor Terrace, Full of Grace

I am neither Irish nor Catholic; but I like Ireland, and I like churches. In some way, this qualifies me to live among and be accepted by the generations of Clarks and O'Somethings that live up and down our shady blocks.

Although Park Slope pushes south like a loud, cranky toddler (and the lone available house on our block just went for $1.2 mil), our elder generation of VFW members and stoop-sitters have largely pushed the stroller brigade back across the front lines. (Sixteenth street.) "I ain't sellin'. Where would I go anyways?" Nothing I like better that a stubborn ol' crank. (It's what I aspire to be.)

The center of our universe is Holy Name, which encompasses the church, the school, the ballfield, the day camp, the boy scouts, the senior center ... you get the idea. I sometimes think of it as "the complex." It is a block long and an avenue deep, and the neighborhood radiates out from it. I've never been inside (not being Catholic), so it scares me a little; but bells still toll in Windsor Terrace every hour and that's good enough for me.



Holy Name, baking in its southern exposure since 1878



The inside of "the complex," taken from Windsor Place
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