For the millionth time in my growing up years, I condescendingly explained that no, East New York was not near, part of, and certainly not the actual Lower East Side.

I informed my questioners that it wasn't located on Manhattan Island - that we were a cozy, warm, friendly, unique neighborhood in Brooklyn, next to our famous sister Brownsville - "Oh, Brownsville, I know where Brownsville is... my cousins come from Brownsville..." etc., they would always say.

East New York... It came and it went... It was one of our stops in the desert of Galus... A place that produced a special breed of people...a place where the simple were great... and where the great ones kept simple. A place where after a long, arduous day of physical labor, grocers and bakers, pickle-men and plumbers, flocked to the big Shul on Warwick Street to learn Mishnayos... where the Talmid Chocham who taught the crowd every evening, dragged seltzer bottles up many flights of stairs by day to earn his living by the work of his hands, while at night, in his dreams, holy voices beckoned him to arise and learn Torah...

Simplicity, emblazoned at the entrance gates of this humble neighborhood. No Jones' here to worry about. Its populace was predominantly Litvish, with a sprinkling of some Chassidic families who opened shtiblach here and there, stirring up a delighful cultural potpourri.

And humble East New York was rewarded with another crown of Torah, as post-war survivors of Yeshivas Mir, so miraculously guarded and saved in Shanghai, began Torah living anew... and a fertile branch of Torah Jewry's elite, grew and flourished here.

First a Yeshiva Ketana, Toras Chaim, and the Bais Yaakov, had been planted there with untold mesiras nefesh.

And now, East New York was host to a Yeshiva Gedola... The 1950's... East New York had entered its prime.

"Ten cents a nice juicy pound of beef tomatoes!" Peddlers stood elbow to elbow, each displaying his pick of the crop, chanting the prices of the fruits and vegetables in his own peculiar sing-song. Their backs lined the curb as they faced the busy stores, allowing pedestrians just a narrow pathway through the hustle and bustle.

"Mommy, can I please have an ice cream?" I nudged.

I held Mommy's hand securely (Bubbie Kotler a"h) as we walked through the sweltering streets towards Blake Avenue. Sure enough, we soon descended on the freezer of Yankel's Grocery (Jack Isseroff). Mommy pulled out a Breyer's chocolate covered vanilla ice cream pop. I said "Shehakol" and began biting into the delicious cream as we crossed Blake Avenue and headed for The Shoe Store.

The Shoe Store, a family tradition, was owned and managed by my beloved uncles. (Uncle Abie and Uncle Yudel Pomerantz), my mother's brothers. It was prominently located on the corner of Black Avenue and Ashford Street in the very heart of town. The two long rows of chairs lining the spacious interior hosted more than just customers anxious to purchase shoes; indeed, The Shoe Store was a popular address for Roshei Yeshiva and tzedakah collectors, as donations were dispensed there by my uncles with a generous hand.

Sitting comfortably in The Shoe Store on that bright summer's day was our revered and dear Reb Chaim Wysokier zt'l, Rosh Yeshiva of the BaisHaTalmud, a prominent local yeshiva. (Reb Chaim's name was a household word in our family, and his wise advice was sought and respected by all members.) As we entered The Shoe Store, everyone greeted each other respectfully. After a few moments, I became the center of attention. Or rather - my ice cream pop did. Blissfully delighting in my delicious treat, I was already halfway done when I became aware of my mother motioning vigorously to my hand and its contents.

"S'iz kusher, (pronounced Litvish-American), s'iz Breyer's", Mommy answered Reb Chaim's query.

I didn't hear Reb Chaim's next comment, nor did I wish to, as I began to realize that something was brewing... One more lick. A big, desperate one. Another slab of delicious thin chocolate melted on my tongue...

"Esther, Reb Chaim says the ice cream is not Cholov Yisrael."

I blinked, holding my pop-stick firmly. "Huh? It's kosher! It's Breyers!"

"I know it's kosher," Mommy quietly explained, fidgeting slightly, "but Reb Chaim says you shouldn't eat it. It's not CholovYisrael. The milk in it was not watched by a Yid and Reb Elya feels we must be more careful. So please, let me have the pop," concluded Mommy firmly, reaching for my half-eaten delicacy.

Reluctantly, I gave it to her. Plop! Into the garbage pail it went.

That's pretty much the whole story. And me? Well, I was upset, naturally. Until the day Adler's Bakery on Sutter Avenue began getting in Cholov Yisroel ice cream.

But in a way, my unfinished ice-cream pop was a symbol... Yiddishkeit was maturing, becoming strong and confident, together with me, in those growing up years in East New York. My parents, (Zaidy and Bubby Kotlera"h) had given up comfort (Bubby) and even wealth (Zaidy) as American-born and bred young people, to become the very first Kollel couple to live in Kamenitz, Poland, under the leadership of the sainted Reb Boruch Ber Liebowitz zt'l.

Miraculously fleeing Europe as American citizens at the outbreak of WWII, they returned to America to build their family on an undiluted Torah foundation. After all their tremendous sacrifices for Torah, it just wasn't enough to be different from the non-frum neighbors. We had to be-"Yeshivish". Sort of like the cherry on top of the ice cream.