I met Phyllis Bodyn on Riverside Drive in 1985. She was eighty-two then, “a maiden lady,” she said. She had been feeding pigeons for thirty years.
This was back when New York was still New York, when there were still neighborhoods. In the ’60s, ’70s and ’80s I would walk the streets of Manhattan and take pictures, even when I wasn’t working on a project. It was people like Phyllis who made New York what it was.
“My flock are my dearest friends,” she said. I still remember that because it was so touching that the birds were her closest friends.
For years there was just one flock, but then another bunch of birds a few blocks uptown clamored for adoption, too, and soon she was feeding two flocks.
Every day she walked the three blocks from her apartment to Riverside Drive. When she got there, they all flew out to meet her. Dipping their wings, they escorted her across the street and into the park.
“Hello, David,” she calls. “Tell the gang I’m on my way.”
All the birds have their own names. There’s Brownie and Gentle, Bossy and Cousin, Special, Baby, David, Buffy, Junior and Sergeant.
She feeds the first flock, then moves a few blocks uptown to feed the other.
“Hello, General” she says. “Where’s Limpy?”
“Comin’ to ya, Phyllis,” her feathered friends reply, wheeling in the air like angels welcoming her home.
New York people are the kindest, nicest people around. Everyone’s always surprised by that.
As neighborhoods have been turned into just real estate, it’s the people who don’t exist here anymore. I used to madly love it, but now it’s…well, it’s still New York.