There's a matched pair of elephants on Yogi Lala's front sign. You can't miss them because each one is balancing a diamond the size of the Ritz on the end of its upturned trunk.

It's Sunday morning, and the Chabad of Long Island City is at rest. The same cannot be said of the Rabbi Zev Wineberg and his wife, Rivka, who are busy planning for the coming week.

Seventeen thousand. Manfred Edenhofer is embarrassed to admit that that's all the miles he has put on the 2000 ocean-grey Nissan Altima sitting serenely in his driveway.

Judy Lopez sits on the couch sipping a soda. Her husband, Ricky, settles into the recliner with Dixie, a bug-eyed pug, riding shotgun on its ample arm. It doesn't get better than this. The trio is content to tune in to the flat-screen TV.

The diamond engagement ring doesn't come off Ronnie Hartley's finger easily. For nearly 46 years, she's worn it, ever since Roger, her dear and dearly departed, gave it to her.

Its future is uncertain, and time may stop for it.

One thing has to be perfectly clear at the start: Joan Murphy doesn't have much to say. So she's set the kitchen table for tea. And she's made some of her banana nut bread so things won't be a total loss.

Two vats of sauce are simmering on the stove when Tina comes on duty at Trattoria L 'Incontro. There's enough to feed an army or two. She recalls the first time she had to make such a big batch. How did it turn out? Perfecto!

It happened many moons ago, but when Shintaro Okamoto opens the door of the walk-in freezer and sees the tiger's head, he remembers the swan.

Gurgle, gurglegurglegurgle, gurgle. Rich Buceta gets so excited when he hears this sound that you'd think he'd discovered a multi-million-dollar oil well gushing up through his factory floor.

Moustafa Elshiekh places a color photo reverently on his desk. It was taken this year, on the 11th anniversary of 9/11, and in it, he's standing between Mayor Mike Bloomberg and Police Commissioner Ray Kelly.

BOWLING. That's what the big illuminated sign screams in red-apple letters that look as though they should be shining on a Times Square marquee.

This is kind of creepy: Evan Makrogiannis is talking about mixing up a batch of blood. The recipe is so simple that even a child can do it, and his sons, 13-year-old Liam and 12-year-old Tristan, are pros at adding red, blue and yellow food coloring to corn syrup.

Rudy's is the only extensive, eclectic hobby shop left in Queens, and surely it is the only one in the world that sells crosses and holy water right alongside jigsaw puzzles and plastic toy soldiers.

With the gracefulness of the dancer she once was, Malini "Mala" Ekanayake primly sits on the park bench, puts her feet together in perfect alignment and closes her big, brown eyes.

Orlando Anthony Pavich wasn't expecting morning to come so soon. He's hasn't shaved yet or put on a shirt. Zoe, his 2-year-old dachshund, is scurrying around the living room, jumping on the couches.

Luisa Radeschi's been carrying the photo around for as long as she can remember. She just turned 94, so it's safe to say that it's been going on 70 or 80 years.

Walter "Wally" Boot finds himself fine-tuning a Steinway, and it's all because of a blue suit he needed a half century ago.

In the living room, past the pair of wire cages that confine Melanie, Peaches and Shadow, there's a small black table that holds a toy car, a child-size football, a tablet engraved "Georgie" and a large color photo of a handsome man.

A coffee cup. And a trumpet. Josh Deutsch carries them out to his second-floor balcony. He didn't intend to bring them both; it was a spur-of-the-moment decision.

The drapes are blocking the sun, but the darkness doesn't dim Charlene Lite's optimism. Yes, she's had good times and bad times just like the rest of us, but she's made it her mantra to see the bright side of everything.

It's the dog days of summer, and Zora is sitting on the front porch watching the people pass by.

There's no background music playing in Laura Dadap's apartment. This is something to take note of because Laura's life, even before she made her grand entrance squeezed between a bass clef and a treble clef, is centered on music.

It's time for Jose Morales to put on his happy face. He pulls up two straight-back chairs and sets them in front of a 4-foot-high dime store mirror in the living room/kitchen of his thimble-sized apartment.