Tuesday, April 22, 2014

on growing old(er)

I got carded at 1020 the other night, and this made me laugh: I am nearly 38 years old and have been drinking at 1020 since I was a wee young thing of 18. But they had a different bartender for the first time that I can remember and he is young, and new, and covering all the bases.

The only problem, other than the surprise of being carded, was that I actually didn't have my ID on me.

As you, my dear loyal readers, may have gathered, I have begun walk/jogging a few mornings a week this spring. And I figure if anyone is likely to walk in front of an oncoming bus or trip over a (possibly non-existent) crack in the sidewalk and fall on one's head, well, it would be yours truly. So I've been making a point of sticking my ID in my pocket whenever I venture out on these early morning excursions, and last Thursday morning I forgot to transfer it back to my wallet.

The nice young bartender looked me up and down and finally, having already poured my drink, said, "Well, I guess if your friends show me their IDs, I'll assume you're old enough too..."

Thank you, new young bartender, for making an old lady like me feel like a young whippersnapper all over again. Just, you know, more plump and less miserable.

Friday, April 18, 2014

people you may know

There was this kid in high school I could never quite get my head around. He was a little goofy, a little sweet, trying to be something of a badass in a teenage-y, angry music and shredded jeans sort of way. He was a long way from the typical nerdy honors kid, but we were in a bunch of the same classes and it was obvious he was damned smart and nervy as hell. And he showed up recently in 'People You May Know' so I thought what the hell and so now here we are, 'friends.'

And he's still all those things, except grown up now, and funny! (Even better, he's an English teacher who thinks books should be tax-free, because duh, books.) It's nice to have fuzzy, faded memories validated decades later, if only from afar. And, and, he has a blog! So I found myself chuckling my way through this longish, foul-mouthed, hilarious rant yesterday morning about bachelor parties, and it made me glad for this insight into the male mind, or at least a particular male mind, and one that seems to be pretty different from most of the male minds that I know.

Viva la Facebook.

Wednesday, April 16, 2014


Monday morning, 6:30am, I took the elevator from Bennett up to Fort Washington Avenue. I love that particular subway station, especially coming out of the elevator at the top. The old stone station building opens unexpectedly into a little sloping park. A woman walking in front of me started to go up the steps to street level but abruptly stopped, turned back, and stood there for a moment contentedly sniffing at the hyacinths and daffodils cheerily growing along the embankment. She looked so pleased, in that moment, and it was warm and bright and still quiet in the early morning light, and we smiled at each other and rhapsodized about the scent and then went our separate ways.

This morning I got a mass-distribution Public Safety text from my employer warning about "large chunks of ice" falling off one of the buildings on campus, with admonishments to try to steer well clear of it if at all possible.

Oh spring, where have you gone?

Tuesday, April 15, 2014

another april eighteenth, almost

Last year was a lovely eighteenth of April: a simple, delicious dinner of some of my father's favorite things shared with three of my favorite people. My mother, my Jill, my boy. This year will be a quieter eighteenth of April, more solitary perhaps yet still emotionally rich.

I will get up at quarter to six, throw on my running clothes, do some stretches, and go for my thrice-weekly walk/jog/stumble. I will come back and prepare for the day. I will get my usual seat on the bus and spend a lovely half-hour reading. (I am undeniably a creature of habit, and this is okay.) I will spend the day with colleagues I love, in a place that I have loved since I was a little girl.

I will, perhaps, finally get around to replying to a beautifully intimate and family-history-filled letter I received last week from my uncle. I will be amazed at how despite knowing this uncle for thirty-seven years, there are whole worlds still to learn, entire histories about which I know nothing at all.

I will go home after work and meditate, my closed eyes facing the sunshine that will likely be streaming in through my living room windows. I will breathe, and try to remain calm in the face of the Llama-monster's likely yowling in my face. I will not get the giggles (though it will be alright if I do), and eventually the bell will chime and I will re-enter the waking world and scratch behind the Llama-monster's ears and we will sprawl contentedly on the sun-dappled wood floor of my apartment (though it will be alright if it's instead gray and dreary).

I will cherish my father's memory by learning to cherish even more the lives he helped to shape, and by continuing to tell the story of him as I know it.

"And sometimes remembering will lead to a story, which makes it forever. That's what stories are for. Stories are for joining the past to the future. Stories are for those late hours in the night when you can't remember how you got from where you were to where you are. Stories are for eternity, when memory is erased, when there is nothing to remember except the story."
-Tim O'Brien, from The Things They Carried

morning walk, 4.15.14

Tuesday, April 01, 2014

at the bus stop, continued

Yesterday, in the barely misting rain, it was, "Quite the dedicated walker, even out in the rain, eh?"

This morning it was an exuberant, "How are you today, Miss Walkin' Lady?" I said wonderfully, and that it's such a beautiful day! He replied, "It is indeed, it is indeed..."

Perhaps it's silly that I get such pleasure out of these moments, but they're just such a nice way to start yet another work day. I probably should've started doing this years ago.

Monday, March 31, 2014

on the train

1.  Friday evening, heading home from work, I got on the A-train, grabbed an overhead pole and immediately lost myself in the book I'm reading these days.  At the next stop a seat opened up in front of me and a young woman pushed her way through to it, lost in whatever she had playing on her headphones and not making eye contact with anyone around her.  When she got herself comfortably settled, though, she glanced up at me, suddenly grinned and said, "Oh! I love that book!"

I myself am having a love/hate relationship with this book (to be honest, mostly hate), but for that moment I was so glad to be reading it -- and in paper form. And I've been thinking ever since about how communal the act of reading has traditionally been -- a place of shared opinions, shared experience, with people we love, people we know, and people who up until a sudden moment of recognition have been complete strangers.  The electronic revolution is a wonderful thing, of course, but not without its sacrifices.

2.  Yesterday I met some friends for a Sunday matinee down near Lincoln Center, then meandered my way north and eventually hopped on the train at 109th Street. A couple stops before mine, a couple boarded the train, guitars in hand, and stood in the middle of the car and sang the most beautiful song, filled with gorgeously lush harmonies. I, apparently a sucker for gorgeously lush harmonies closed my book and craned forward, peering down the train at this singing couple, completely enthralled.  As we pulled into my station I hopped up and dug a dollar out of my bag and ran down the length of the car to give it to them. I'd never heard this sort of music on the train before, and clearly I wasn't the only one impressed -- two or three others were making that dash with me.

In the elevator up to the street I again opened my book and tried, as I often do, to tune out my fellow elevator riders.  But this time I couldn't help smiling -- two different pairs of my fellow subway riders were discussing how beautiful the music had been.  And I was thinking how lovely it was that this guitar-playing angelically-voiced duo had managed to break through our usual interpersonal barriers. When you've managed to get a bunch of New Yorkers talking about you in hushed, reverent voices after a long subway ride, you know you're doing something right.

Sunday, March 30, 2014

urban ocean

Every once in awhile, when the traffic is just right along the West Side Highway and the air is heavy with rain, it sounds a little bit like the sea.

This afternoon as I sat meditating there was a lull in the usual neighborhood noise -- no childish shouting, no garbage trucks, no sirens or dogs barking or skater kids showing off out on the square.  .  In moments like that, when the neighborhood is quiet and my head is quiet and the traffic, as I said, is just right -- swelling and receding in intermittent waves on a lazy rainy Sunday afternoon -- I can almost smell it: the briny, comforting salty edges of an ocean shore.

Wednesday, March 26, 2014

at the bus stop, or, getting my stroll on

I've taken to walking some mornings to a bus stop a little further away from my apartment than my normal one just around the corner. It's a pretty walk up towards the park and the very beginning of the bus route, with the Hudson and the trees lining the Hudson and all that great big sky opening up on my left, schools and apartment buildings and playgrounds to my right. It seems a nice thing to do in the morning -- this extra bit of outdoor time, these extra moments of sky -- before getting on the bus and heading (relatively) downtown and into my basement office for the day.

One of my regular bus drivers noticed this change in routine last week and demanded, all serious-like, "What are you doing at this stop, young lady, going undercover or something?" I laughed and said I was just taking a little walk before work, and he laughed and said, "Well, that sounds just nice."

This morning I walked up there again, enjoying the wind blowing off the river and up the hill and through my hair. There are always a couple buses parked around the circle in front of the entrance to the park waiting to start their trips south, winding their slow and ponderous way through Manhattan.  As soon as I got to the bus stop today, the second in line rumbled to life and pulled up to the stop too. I climbed aboard, windblown and smiling contentedly and the bus driver, my bus driver, grinned at me and said, quite happily it seemed, "Getting our morning stroll on, were we?"

I, fingers slightly numbed by the cold (or perhaps flustered by being noticed and remembered quite this much), managed to put my metrocard in upside down and backwards. He just chuckled and waved me back to my usual seat, where I spent the next twenty minutes or so ostensibly ensconced in a book but really kind of glowing from the brisk morning air and the simple joy of being known in the big city.

Tuesday, March 25, 2014

this strange and lovely thing called family

I can't begin to tell you how much I love this picture.
It came the other day in a rare and unexpected email from a relative, my father's big brother, my formidable Uncle Earle. I say rare and unexpected because he and I are not often in touch directly, though I hear about his goings-on from my mother and I imagine he hears about mine.

But clearly I don't hear nearly enough about his goings-on because the message* that came with this wonderful picture took me completely by surprise. It also managed to make me feel both very, very happy and indescribably sad, all mixed up and at the same time.

When I was a little girl I always loved visiting my aunt and uncle and their magical house of mysteries. But then adolescence kicked in, and then college, and then jobs and bills and all that fun adult stuff, and somehow years go by now in between visits. 

My uncle of the constantly wry expression (due largely but I would guess not entirely to a long-ago medical issue about which I am fuzzy on the specifics), the brilliantly dry wit, and the deep, gruff voice, I confess, intimidated me a little when I was growing up. He seemed not to share my father's innate goofiness and playful laughter, and somehow the fact that he so loved gardening (and the fact that my father so loved him) didn't quite soften the edges I'd built up around him in my head. I began to suspect my childish impressions weren't entirely accurate quite a few years ago, though, and this most recent email is just further proof that clearly I've been missing out on something beautiful.

This picture of Earle -- smiling shyly amidst armfuls of gorgeous daffodils with his beautiful garden spreading out behind him -- momentarily took my breath away. It made me miss my father and his quirky grin with a particular sweet ache I haven't felt in a long time. It made me miss the idea of him growing older, graying, balding, surrounded by daffodils on a first day of spring. It made me crave watching him settle into retirement, into his golden years, with as much gentleness and grace as my perhaps not-so-formidable-after-all Uncle Earle.

I have this fantasy - this idea - of moving west and falling into the warm embrace of these people, this amazing family that sometimes I fear I barely know.

  *"Hi M - this is one of my "art" projects. Delivering 550 daffodils around town to businesses and people I care about. Wish i could smile better.  Hope all is well with you. Love Uncle Earle"