Rest in Peace: Eleanor Dale Davis

Dale at Home

I hope I will be forgiven for indulging myself in speaking with love of our dear Dale, who left this earth just over a day ago. May she rest in peace and may all whose lives she touched find solace in their memories of a remarkable woman, an indomitable spirit.

When death comes to someone we love, there are so many conflicting emotions that it’s hard to sort them all out. If that person has endured a long struggle with illness, we can certainly take some comfort in knowing that they will no longer suffer.

There is an almost surreal quality to this loss, an inability to comprehend that the spirit, however vibrant it has always been, has moved from the body to another realm. Whatever our religious beliefs, we balk at that passing on to someplace we cannot go just yet. We feel bereft. We feel alone and confused, moved to a sadness that takes our breath away. We deny this new reality. We grieve.

There is, too, even anger at the loss of the physical presence. There is that one more thing we would want to say, one more kiss or hug to give, one more laugh to share. One more moment, please, just one more. Why are we denied this one last connection in this life? Why have we been left without this presence that has left us? Whether expected or not, at the moment of the leaving, we feel the shock of loss.

As days pass, what do we do with the grief that steals up at the most unexpected moments, bringing physical anguish for the hole left in our lives. Just when we think we’ve grappled with the loss, seeming to have achieved a sort of stoicism, the tears come unbidden, spilling down our cheeks like a sudden rain.

We use the phrase “larger than life” about some personalities. When we begin to cope with our loss, we learn what these words can mean in a new context. The one who is gone returns to us in memories of shared experiences, in the stories we recount of times gone by. The spirit echoes for each of us in a different way, but it brings with it again that confusing mix of loss and comfort. We laugh with a memory, only to shed a tear with the laughter.

Having just lost a dear friend and an extraordinary personality, I find myself writing this to attempt to cope with all these feelings. I can almost hear her dulcet voice, saying “Darling, just do whatever makes you feel better and, by the way, have a drink for me.” I know she would encourage all of us who loved her in life to love each other now. She would want us to celebrate her life rather than mourn it.

She was, in fact, larger than life. As one of her many friends points out, she was one of many people’s “two or three best friends.” She nurtured young people seeking a career in performance. She encouraged mature performers as they continued the pursuit of their careers. She loved her city, New York, and she loved the theatre with passion. With all her years of experience, she remained unjaded in the face of talent and its expression in every form of art. She had the hard-nosed wisdom of a veteran and the wide-eyed enthusiasm of a novice. She told me last week that a friend told her once that she was “all ages at once.” She was, indeed.

She embraced a legion of friends, maintaining close relationships over decades, also touching people’s hearts within hours of their meeting her. Through the long months in and out of the hospital this past year, friends came, they called, they sent cards and flowers, presents that might please her. A friend from California gave her a pedicure in the hospital and those perfect pink toenails were a source of joy that she remarked on more than once. Other friends sent artwork made especially for her. They sent creams to soothe her skin, perfumes to transform a medicinal environment with the scents of gardens.

Shortly after her unanticipated and mercifully quick death, hospital personnel, some of whom had just met her within the week, came by her room to express their sense of loss and to speak of her kindness to them and her humor. They were moved by her endurance, the courage that spurred her to respond to the encouragement of her wonderful physical therapist, Golda, and get into the wheelchair that last day.

She took a short ride through the hospital halls, greeted along the way by staffers who had come to know her through her stays there. We stopped for a time at a wall of windows where she looked at the skyline of her beloved New York under a perfect spring sky the color of her favorite seas in Greece, a sky animated by perfectly fluffy white clouds sailing by.

Teddy and Dale

She napped a bit, waking to talk of her boundless love for her nephew, Teddy, and “her babies,” his daughters, Corrie and Gracie. Moments before she passed away so suddenly, she spoke to her dear business partner and friend of decades, Harris, wishing him a good weekend. Then, too soon, she was gone without warning.

A few days ago, glancing out the window of her hospital room, she said: “I want to talk to my Mama.” It is my belief that she is with her Mama now, basking in the assurance of the deep and abiding love of Eleanor Hobson Davis, from whom her first name came, our Eleanor Dale Davis.

I am reminded of what Dale wrote about her mother in a little book we published in 2008: “When I am told that I remind someone of my mama, I know I am a pale carbon copy, but humbled and thrilled to have even a trace of whatever it was that made her who she was.”

Rest in peace, dear Dale, who was never a pale carbon copy, rather a woman who lived life in glorious color and with gusto. We who grieve your passing from this place would be humbled and thrilled to have even a trace of whatever it was that made you who you were.

I Heart New York Redux

One of the pleasures of this city is its diversity and the self-expression of its endlessly inventive citizens. There are those whose attire is designed for simple survival at this time of year when spring is still a flirt and winter won’t completely go away. There are others who ignore the weather and wear what feels right for the. On any day one might see people in boots and full-length wool coats scurrying along the sidewalks, brushing against people in sandals and shorts, maybe topped by at least a lightweight jacket.

A joy of my hospital visits this past week were the fantastic hose worn by one of the researchers working on my friend’s floor. These stockings were works of art, an impressionist’s view of legs on which oranges, blues, greens and reds swirled. I was so moved by their unique statement that I had to ask the wearer about their origin. She had, she said, purchased them in Barcelona and regretted that she bought only one pair. They obviously gave her as much joy to wear as they provided those of us who saw her that day.

One of my favorite restaurants in New York is Rosa Mexicano. I had a wonderful lunch today with friends at the Lincoln Center location where we were seated by a window with a close-up view of a newly leafed-out tree. The conversation was fun, the food was delicious and the frozen pomegranate margaritas were sublime. I’m exhilarated anew by the bond that has grown so quickly with these women, friends of my friend. I am still getting to know them, but already clear that I want to know them always.

Then I had my first experience on the cross-town bus, a quick trip from the restaurant to the hospital. I loved the inclusiveness of the riding population. People of all ages and walks of life were crowded together in a shared need to move around the city. There seemed to be a loose camaraderie among us and an acceptance of one another for this brief time together. Some who must be regulars acknowledged one another; others of us kept more to ourselves, but without shutting out the others the way we often do on plane rides.

The sounds of the city continue to amaze me. As I write this with windows open to the deliciously cool night air, I hear the occasional siren on 8th Avenue amid the continuous hum of traffic all around. I can’t say I miss the nearby construction sounds that are part of the daytime symphony in the neighborhood. There are two buildings going up a block or so away and other projects closer by. Crews begin their drilling, banging and clanging before 8 weekday mornings. Fortunately, I’m usually up well before they begin or that could be a rude awakening!

I’m taking some photos with my phone, but have been too technologically lazy to upload them to my laptop to add to the blog. “Maybe later,” I think each night. Then I find myself doing something else or just flopping down to read or watch TV or blog rather than play with wires and geeky stuff.

For those who read this, you have my apologies for rambling. Writing is the best therapy for me and, particularly when I am away from home, it is more than communication, it is companionship. When I think that those who know me are reading this and, I hope, sharing a bit of my experience as they read, it is comforting. I can only hope it brings a bit of pleasure on your screen as well.

Sisters

I am joined in the love and care for a friend who is battling ill health by a group of women who inspire me.  As she fights to overcome her enemy, leukemia, we gather around her to share our strength, this band of sisters.  She has many men friends, too, who lend their spiritual muscle, but it is the women who are in my thoughts today. I came into this world with one sister of my blood.  She was and is my hero.  She guided and protected me when we were children.  As we became adults, she set an example I have tried to follow.  Her courage and her all-encompassing heart, her willingness to stand and be counted for the rights of women and all who need defense in the face of unfairness have set a standard to be admired. She taught me, by example, the value of sisters.  I have been fortunate to gain many sisters through my life, these women friends who stand together, sharing good times and bad, supporting one another faithfully.  These relationships are not based always on shared philosophies.  We have differing views on politics and religion and many other topics.  We set aside those differences to join hands metaphorically, as well as physically. What we share is our experiences as girls and women.  We understand each other at that gender level in a way we cannot share with men, just as they connect in ways we cannot fathom.  Our sisterhood is not about excluding males, but simply a reality that came with our chromosomes. We laugh together.  We cry together.  We dish and share the stories of romances that have touched our lives, the men we love and have loved, the ones who broke our hearts and, yes, those we treated badly and regretted.   We talk of our children, those we have reared and those who have come into our lives not through the birth canal, but through fate, those we've adopted, whether legally or by marriage or as unofficial "godmothers".  Some of us who are older have "adopted" younger women whom we have mentored in some setting or other.  All of them have changed our lives. We talk fashion, or the lack thereof.  We muse about the meaning of life, sometimes interchanged in far-ranging conversations with chat about the most mundane issues we face daily, like what to do about that pesky mustache that has developed.  Those of us still in our child-bearing years share lessons learned about the in-vitro process or breast feeding. When times are good, we celebrate.  When times are troubled, we circle our emotional wagons for solace.  Today, some of the special women I have met in New York, friends of my friend, are gathering in our mutual friend's hospital room to celebrate her birthday.  In this place we come together to be renewed and restored ourselves as we share the love and concern we feel for our sick friend.  We are sisters.

A Dark Room, an iPad and a Cherished Memory

So I am sitting in a dark room with my iPad. It's mostly quiet, despite the the fact that this is a part of a busy emergency room in New York. For protection against infection, our room is separated from the main nursing area. There is, of course, the occasional page or a ringing bell alerting the nurses that someone needs attention.

Overnight it was not quiet here. It was so busy that stretchers were backed up in the halls and there was a shortage of beds on some units upstairs that has, in fact, kept my friend here since early last evening.

The doctors and nurses have kindly found a bed so she doesn't have to remain on a stretcher. As I write, I am comforted by her little puppy snores, the music of a peaceful rest and a restorative sleep.

My iPad is a blessing, veritably a light in this dimness, a completely quiet keyboard that won't disturb much-needed rest. For one whose therapy is writing, it is the ideal palette for thoughts, however mundane.

Somehow, this experience reminds me of those childhood nights when I read with a flashlight under the covers. We kids shared a room and our parents were strict about "lights out" for bedtime. My secret passion for those first books was illumined by a purloined flashlight that I kept hidden under my pillow until I heard the others were asleep. Then I pulled out book and flashlight and tented the covers over me.

The fact that this was "forbidden" behavior made it all the more lusciously seductive. I did (and do) love to read, but never more than when it was under those covers. It's a wonder that I didn't ruin my eyesight, I suppose. I wouldn't trade the memory for any amount of money and relish it anew this moment in the dimness of this room.

Hell's Kitchen and NYC's Midtown West

Thanks to the good graces of my SMIL (son’s mother-in-law) and her son and his partner, last night I reveled in good company, a great Mexican dinner and a delightful margarita in Hell’s Kitchen at Ariba! Ariba! It was the perfect spring evening to sit at a sidewalk table and catch up with them. Not to be overlooked was the passing parade of New Yorkers eager to get out and enjoy the season.

We had to lean in to hear each other over the sounds of passing conversations and traffic, but that only added to the ambience. Somehow the crowds and the noises and the dogs pulling their owners along the sidewalks added to the party atmosphere.

Also known as Clinton and Midtown West, this part of New York has been the setting for many novels by writers from Ayn Rand to Mario Puzo and Clive Cussler. It was also the backdrop, I was told, for West Side Story.

Close to the Broadway theatres, the area is now home to many actors and has undergone renewal and resurgence as a trendy part of the city since the 1990’s. It is vibrant and diverse, offering every imaginable cuisine in a series of tiny restaurants with tables spilling onto the sidewalks.

I was curious about the name, Hell’s Kitchen. However appropriate the cooking reference might be, as evidenced in all the restaurants, a little research indicates that where the name originally came from is hard to pin down. Most references point to the neighborhood’s rough past when it was home to gangs and “the most desperate ruffians in the city,” according to author Herbert Asbury. His 1927 book, The Gangs of New York, inspired the Scorcese film of the same name.

One colorful fable about the origin of the neighborhood’s name says that a rookie policeman, witnessing a riot in what was then a violent and unstable part of the city, said to his veteran partner: “This place is Hell itself.” The veteran replied, “Hell’s a mild climate. This is Hell’s Kitchen, no less.”

However the name came about, the area today is full of life and good food, entertainment and, luckily for me, proximity to so many options. It is within easy walking distance of great theatre, the Museum of Modern Art and Central Park. It’s close enough to the Hudson to hear the sounds of boats passing. Every block has an abundance of architectural diversity and a multitude of languages are spoken along the sidewalks and in the shops.

This morning I went out early in search of a needed pharmacy item, trekking from one drug store to another before successfully my quest a few blocks away. My ride down in the elevator was enlivened by the excited squeals of two young neighbors anticipating a special outing today. I shared the sidewalks with those eating their breakfast as they headed for work, others in exercise garb beginning their day. I passed the neighborhood precinct where a shift change had uniforms parading in and out.

As one of the first customers in the local pharmacy where I finally ended my search, I had to duck under the half-raised security gate to enter. Apparently some electrical problems had affected their building overnight, so things weren’t working quite right. The basement storage room was dark and the clerk gamely went there with a flashlight to get what we needed. New Yorkers are nothing if not adaptable.

In a corner coffee shop where I stopped to buy breakfast pastries, I ran into someone that I had worked with years ago in Atlanta. Now successful in network news, he might not have remembered me from our brief working acquaintance, but he was gracious nonetheless.

I’ve written before about things I like about New York City. I think that above all other traits this city has for me to admire is the sense that anything is possible here. Despite the rigors of living in a relatively small area with millions of other people, the sheer electricity of the experience is energizing.

Sunday in New York

The rain that was supposed to come overnight and linger into the morning hours either came and went before dawn or maybe never came at all. It’s been a pretty sunny day that we’ve spent indoors, warm enough to turn on the fan for the first time.

As I have noticed each day, the sounds of the city are many and varied. Yesterday I awoke to the clopping of horses’ hooves. This morning the first sound I heard was the whistle of a train, followed by what might have been a boat horn. I don’t know how close we are to any trains, but know we are only a few blocks from the Hudson River, so perhaps the boat was sailing there.

Our helpful home nursing aides have shared the travails of using the subways. Their work requires frequent subway rides, but though the system operates 24 hours a day, the schedules are not reliable at night and on weekends because that is when work on the tracks occurs. With almost 850 miles of track running throughout the area, it must be a huge undertaking just to keep them working. The frustration for those depending on the trains (almost 5 million riders a day) is that there is not always clear information about service disruption. One can be waiting on the platform for a train that is not coming.

Our aides are representative of the international flavor of this city where more than a third of residents were born outside the United States. We have helpers from Jamaica, Haiti and India, all with stories to tell of both their U.S. experience and the homelands from whence they came. Most bring their lunches, so our little kitchen has become a center for the cuisines of many nations with the aroma of fragrant spices wafting through the air.

It’s interesting what one can learn without stepping outside. Because circumstances have kept me indoors today, I’ve spent little bits of free time researching the city as my friend naps to regain her strength. Only today did I learn that the Hudson River (for which I have a fascination) is actually a fjord, the only fjord in North America. Since Mike and I spent some time cruising the fjords of Norway last summer, I found this particularly interesting.

How does the Hudson come to have this designation? It is so classified because it was formed when a glacier cut a u-shaped valley by abrading the surround bedrock. Apparently the river only becomes a true fjord many miles north of the city as it passes through the Highlands. All I know is that the few encounters I have had with the river, here in New York City and farther north around the Franklin Roosevelt home on the Hudson in Hyde Park. I long to take a Hudson River cruise and have that on my list of places to go and things to do.

As I write this, the sun is beginning to set and I’m watching its last rays move across the courtyard, painting the bricks a luscious pink shade, rather than the deep red they wear during the day. The building is more than 50 years old, built just after World War II.

NYC - New Day, New Joys

The first sound I heard this Saturday morning in Manhattan was neither sirens nor the steady hum of traffic that fills weekdays, but the distinctive sound of hooves clopping on the street below. It was slightly surreal, that simple sound, echoing alone, where there is typically a cacophonous symphony of competing noises.

The juxtaposition of (1) steel and concrete soaring improbably into the sky with (2) the simplest forms of transportation is astonishing. In one block there are the hastening feet of pedestrians, the daredevil antics of bicycle messengers, the roving pedicabs and the horse-drawn carriages.

Vying with them for space are, of course, the ubiquitous yellow cabs, the limos, police cars, fire engines, delivery trucks, local news vans and assorted other mechanized vehicles. While there are certainly many personal vehicles in operation, they are few in comparison to those sent into the streets by companies and government agencies. And, of course, below the streets the subways are moving people through the city. It’s level upon level of people in motion, however they achieve it.

From the sounds of the morning and the hurry-scurry of the streets, I entered the dark and magical realm of the Broadway stage this afternoon to enjoy “Clybourne Park.” I love the theatre and found this performance really well done. It’s no wonder this is a Pulitzer Prize winner. It is artfully written, well cast and staged and, ultimately, both entertaining and thought-provoking. There is a richness in the plotting and dialogue that would draw me back to see it again as I’m sure I missed nuances and would find it worthwhile a second or, perhaps, third time. The Tony Awards await.

The day is beautiful here and New Yorkers are out in full force to experience the pleasure of sunny skies and a warm, but near perfect temperature. I thoroughly enjoyed the walk to and from the theatre, sharing the sidewalks with mobs of other theatre-goers, as well as the ever-present tourists visiting Times Square. Though less chaotically noisy on a Saturday, the city was crowded this afternoon with people freed from weekday work mode roaming outside.

It was a perfect day for Central Park, but that will be another day, weather willing. I look forward to wandering through the green space there and enjoying the fruits of Frederick Law Olmsted’s vision. The Conservancy takes good care of Central Park now and this is the time of year when it draws New Yorkers into their own big “back yard.”

The Gift That is Friendship

So I’m visiting my friend who is finally home after months of battling first one illness, then another. And while I’m staying to help out for awhile, her other friends are coming by the apartment in a steady stream, just as they came to the hospitals for all those months. I’m renewing acquaintances with her circle of friends, meeting new people, observing the connections and marveling at this woman and this experience of friendship.

My friend Dale personifies those attributes that make us cherish a relationship with someone else. She is loving and generous, warm and funny. She demonstrates how much she values friendship by being honest, as well as kind. Beyond those traits that draw us inexorably to her, she embraces life with such a vibrant spirit that being with her infuses her friends with its power. Simply put, she has a knack for making each of us feel not just special in her eyes, but so uniquely meaningful that anyone should be able to see and appreciate our merits.

I listen as she greets friends whose calls keep the telephone ringing all day. Her signature opening, “Hey, Darling,” comes up out of her heart with a deep Southern accent (despite many decades of living in the heart of Manhattan). She remembers the names of each caller’s family members and asks about them with genuine concern. She answers their queries about her health concerns with humor and conveys her confidence in a positive outcome then quickly turns the conversation to their lives, their concerns.

I watch as one friend, then another rings the bell and comes into the easy welcome of her home. There are hugs and kisses, laughs and an occasional tear as fond memories are called to mind, and talk turns to friends no longer able to visit in person. Gifts are brought for a birthday to be celebrated yet this month—a book she’s sure to enjoy, a special scented candle, fresh eggs proudly brought from a farm on the island, flowers from a well-tended garden.

And even as they come and bring their gifts, they come to receive the gift that is Dale. It is her spirit that flows in the telling of stories with the dramatic flair and the vocabulary of exaggeration that is her style. It is her laughing self-deprecation, without any hint of lack of self-esteem. She allows us to relax and forget our fears and our flaws. We who have come to comfort are comforted. Her voluminous vocabulary spills through the conversation, a combination of the erudite and the profane that provokes our imaginations, entertaining us lavishly.

The mementos of a rich and full life are all around us as we gather at her bedside to encourage her and be encouraged by her indomitable will to live fully and completely. There are the artworks given her by friends whose talents adorn the walls and shelves. There are the photographs of family and friends, hundreds of images of loved ones related by blood and by shared experience.

In this woman, reveling in the resumption of her home place, is the essence of friendship. One of my father’s wisdoms has come back to me this week as I have watched her. Daddy said one should seek the company of those who allow us to be ourselves and feel good about it. He would approve of this woman who nurtures friends already in her life and makes a new friend of almost everyone who enters her sphere. She banters with friends she’s known for decades. She captivates a visiting health aide who, meeting her for the first time, is so charmed that he “must come back soon.”

One and all, we respond to her authenticity. She is honest and forthright, leaving no question about what she believes and likes, but always open to something new. In the process of being completely herself, she has a gift for reflecting us back to ourselves in our best light much as a brilliant photographer captures her subject’s best side. She opens her true being to us and looks into us to find us as we truly are. This is a friend to be held close to the heart and a friendship to be shared with gratitude and the purest of joys.

And once again this time with this very special friend reminds me of the great fortune I’ve found in friends.  Like others, I have come to comfort and been comforted, graced with the blessing that is knowing Dale.

I Love (Heart Goes Here) NY

I love the incessant, often strident noises all around. Really, I do love the city noises here as much as I love the deep of night quiet at our lake in the mountains. One feels life all around in the frequent sirens of all sorts, the banging of trucks being loaded and unloaded, the voices spiraling up from the sidewalks and the echoes of children laughing as they run through the halls to their apartments.

I love that many of the windows have no window treatment other than pots of plants on the sills or an air-conditioning unit or maybe curtains or blinds seldom closed. And I love that we think neither of looking into their windows nor of them looking into ours. It’s enough to see the life they choose to expose at the edges of their space with no need to delve beyond the glass, invading their privacy.

I also love the windows that are closed and covered tightly because those make me wonder about the people who live there, keeping even the slightest light from filtering in from outside. I like to imagine them as mad scientists or great writers, closing themselves off from the world so that their fertile brains are left without distraction, perhaps to change the world they don’t let in through those windows.

I love watching the tiny lady attempting to manage the giant black dog on a leash while he climbs into a sidewalk planter to do his business. Final score: Dog 2, Lady 2 (in a baggie, a big baggie.)

I love having an entire folder of menus for nearby takeout that will be delivered to the door of the apartment in less time than it would take to heat up a frozen pizza. And I like that the food is hot and tasty when it arrives. Yum!

I love the excitement on the street in the theatre district in the early evening as the lucky ones with tickets stride purposefully into the restaurants with just enough time to enjoy a quick meal before curtain time. Their anticipation of the performance ahead is almost palpable.

I love the buzz on the street when the theatres let out. Under the marquees and spilling down the sidewalks are people reviewing their experience loudly with all the energy pent up from sitting mostly mute in a dark theatre, afterwards propelled home by the emotion built up via words and/or music.

I love the neighbors’ habit of leaving fruits and vegetables on the fire escape just outside their kitchen window. I check at our kitchen window, peeping across and below each morning to see what’s new—yesterday bananas, today a loaf of bread. Is it a space issue? Is it a refrigeration technique? (It’s soon reaching into the 70’s here, so I must question that plan.) I love my compatriots, the pigeons, who also check out the fire escape stash.

I love the creativity in the attire of my fellow pedestrians. A fellow in a really expensive suit also wears a grubby watch cap on his head. A young woman wears leopard leggings with a tiny red skirt and an oversize man’s football jacket, a lavender scarf wrapped around her head, Cochise-style. An older gentleman is dapper in a camel suede vest with a houndstooth beret on his beautiful silver head of hair.

I love it all and know that tomorrow I’ll find as many more things to observe and enjoy. It’s New York City. What’s not to love?

Getting My City Self On in Manhattan

So here I am in New York City, staying with a dear friend in Midtown as she recuperates from a long hospital stay. It’s been awhile since I’ve spent time in the city, so I’ve regressed in my street smarts, reverting to my persona as “country mouse in the city.”

Fortunately, I have a sense of humor or I would be humiliated by my ignorance of some things Manhattan. The first night here, I heard the reception buzzer and my friend said: “ Just say hello and they’ll tell you why they are buzzing.” So I said, loudly, “hello” in the direction of the apartment’s front door, forgetting that there is phone on the wall where one answers calls from the doorman. We all got a good laugh and have since told the story to visitors who’ve enjoyed the recounting of my ignorance.

Then there was my visit to the nearby Gristedes market. I thought I was quite city-savvy when I remembered to take my friend’s rolling shopping cart to bring back the goods.

At the store, my ignorance of local custom reasserted itself and I dragged the shopping cart behind me up and down the narrow aisles as I pushed the store’s grocery cart in front of me. I hope none of my fellow shoppers had their phones in video mode as I tried awkwardly to hold on to both carts. I suspect there were movements that mimicked scenes from the Three Stooges movies. At one point I had to quickly prop one cart against the shelves so I could chase the other as it escaped my grasp and rolled down a sloped aisle. New York markets don’t have those broad, flat aisles we have in the suburbs.

Only at the end of my grocery store visit did I ask the woman at the register if I could park my personal shopping cart at the front of the store during future shopping visits. My Mama would be so proud that I was too polite to assume I could stick my cart anywhere I wanted as the clerk suggested. Mama’s attempts to raise a nice girl in the South were so often thwarted by my tomboy behavior in childhood and here I am now being such a courteous adult.

Despite my foibles, I have managed to find both the grocery store as well as the neighborhood Duane Reed location for pharmacy items. While I seem to require instruction at both places, I am getting the hang of it, however humbling the process. A clerk in the drug store was actually reasonably calm when she said, “Ma’am, you don’t put the basket on the counter, just the products you are purchasing.” The fact that a line of locals was behind me in the queue, rolling their eyes and sighing as my lesson in basket management took up their precious time, was only mildly humiliating.

Growing up in the South, we were taught that Yankees, particularly those in New York City, were neither polite nor well-mannered. I must say that I don’t find that true. Despite the fact that I move too slowly for most pedestrians on the sidewalk and make cabbies wait as I walk across the street, I have found that questions asked, however naïve, are answered. Advice is given, usually kindly enough, prefaced by a “Hey, lady” rather than something less flattering.

And, when each little adventure out onto the streets ends, the doorman is quick to open the door of our building with a smile and a word of greeting. That’s something to which I look forward every time.