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.

Rest in Retirement? Not So Much!

I’ve had any number of conversations with folks about the five years (in June) of our retirement. Some wonder what we are “doing with ourselves.” Others who have followed these years more closely wonder “how the heck we manage our schedules.” Some envy us our freedom; others aren’t sure what they would do with themselves if they retired. I distinctly remember someone saying: “How can you walk away from the excitement you’ve known? Retirement will surely be dull.”

Truth is, we didn’t know in advance quite what to expect. What we’ve found is more joy than we might have anticipated. None of our pleasure is about not working, really. It’s actually about pursuing a myriad of activities that we simply didn’t have much time for when we were primarily engaged in our careers. As much as anything, it’s about freedom of choice.

Learning is a key to life these days. Now a day might include long stretches of reading, including real books with pages, as well as internet resources. We got smart phones because it seemed that every conversation in motion made us want to look something up, so now we are forever checking names and dates, history and geography as we’re driving through the countryside.

We’ve wandered around the world, too. In five years we’ve been to China, Australia and New Zealand, Sweden, Norway, Canada and roamed these United States widely. We were lucky enough to travel a lot even while we were working, but these more recent trips have been longer and farther afield to places we had dreamed about, but weren’t sure we would ever see. What once seemed impossible did, in fact, become possible with more time to plan and enjoy. In the process, we’ve met terrific people from all over, good people who have enriched our knowledge of the world and reassured us about the wonders of humankind.

We have volunteered, spending time on birds and conservation, education and job connection and even a flowering bridge!  We've knocked on doors to get people to go the polls and vote on election day.  We’ve each reconnected with our universities in different ways and I’ve been really proud to discover and participate in the amazing growth of Georgia State as an internationally-respected research institution.

We vowed to spend more time with family and friends and we’ve done that, happily spending weeks in Florida with my sister and traveling to enjoy time in Tennessee and Canada with other family members. We’ve been able to reach out to those who needed us in times of illness and sorrow and appreciated the opportunity to support them in ways that would not have been possible when time was so limited. We’ve deepened friendships and made new ones, having time to strengthen Lake Lure friendships as we spend more time there.

Most of all, and perhaps best, has been how we’ve learned so much about the world and about ourselves. We’ve had challenges to face and found that we could meet them and move through them, grateful again for the benefits accrued from association with a world-class employer and a wise financial counselor.

Now we are anticipating the next five years, breaking ground for a new home and an exciting collaboration with our children who are building next door. We look forward to what’s ahead, knowing no more about what will happen than we knew when we retired in 2007, but sure that it will be anything but dull.

What We Owe Our Veterans

Old Glory on Chimney Rock

As is too often the case, my cursory scan of the front page of the morning paper today caused me to groan with frustration. The story that caught my eye, at this time of year we honor our veterans, was one that reported Secretary of Defense Leon Panetta’s need to “cut and reshape the military to fit a smaller budget.”

I understand and endorse the need to adjust our spending to the realities of our ever-straining national budget. The report indicates that Panetta is looking at cutting back our nuclear arsenal and some of our troop strength in Europe. I’m okay with those ideas. I’m not surprised to hear that cutting may include some base closings, nor am I unaware that such closings will face political challenges from the districts in which those bases provide economic boost to the local economy.

My frustration occurred when I read that an area of potential cutting and adjustment would be in the military’s health program and retirement pay. Here we are, just days before Veterans Day, talking about taking care and sustenance from those who have served their country, and those yet serving.

I can only hope that Panetta and those who are analyzing the cuts will remain loyal to promises made to our serving forces when they accepted their duties, many laying their lives on the line faithfully, even when they might disagree with the politics that got us into battle. I might call into question decisions that have been made to enter into foreign entanglements, but I stand with those who have served honorably wherever they were sent.

As we approach Veterans Day, I remember with pride those in our family who have served. They took the risks, did their duty to the best of their abilities and went where they were sent, often into enemy fire. Some survived their service, others did not. Nonetheless, they put on the uniform and took their posts. They will be in my thoughts on November 11, as they are always: my father-in-law, my brother, my nephew, among others.  They can no longer speak for themselves and their comrades in uniform, but I will speak for them and thank them for serving our country.

As we draw down our forces in Iraq and Afghanistan, more and more veterans will return home into a down economy, facing high unemployment and, for some, the struggle to overcome the wounds of war, both physical and psychological. I worry that we are already ill-prepared to give them the assistance they will need and hard-put to help their families, as well, with the support they have earned and deserve. I’m all for good management of all our tax dollars with real efficiency. However, cutting the budgets that are needed to give those who serve in our armed forces their due hardly seems the approach to take.

So, Mr. Panetta, I urge you to find your cuts somewhere other than the budget lines that provide for the repatriation, health care and retirement of our serving military. While we have remained safe at home, they have been on the front lines at our bidding. Let’s be sure they can count on us as we have counted on them.