Gogyohka-Thursday [98]

Calling, rescheduling,

trying to collide our locations.

I miss the days

when I could draw us

together with paper and crayons.

Gogyohka-Thursday [95]

Never had she look so well

Nor he so fine

The day they exchanged vows

And love and lives

Entwined

Gogyohka-Thursday [93]

Plop! plop!

berries into my pot.

Squish! squish!

into my sister's

stomach.

Gogyohka-Thursday [91]

watching my sister

sweet bride to be

showered with gifts

for their home-making

so tangibly happy, my heart's aching

Gogyohka-Thursday [83]

weary of holding

my own chin up...
 

arms strangely aching...

 

realizing I haven't been held

 

 in a very, very long time...

Poem for my mother.  

Gogyohka-Thursday [82]

My brother Peter Fiore wrote this Guest Gogyohka for me. It is hard to be so far away- but sometimes we meet in cyberspace and have great conversations- gchat bridging the gap of several states till we see eachother again.

Your words

On my screen

Like joyful tears

Makes me smile

And wish for more



Gogyohka-Thursday [81]

There is a peculiar beauty that graces those in love. 'Old couples, engaged couples- I love to watch them... this one's for my sister and her fiance particularly. 

 

they walked

like they'd walked

together for a long time

pausing- turning- loving mimes

speaking with their eyes

Gogyohka-Thursday [78]

singing with my sister

swinging our joined hands

under the summer sky

motorcyclists smile

and doff their invisible hats

Gogyohka-Thursday [68]

Not enough time left

to pack up my room

to meet every appointment

to make every phone-call

and still say good-bye slowly

 

I find my sister's arms

often stealing around me

as if their encircling warmth

could keep me home

a few minutes longer...

:THANKFUL:

Every year brings new things to be thankful for... sometimes bountiful blessing... sometimes trials seen safely through...

As I and my wonderful family sat around the laden table this Thanksgiving, in turn, as so moved, we touched our utensils to our wine glasses- signalling a toast- and were thankful. 

We were thankful for two upcoming weddings- for spouses- for special relationships- for parents- for family- my ninety-four year old great-grandmother (with tears in her eyes) was thankful for one more year with all of us (and we, thankful, hope for yet another with her).

I too have many things to be thankful for. Too many to name.

But at this particular moment, tonight, I am thankful for two. I'm thankful-

to get to play Pinochle with my ninety-seven year old great-grandfather...

to hear my great-grandmother asked me, "Won't you play for me before I go?"

I played three songs for her- My Father's Favorite, Moon River, and As Time Goes By. She sat near the piano and listened as I played and murmured the words.

You must remember this
A kiss is just a kiss, a sigh is just a sigh.
The fundamental things apply
As time goes by.

Afternoon Tea in Company

"Find yourself a cup; the teapot is behind you. Now tell me about hundreds of things." -Saki

To my utter delight, I spent my birthday this year with the Townsend girls, my very oldest friends. (We go back to birth- a length of history I would challenge anyone to beat). To celebrate we went out for afternoon tea- all nine of us- our two mothers, their four girls, and my two sisters and I.

We spent the morning ironing our clothes (particularly feminine for the occasion)- doing our make-up- taking last minute pictures.  My little sister was particularly tickled in anticipation and told us with wide eyes- "We should pretend we're from England. From ancient times- before the revolution. And we should be very stiff and speak in English accents."

We went to a lovely tea shop- full of rose-china, linens, accessories, and satchels of tea. We were seated at two tables outside- next to the stain-glass windows and charming wooden-cottage doors. The tables were bedecked with flowers and lovely china, with pink napkins in flowered napkin-holders. Not far off- three older ladies looked up from their tea to giggle and wave at us and ask what the occasion was.  The charm of the atmosphere was contagious. (What is it in a woman- that blooms in the presence of beauty- and is ever seeking to recreate it around her?) We chose from a  vast tea menu two pots of tea to start off with (Dutchess Delight- which was a coconut, lemon, kiwi combo- Vanilla and Pieces- and later we had a mango tea and a blueberry tea)- and then adjourned to the dressing corner where we picked out hats.

What is a tea-party without hats?

Bonnets and boaters! Cloches and cocktails! Straw and felt! We had heaps of fun trying them all on and each choosing one to fit our outfit. I ended up with a wide-brimmed white hat- with a very coquettish netted veil. I found a pair of purple gloves to match my dress- but I ended up taking them off as they seriously interfered with eating.

Soon our tea came- and then our food. We supped on five different kinds of tea sandwiches- pesto and cranberry and humus and ham and cucumber- of that feminine shape and size that would make men shudder and despair of ever being truly satisfied. Next we had fruit and followed by scones with clotted cream, preserves, and lemon-curd. We finished off with strawberry shortcake (mine had a candle in it- upon which I wished).

As to our conversation, well, I shall not betray the confidence of that intimate circle by relating to you our numerous topics- or the smiles exchanged or the jokes shared and giggled over. No, for I hold the confidings shared by an entirely female circle sacred, and I could not tell you of them any more than I could offend the delicacy of my fair companions by relating to you just how many cups of tea each of us ladies consumed- imbued, as they were- with many slips of the sugar spoon and much cream besides. But I can tell you that there was joy- and joy abounding.

As three hours came to a close (you can imagine how much tea and talking filled those hours)- we perused the tea-shop- returning our hats to their hat-stands and fingering the linens for sale. There were three table-clothes purchased. One- a lovely paisley pattern of deep reds, oranges, and black- which, with my propensity towards anything Indian, I was immediately drawn to. Samantha, my darling friend, got it for me for my birthday. (Just the thought makes me smile.)

And then the antique store! More hats! More china! More linens! And cookery and table-ware besides. (We did not emerge unscathed. I believe there was at least one bracelet and exactly four silver napkin holders purchased.)

Five hours from when we set out- we returned home- weary from happiness. I can't think of a better way than to have celebrated my birthday. No tea could have been made any sweeter- for I shared it with the sweetest of company.

*Pictures by Madalynn Townsend. Used by permission.

River Rhapsody

There is in California a well-kept secret: the whereabouts of a river- secluded in a gorge- hidden by two mountain ranges.

On Wednesday we all- the eight of us and our grandparents- Poppi and Gaum- went river-rafting. We endured the hour or so of hair-pin turns to get there- and equipped ourselves with rash guards, wet-suits, hand-fin-gloves, hats, glasses, water-shoes, and a fair bit of sunscreen. We attempted to color-coordinate our various accessories- but in the end set out looking much like brightly colored tramps- our shoes, wet-suit, and air-mattress swung over an arm.

It is reachable only by way of an abandoned highway. For an hour you must walk in direct sunlight- the rising mountains to your left and to your right a cliff-drop into the gorge.

The chatter between us passes the time as our feet traverse the rocky highway deeper into the mountains- farther away from people, medical help, and proper bathrooms. We at last reach the turnoff where we leave the road and carefully descend a steep (and unsteady) dust footpath into the gorge. My sister takes my brother's arm- for her shoes have no traction and she does a great deal of discomforting slipping on the way down. After a quarter of a mile or so we reach the river where we put on our wet-suits and water-shoes and take our first dip into the river.

But the journey you must take in the blistering heat only magnifies the reward received in reaching the water. At first it is a shock of cold- and then the coldness is gone- and it is only a refreshing cool. You let your limbs slip under the rushing torrents- your feet find footholds between the river-bed stones.

We wade and stumble around rapids a bit up the river till we reach the first and second pool- my favorites. They design water parks after such places- clear, crystal, spherical pools spilling one into the other.

A veritable paradise- Diana in her infancy must have made these pools her bath- her radiant fingers smoothing away the edges from each stone till they gleamed, lunar pillars, around her aquatic palace.

We seat ourselves on the edge of the first lagoon- where the mothers and my little sister spend the day. From our packs we pull sausages wrapped in cellophane, carrots, and cheese. Those of us strong of lung (I do not include myself) blow up the ten air-mattresses which serve as our rafts. And then we are on our way- pushing off into a deep, green, shadowed lagoon.

In other places you can scarcely see the river floor- the waters turn from a languid green to an impenetrable black. In these secluded waters- who knows what lurks beneath the surface- sheltered in the shadow of the rising cliffs- hidden by the mountains.

This river is one of the few places where the rapids are large enough to enjoy- but not large enough to be of any serious danger. But this year the water is higher than normal (even higher than the other two times I visited in June) so we end up having to scramble around the falls- the current too strong to fight our way against. In between these scrambles we drift and paddle our way across lagoon after lagoon- till reaching our destination- where the gorge narrows and climaxes in a waterfall. In this particular section of the river the cliffs narrow so as to make a sort of passage between the mountains- so narrow you can touch both stone faces simultaneously as they rise above you for 20-30 feet.

Between Schylla and Charybdis you waver. To stay in the unknown depths of the black lagoon- or  to venture on into the foreboding enclosures of the stone passage, cliffs, and caves?

Through the passage you drift- dragging yourself along by the stone walls till the passage widens into a pool. Here the waterfall crashes down in a roar of wave and foam. My brother scares us by clambering up the rock face with the aid of two ropes and his own two adventurous feet- higher and higher above the stone and falls and water. We breath easier when he is back down. 

Where are the pirate ships? The smuggler's caves? Where in these depths do the mermaids play?

As we turn and head down-stream- this time with the current on our side- we pass two young men who are cliff-jumping. One of them lends his goggles to Paul who informs us that the depths of the pool are some thirty or forty feet and three-foot fish are swimming beneath us. (I didn't need to know that.) Paul takes the lead and he and I, close behind, blaze the trail ahead of everyone. We are both the lightest in our group- at 95 pounds- and we slide down the falls that cause others to capsize. Soon we are far ahead- and remain ahead no matter how many times we wait for the others to catch up. I am the first to sight our starting point- where we stow our rafts and return to the water unencumbered.

Beach yourself on a rock in the sun- let your feet bath in the rushing water- laugh and wave at those on shore.

We pull out our remaining victuals and the lot of us- on a rock in the water- rest from our toils and give each other back-massages. Then we begin the three mile walk home. 

Can we really leave this wonderful place? The cliffs and the river? We're here. For the moment. Here in California's best-kept secret. 

We reach the cars- we change back into clothes and shake off the sand. The day ends perfectly with Poppi treating us all to fantastic dinner- where we dine on pea soup and butter-lettuce salad, ravioli and baby-back ribs, sole and salmon- and for dessert a peach bread pudding and chocolate gelato. We crawl into beds- covered in scratches and bruises- aching all over- and full of good memories. Some of us are likely to return tomorrow.

But where is this Eden? I cannot tell. For I have become a secret-keeper.

Gogyohka-Thursday [44]

my sister

sees a sea-otter

for the first time

and makes a squeal

like a sea-gull in my ear

Going West

We’ve been on the road for nearly forty-eight hours strait now. On Sunday we left after church (with many good-byes and well-wishes from our church congregation) and set out from New York on the trail headed west.

All eight of us are neatly packed into what we fondly call our green-covered-wagon (Suburban truck) and we pass the hours reading, driving, and making use of all our wonderful technological equipment. We fall asleep on each other if we're not too hot. We take much needed breaks at McDonalds and rest stops to eat our home-made chicken cutlets. (I think I could give a rundown on the states we’ve passed through based solely on the aesthetic of their rest stops).

I’ve watched as the rolling hills of Pennsylvania became the rolling hills of Ohio. The land flattened, cornfields state after state. Iowa was flat. So was Nebraska. We’ve had our share of mishaps already. In the night we missed the splitting of the Interstate 80 and 90 and ended up an hour or two north just over the border into Wisconsin. (Wisconsin was flat, too.)  We are blessed to have five drivers – my mother and sister take the night shifts as they are capable of not falling asleep at the wheel (a trait I regrettably do not possess). Both of my siblings only have their permits so a licensed adult has to sit in the front seat next to them at all times (despite, for example, my sister having driven for three years). So it was of particular satisfaction to me when on my shift I took a look around and found my mom, dad, and sister all fast asleep (my mother calls my "smoooth" hand at the wheel "lullaby-driving"). My brother got his driving medal when he took a shift in Iowa and drove through a torrential downpour which (we later heard on the radio) took out half of the power in Chicago.

In Nebraska things got particularly interesting. We stopped at our favorite rest area so far- sporting an immaculate green lawn that would have been the envy of my whole street back home, lovely stone-surrounded picnic areas, a baby dinosaur in a sand-box, and bathrooms of artistic white and blue tiling. The Nebraska landscape has a very gradual up and down to it- barely visible in what was soon night-time. And we ran into another storm. A huge storm. The radio promised golf-ball sized hail and possible tornadoes (but we never saw either). We stopped at a gas station to wait it out but were informed by an employee that we really didn’t have anything to worry about so we decided to brave it. Dad was driving. The rain was fantastic (visibility was the real issue) and we ended up joining three other cars pulled over under an over-pass. We watched the storm with baited breath. The sky was a constant flicker- and at times we saw bolts of lightning streak down and meet the earth. Then every few minutes there would be a flash of light- lighting up the entire sky (impossibly big with so few trees), truly blinding, followed by a deafening clap of thunder.

Eventually we moved on- and as the storm passed us I took over the wheel in the leftover drizzle. There are no lights to speak of on the 80 in Nebraska. I drove with my eyes flickering from the fifteen feet of visible dotted line down to my left- and the red tail lights of the one or two cars far ahead of me on the skyline. All else was black. And as I drove through the darkness on the narrow and strait road- I had the sensation of continuing on into a horizon of eternal blackness.

In the middle of last night we woke and tumbled out of the car into a Wyoming rest stop. It was freezing cold. But there was something in the air that hadn’t been there before- a scent of a particular tree, perhaps. It smelled less like New York- and far more like California.

I woke this morning to vaulting mountain ranges- layered stone in grey, cream, and red tones- to cattle ranges and protruding rock formations and a sunrise of deep golds and purples. From Wyoming into Utah, we weave our way through the mountains- passed caves and trains and small clusters of civilization- ever west, ever west.

I can scarcely believe we're almost there. Home. Where I was born. California. My California.  

Anticipation mounts. My heart begins to race.

Family, Family, FAMILY!

We were all unexpectedly surprised when we learned that we had a chance to go to Camp Spofford in New Hampshire the last week of June. Frankly, half of us kids weren't even excited. I mean... We'd never been to camp. Camp is where you wear t-shirts in bright neon colors and wake up with shaving cream in your hair and fight with people who look like you? Parent Trap? right? But as rumors (and rumors of rumors) began to circulate about the yearly delights of Camp Spofford- excitement did begin to ignite in our skeptical bosoms. We packed  the car to bursting- full of swimsuits, bibles, flash-lights and eight or so sleeping bags,- the three oldest of us packed into the very back row of our Suburban truck, and we were on our way. I was soon asleep- and didn’t wake up till Vermont.

Fifteen minutes into New Hampshire- we drove into Camp Spofford. A lake glistened to our left- to our right a chapel, field, and well-groomed cabins. We found our tentel and unpacked. We gathered around as Sarah and Dad read off the beach and camp rules (i.e.- no swimming after 10:00 pm as patrol sharks are placed in the water and they will bite). Daddy and I meandered hand-in-hand around the grounds... it was lovely. Everything was painted in woodsie hues- flowers cascaded from their beds (including a highly amusing literal bed full of flowers)- a brook ran through the grounds (traversed by bridges) into the lake and through the air wafted the smokey smell of dinner.

Soon we began meeting people- first a  boat man- then my siblings and I made conversation with a family on the playground. We began to learn each other's names with relish and giggled as one of the girls, (her golden hair flying), found her youngest siblings and stuck name-tags (like it or not) onto their unsuspecting backs. The camp convocation brought even more meetings- as we met the families behind and in front of us in the pews and were formally introduced to everyone as each family stood and counted off their names and each child's age. Then we did activities together. These were such things as making boats from Styrofoam trays and skewers and sailing them down the brook- and playing dodge-ball. '(Nothing quite like smacking people with balls to get to know them.) Then it was time for dinner! Smoked and pulled pork! Oh, man, that stuff was good...

We were there five days. We loved every minute. But how to encapsulate the essence of that time for you? Shall I tell you of the kids- the delightful little girls who would run and hug me on sight- or the boys with their bright eyes and sticks and water-guns?  Shall I tell you of the nights we spent playing card games till midnight in Knutes- where popcorn is a dollar with endless free refills- where they make amazing floats and shakes and fresh, hot, Cinnamon donuts? Can I possibly skip the water-skiing, the pancakes and chocolate milk, the Family Olympics, or the Talent Show? Where could I begin on the conversations we had- on theology and economics and children and parenting. How can I describe the encouragement I received from mother's smiles and my delight in holding a newborn?

How concisely can I possibly tell you of the the afternoon I spent on the island (covered in Ever-Greens and sulfuring fish)- digging up clay deposits in an inlet with the other girls and boys- covering our face and arms and legs with designs- applying the tattoos on each other- washing them off- reapplying- wading around the island, giggling and smiling under the sun? Or what of the night those of us in college drove into the town of Keene - meandering through kitchen stores, drinking coffee drinks, talking in accents, taking pictures, commenting on quaint buildings, and having a grand old time? Or what of the night Sarah, two guys, and I spent hours by the lake talking by candlelight of the sermons we'd heard that week, family dynamics, struggles, and faith. I was, on multiple levels, deeply encouraged by our fellowship. Oh, the family of God.

Or best of all- where to begin in relating the wonderful teaching we received from Norm Wakefield- who did the chapel sessions and adult workshops each day? We all- every family- were deeply blessed by he and his wife's ministry. On Sunday he spoke from 1 Peter about the imperishable relationship Christ has given us- based not on our actions but on His faithfulness and the work on the cross.  And on Wednesday he spoke from 2 Corinthians about tearing down walls- the walls in our own hearts. I was challenged to reflect Christ in my relationships- who chose to undergo the pain, separation, and agony of the cross so that we- sinners- might be reconciled to him... so that the veil- the wall between us and God- would be severed forever.

I was faced, perhaps for the first time, with how easily I build walls against people in my heart- and how many walls I have been busy building for so many years. Mr. Wakefield talked about how our relationships are an aroma before God- and how when we sow discord we reflect Satan's way- but when we choose to bear other's sin and keep our hearts open, offering the gift of a love based not on what someone does- but on what Christ has done- we are an aroma of Christ before God. Oh, to reflect Christ! To remind God of Christ! And so I am strengthened with a resolve. When I am hurt (how often, and how easily this seems to happen!) I find myself praying: I will not build a wall. I will bear this hurt (Lord, help me bear it).

How thankful I am for the family of God.

All too soon, it was over. We were saying good-bye to family after family with whom we had already formed a wonderful bond. We promised- and we will- be retuning next year.

We drove home and dragged our things back into the house- weary but happy. And that night Annie came into my room before bed. "Good-night" she said- and as our arms wrapped around each other, her head burrowing into me, I drank in wafts from her hair. She didn't smell like Annie.

"You smell like Camp Spofford." I told her.

"What does Camp Spofford smell like?"

"Like wind, and sand, and water, and happiness."

She smiled- her eyes lighting up with that very happiness- alive in her memories. And then she went to bed.

Amazing Love

There are trials in everyone's life. The Word tells us that they are instruments for our perfection. I don't know if I write transparently enough for you to tell, but I have been for some time amidst just such a trial, that has for the last month left me numb- and only recently culminated in healing pain.

Particulars do not belong to public writing. But I would like to share with you my thankfulness for those people God has blessed me with. I am so thankful for my sisters in the Lord- who have affirmed me, sent me hugs (through cyberspace), prayed for me, and cried with me. And I am thankful for my mother- who can tell my mood and state from a glance, and feels pain as I feel pain.

For the last five days I have been pretty sick to-boot (I see now that this too was God's blessing). First it was a cold- then a fever- then a cold again, sore throat, nose, headache and all- and then added to it I got an eye-infection and  have been nauseous for the last  48-hours (from nerves and coughing). Due to the latter this weekend I had barely eaten lunch and completely skipped dinner and so my mother took me out of the house to eat.

It was ten o'clock. Dogs were howling in the night and beginnings of rain rustled the trees. We went to our favorite diner- where she was so patient with me as I took about a half hour to pick something to eat. Everything sounded bad to my upset and knotted stomach. We poured over the menu- and at last ordered hyper a-la-carte: Roasted potatoes, cottage cheese, apple sauce, and egg whites. I barely picked at it (though I did drink lots of coke- you know that stuff was originally a stomach syrup), but just being out with her was wonderfully comforting.

So yes. I am thankful for my mother. And thankful for my sisters. But most of all I find myself incredibly thankful to God. 

I wasn't expecting that. Usually when I hit a storm I do a lot of why?-ing, (that is, whining). But through this I have found myself drawn incredibly closer. I have been overwhelmed, overpowered, and overshadowed by an incredible sense of his love for me. It's ironic because God's love is something I've always struggled with- and so I see a priceless purpose even amidst my pain.

I know a God who's love is unchanging, who knows everything I've ever wanted someone to know- who doesn't leave. Who says that he, "guards our minds and hearts in Christ Jesus"- who IS love- that always hopes, endures, forgives, and never fails. (And this is love- that he loved us and sent His son). 

 

Oh Lord-God, thank you for your love. I trust you a thousand times over.

You hem me in, behind and before, and lay your hand upon me. Such knowledge is too wonderful for me. - Psalm 139, 5-6

Gogyohka-Thursday [38]

driving with my brother

giggling, singing

talking heart-to-heart

we miss our exit

twice

Rivers of Thought

It seems with every flurry of activity comes a downpour of thoughts in my brain. When they first form they are distinct little raindrops- yet once fallen, quickly becoming indistinguishable from one another. There seems too great a river in my brain to share anything cohesive with you.

Nearly a week ago I took a walk through the woods (its memory still plays in my mind). I tickled my sister with a fern I picked- she went for the tight muscles in my side- and then we were chasing and giggling and tickling and dragging and squealing and the ordeal was not over until we passed a stone cave built into the hillside and I threatened to throw her in. (It's either a root cellar or a druid hole- historians can't make up their minds- so take your pick). She calmed down, slipped her hand in mine, and told me firmly that, "We are at peace now." Then from her tongue came the most tender confidings- about sisters... and me... and laughter. (My heart still gasps when I remember- not the words that she spoke- but all that lay behind them).

This weekend was a whirlwind. On Saturday we drove down into the city and went to Zabar's- an incredible (and enormous) Jewish deli. We walked in and were immediately confronted by 40 barrels of assorted olives- and the smells of cheese, fish, and coffee. My grandfather bought all sorts of amazing goodies (meat, salad, cheese, bread) and we picnicked in Central Park (while listening to a jazzy street band). Oh, yes. And then we went to my Met again. Afterwords we sat out on the front steps in the sun and listened to a saxophone player... by the time we left a crowd had amassed around him and three young guys (two  in suits) were dancing.

I keep thinking of what God showed me when I prayed (thoughts oppressing my heart) for evidence of His love curled up in a hotel room... and it seems I have not yet had time to digest all that I learned and felt when I heard a sermon on Sunday from a visiting missionary.

I'm sitting at my computer (feeling hot and sticky and tired) and my mind is rambling down alleys... past the people I met... the music I heard... the foods I smelled... the feelings I felt... and the littered highways we passed which made me daydream about clean-up projects.

I live life through my experiences- and I see life through my thoughts. I don't know which part of me is larger- the half that delights in experience (and consequently adventure, sensory information, and the unexpected)- or that which longs to understand and conclude and realize and immortalize (and so betakes itself to the quiet to reflect and create).

My writing routine is a bit happenstance. I live (and don't think). And then I think (and don't live). I have to live to have something to write about. But I have to be still and think to write. Yet the longer I wait  for  ruminations to ripen- the more fuzzy the memories become in my mind.

I had thoughts yesterday. And the day before. But I didn't write them down. And so now everything feels fuzzy and half-baked inside... like I lost something and I'm not sure what.

Experiences are raindrops... they conjoin in pools, slip into streams of thought, and become the rivers we call our past.

City Main Courses

Today was one part  trains, one part walking, one part window-ahhing, and two parts exhibits- pleasantly tossed with culinary adventures. Many thanks to my grandparents for such a delicious day. Some of the highlights were-

1) Seeing the Van Cleef & Arpels jewelry exhibition at the Cooper Museum. (People must have been bigger a hundred years ago- that stuff was enormous.)

2) Grace Kelly's engagement set from the Prince of Monaco!

3) Hearing lots of people speak in French- and in French accents. (Best one: "Ze batroom iz dis way- Yoo cannout mees eet nouw.")

4) Having a prosciutto sandwich (like I did seven or so years ago the first time) at Via Quadronno.

5) Amazing chocolate from La Maison Du Chocolat (favorite was one infused with passion fruit).

6) Resting on a stone bench- blue hydrangeas, watching people pass by, Annie playing with pigeons. 'Checking Facebook on my grandmother's iTouch. (My grandmother's more techy than me! I don't even own a cell-phone!)

7) The quilt exhibit at the American Folk Art museum. Such minute stitching! (I could never have that much PATIENCE!)

8) Finally storing away a bit of the Manhattan geography in this map-less brain of mine.

9) Splitting between the four of us Indian food and sorbet in Grand Central!

10) It being universally agreed upon (between my mother and myself) that woman's fashion has definitely improved in the last ten years.

My brothers had a day in the city too- they went to a Yankees game (we won). But what I found the most interesting about their rapturous report of their day was that over and over again they talked about food- food- and food. Italian ices. Pizza. The mozzarella, provolone, and three pounds of ricotta my Poppi purchased on Arthur Avenue. 

Is it just our family? Is it being Italian? Is it something in the New York water? I find myself wondering if all peoples in all places find such delight in joining together over food. I hope so.

If we ever meet in the city- I want us to walk down Madison Avenue together and try my favorite chocolate. And then maybe we will have Peruvian food at Flor De Mayo- or stop by little Italy to bring back cheese for our mothers.

Oh, Spontaneity!

The plan for Sunday was very simple: church and then a surprise outing to one of our favorite local restaurants, McKinney & Doyle. But after the service our parents engaged in a rather important (and lengthy) conversation with a fellow church member. Eventually my dad turned to me, handed me the keys to the Camry, and told me to take a bunch of us home. I grabbed my two sisters, Sarah's friend from college (Katie), and Peter, and off we went.

It was a truly spring day (before the snow hit yesterday). The ground was bare- daffodils blinked shyly, and the sky was blue. We rolled down the windows a bit and my iPod went on. One of the first songs up set the mood, "I love you more... than the spring in its blooming against the sky." (Ought To Be, Audrey Assad).

Then came Lucky (Jason Mraz) and all the girls (the seven year old mostly smiled) began to sing... "Lucky I'm in love with my best friend / lucky to have been what I have been..."

Then came the Newsboys- and the car began to bop. We sang our hearts out in unified consent, "I'm not ashamed to speak the name of Jesus Christ!" We were enjoying ourselves immensely. I looked sidelong at my sister, "Take the long way home?" Yes. We wove in and out around brimming reservoirs and the iPod hit a run on Beach Boys...

Well she got her daddy's car
And she cruised through the hamburger stand now
Seems she forgot all about the library
Like she told her old man now
And with the radio blasting
Goes cruising just as fast as she can now
And she'll have fun, fun, fun
'Til her daddy takes the T-Bird away

Surfer Girl. Catch a Wave. The sun was bright, our smiles were brighter. We cruised into the driveway. When I reached the door I heard the phone ringing- I rushed in and caught the phone off the receiver on the umpteenth ring- it was Dad. He'd sent me with the Suburban keys- he, Mom, and the boys were stranded at church. So back off I went, this time by myself.

I skipped to my favorite songs. As I drove (a little faster this time) I suddenly had the odd sensation of seeing myself- as I couldn't have imagined just twelve months- let alone twelve years- ago. 

There I was. Living in New York (of all places). Driving down back roads to pick up my parents (of all things). Listening to country love songs (of all music). On a spring Sunday in 2011 (of all times).

By the time we all united at home it was about three o'clock. We all piled into the Suburban and were just about to leave when we called the restaurant and discovered they were closed. Nobody felt like going inside to have PB&J. We were hungry.

In fact, we were so hungry I think we were a bit crazed. We wanted food. REAL food. Dad made a suggestion, the members of the car erupted in loudly voiced opinions in true Democratic form- parents used their executive rights to overrule the few dissenters and the next thing we knew the nine of us were making the hour+ trip down to NYC to go to Flor De Mayo. 

We grabbed some chips to tide us over. We were scarcely twenty minutes down the road when, to our dismay, it was discovered in our spontaneity no one had grabbed a camera. Katie, my sister's friend, was particularly disappointed since this was her first time going into the city. (Thus I am writing this post, to immortalize the occasion.)

At Flor De Mayo (Peruvian-Chinese cuisine) we ordered the timeless favorites: two whole rotisserie chickens, four large orders of black beans and yellow rice, and several plates of maduros and avocado. On such occasions, manners are temporarily disbanded. There is much grabbing and yumming and clashing of forks and general silence as the meal is consumed. As Katie attested, it was well worth the wait.

We drove down Broadway to show Katie Time Square. There was much traffic- we gazed up at show signs and advertisements and read the newsflashes on the economy and wars and talks and treaties scrolling in large neon letters around a building.

Just as we passed the Apple store (giant glass conservatory of technology), Dad pulled the truck over and said he had to go see something (presumably something in the Apple store) and Mom should take the car around the block to pick him up. Then he was gone. Mom looked amused, climbed over into the driver's seat, and began driving around. Crazy. Jammed. Loud. Broadway. We had only gotten half way around the block when we suddenly saw Dad running up (already done) and he hopped back in the car. Mom whirled around and said to Katie, "All the stories you heard about us were true."

We drove through Central Park (past the petting zoo and barred doors leading into the hillside, under overpasses, betwixt stone-walls). At some point during the evening we sang the George Washington Bridge song.

Then we were driving home... back upstate. The tall buildings turned to tall trees, parks turned to lakes, noise into the single melody of a Rascal Flatts song on a country station.

Sometimes I can hear this old earth shouting (...)

That's when I climb up here on this mountain
To look through God's window

Now I can't fly, but I've got two feet
To get me high up here
Above the noise and city streets
My worries disappear