Lost and found

Do you remember who first sucked you into a love for learning? That person who first taught you about the Renaissance or Rasputin or Emma Lazarus' words on the Statue of Liberty? Sometimes a teacher makes such an impact on your life that you have to hunt her (or him) down years later just to say "Thank you." Fourteen years ago - back before Google and Facebook - I managed to track down my 6th grade teacher (Barger Elementary, Chattanooga, TN) to tell her just that.

Miss Rushlow was the first "young" teacher I ever had. I'd love to say that didn't make a difference, but it did. It makes an enormous difference to 11-year-olds. In other words, she had our attention from the git-go. She was tough. She expected a lot out of us, and we produced. We bugged her to death, I'm sure, with our silliness, but she knew how to control a classroom, so nothing ever got too out of hand. As I said, she had us from the git-go.

Well, in the mid-1990s. tracking someone down after 30+ years was kind of tricky. No Google. Shoot, hardly any "world wide web." And it's always harder finding a woman who has since married and changed her name. Sigh.

I won't bore you with the details, but finding her involved a trip to hometown Chattanooga's library, old newspapers, obits and wedding announcements, and phonebooks on discs. Found her. Well, found her husband. Wrote a long letter, included a copy of our class picture, sent it FedEx, and waited to see if she was still out there.

She was. In California. Still teaching. We wrote back and forth, sent emails, talked on the phone. Fortunately, my job at Turner Broadcasting involved a bit of travel, so on a business trip to California, I stayed a few extra days and got to see Miss Rushlow (now Mrs. Maxwell) for the first time in, well, decades.

Really long story a bit shorter, our families became good friends - her husband, son, sister and my daughter, sister, aunt - very quickly. So fourteen years later and after many trips to California and Georgia, I am about to welcome my 6th grade teacher to New York. Her son Bruce is giving a concert at Carnegie Hall tomorrow evening. The family's staying through the weekend, so I'll be New York Tour Guide again.

Now we'll actually see the Emma Lazarus poem at the base of the Statue of Liberty - something I first learned from Miss Rushlow all those years ago in a classroom in Chattanooga, Tennessee. We have a busy four days planned, and I'll keep you posted on the fun.

I highly recommend tracking down that special teacher, if you can, and saying "Thanks." Hey, you might just end up on a wine tour of Central California or going to a concert at Carnegie Hall with her. Now, if we can just find a play about Rasputin . . .

Of flu and flyovers

The threats of pandemics and terrorist attacks certainly add excitement to hum-drum economic meltdowns and massive job losses. I was getting bored with those. Folks need a new catastrophe now and then to add a little spice to everyday drudgery.

New Yorkers don't seem all that frightened about swine flu, at least not this day, this hour. Even though NYC boasts more cases than any other city. Woo-hoo! Go New York!

One or two people are walking around with face masks, which, by the way, medical experts say don't do much to ward off the flying pig virus. I suspect more people are stocking up on soap and hand sanitizer, and I hope more are covering their mouths when they cough or sneeze, but beyond that I haven't noticed any panicked subway riders. However, this nonchalance may turn ugly at any moment. Never can tell.

Low flying aircraft over Lower Manhattan are another matter. It was uncommonly stupid and irresponsible to swoop so close to densely-populated skyscrapers in a city that survived the 9/11 attacks. Many have experience in getting wrong information, or right information too late, to stick around and see who might be flying incoming jets. You can hardly blame them for evacuating their buildings yesterday when a 747 and a couple of fighter jets appeared to head straight for them.

'Fraidy cats? Hardly. No one, NO ONE, should be flying planes so close to Manhattan. You'd better have a damn good reason to do that, and "photo op" ain't one of 'em. Let them head for the buildings of the folks calling New Yorkers panicky, just to see if they stick around to see who might be buzzing their office.

Still, it's a beautiful day in here in the City. Flowers and trees a-bloom. Breezy. I'll not worry about a pig-type flu or insanely close aircraft today.

Tomorrow, now, may be a different matter.

The play's the thing

I celebrated my birthday on Tuesday at the Eugene O'Neill Theatre and the Moises Kaufman play "33 Variations." With Jane Fonda. I loved the play, by the way, even in the face of reviews that called it so-so - though Fonda received accodades for her performance across the board.

More about the play and Fonda's performance later.

A friend asked me if I was going to the play alone. When I answered "Yes," I got the standard "Oh, too bad!" pity-look. That's OK. I'm used to it. But the thing is, I prefer going to plays and movies alone. And, no, I doth not protest too much.

First, a singleton gets a much better seat. I usually decide to go to the theatre at the last minute, and single seats - I mean really great seats - are all that's left. I was dead-center, orchestra - well, closer to the stage than the rear, so even better - for "33 Variations." Last year for "The Year of Magical Thinking" with Vanessa Redgrave? Fourth row, center aisle. Happens all the time for me.

So going it alone pays off. Try getting two or three seats together within a few days of a performance, and chances are that you won't have orchestra or front mezz seats unless you pay a huge premium. My advice - split up and go for the great single seats.

Second, I go to a play or a movie to, er, watch the play or the movie. Crazy, I know. Once those lights go down, I expect to be transported to another place, another experience. I do not require a buddy to make that happen for me. In fact, if I'm with someone, I tend to spend time wondering if he/she is enjoying the show. Yeah, that's a pathology, I realize, but I feel responsible somehow for my buddy's play-going experience. That pulls me away from losing myself in what's going on up on the stage.

Now, I do love discussing a play or a movie afterward, getting other reactions and opinions. Talking about a performance experience is a big part of the fun. But during the play/film? Nope, don't want to know what you're thinking. I'll get back to ya' on that.

So don't cry for me, Argentina, about going to a play alone. I got a better seat and lost myself in the experience. We'll talk later.

Back to "33 Variations." I was totally caught up in the themes of creative and academic process. - not the only themes in the play, but the ones that spoke to me. I never found it slow or plodding, as some have criticized. And Fonda was outstanding. Her character, Katherine Brandt, maintained her spirit and passion, all the while succumbing to Lou Gehrig's Disease (ALS). The rest of the cast was strong, too, so the time flew for me.

For me, the play's the thing. Not who's sitting next to me.

The Birthday Cake

Back in the olden days, mothers used to actually bake birthday cakes. It had nothing to do with whether or not she worked outside the home (as mine did), birthday cakes were made by yo' mama. No quick trip to Publix (great cakes, BTW) or Baskin-Robbins. Nope. Whipped it up in the kitchen, where you could lick the bowl of your very own birthday cake batter.

Since my birthday usually falls close to Easter, Mother had a special cake she baked for me - a coconut cake, complete with green coconut "grass" and jelly bean "Easter eggs" hidden in the grass. Candles were spaced amongst the jelly beans, making for a very festive birthday cake. No need for "Happy Birthday" scrawled out in icing. The coconut grass, jelly bean eggs, and candles said it all.

I honestly don't remember how many cakes I baked for daughter Kate's birthdays over the years. I'm not a very good baker - though Mother was no expert, either, so that's a lousy excuse. No, I relied on bakeries and grocery stores. I do wonder where Mother found the time to create her coconut confection every year, but she managed. (Plus, a German chocolate cake around Christmastime - she was excellent at German chocolate.) Coconut cake with jelly beans and candles always made it Happy Birthday.

Thank you, Mother, for the great birthday cakes and happy memories. I'll be thinking of you at 10:12 tonight and the gift of life you gave me 58 years ago.

The Thinking Place

Growing up, we had a swing in a big tree in the backyard. I don't remember when Daddy strung it up with rope and a sturdy wooden seat, but very early on it became the best place I could find to do my serious thinking.

This Thinking Place was a real lifesaver from the time I was maybe 10 to 14-years-old. There seemed to be a lot to sort out during those years, and mindless swinging under a big old tree helped clarify things.

The knottiest problems couldn't be "swung out," though. They had to be twisted out - sitting in the swing and twisting round and round until it couldn't twist any more, then letting it untwist until I was dizzy. Things were clearer after a good "twist."

I wish I could find a good grown-up Thinking Place, some place that could work as well as our backyard swing all those years ago. The size of the problems are relative - a big problem at 12 is just as enormous as a big problem at 58. The difference is that I don't have any place to twist those problems up and dizzy them out again.

A good Thinking Place is hard to find these days.

Unplugging the stress machine

Last week I decided to slip out of New York, suitcase full of books and heart full of hope that I could unplug from my everyday life for a few days.

It was the first real vacation I’d had in almost three years. Yes, I’ve had time off, but it was devoted to weddings or playing Hostess with the Mostest to a variety of visitors. All were wonderful, fun experiences, but none of them provided the opportunity to just “be,” without demands or expectations.

So I boarded the train for Schenectady, watched the Hudson River pass by my window, and started to breathe in a different way. By the time I’d made my way to Wyndbourne (thanks for picking me up, Nancy), a bed and breakfast in Galway, I knew I’d chosen the right way to unwind.

I was the only guest at the 1790’s farmhouse. Two libraries, the fireplace reading areas, front porch, bathrooms, wooded acreage – all to myself! Wyndbourne doesn’t have wifi, and I never went near the one television downstairs, so I really did “unplug” the whole time I was there. Nancy and Ralph kept me well-fed and gave me access to the kettle, stove, and a huge collection of tea, so I never went hungry (or un-tea’d). A comfortable bed with flannel sheets, feather pillows, and a down comforter ensured solid sleep. In short, all things came together, including the weather, which was beautiful the whole time.

And how did I spend my days? Reading, reading, reading. I ambitiously packed five books and finished three. I moved around from front porch to kitchen fireplace area to upstairs library – always with a cup of tea steaming next to me – to enjoy all the comfort zones the Wyndbourne offered. I never missed TV or the internet. I just disappeared into the books.

But once in a while I needed to get out and stretch my legs. Nancy had gotten permission for me to have access to the neighbors’ woods, so I had a lovely place to tramp around and explore. The air was fresh and the walks invigorating, which cleared my mind for more reading!

The only time I left the B&B was for a trip into Saratoga Springs, where we explored Lyrical Ballad Bookstore for over an hour, had a great pub burger, and toured the town. (Yes, I saw the racetrack.) A lovely town, plus two more books (thanks, Lyrical) – not a bad morning’s work!

Saw a yellow-bellied sapsucker (true!), geese, ducks, chipmunks, and lots of stars at night. Read three books. Drank lots of tea and some excellent wine. Lots of good food. No TV. No internet. No phone calls. Slowly the gray matter started regenerating and the heart rate slowing down.

My advice: Unplug. Read. Walk in the woods. Watch a yellow-bellied sapsucker through binoculars. Get back to yourself.

Dante at the Cathedral

I spent the waning hours of Maundy Thursday in Hell. To be more specific, in Dante's Inferno.

The Cathedral of St. John the Divine played host to its 16th annual reading of Dante's Inferno by poets, writers, and Dante translators from 9pm to just after midnight on Maundy Thursday, significant because that's when the poem takes place. I hadn't been in the Cathedral since the summer, so seeing the results of the 7-year renovation of the massive 248-foot long, 124-foot high nave was a breathtaking experience in itself. It was the perfect environment to accompany Dante Alighieri and poet Vigil through Hell.

Incense still hung in the air from the Maundy Thursday service and the stripping of the altar. Cathedrals can be spooky, even in broad daylight, but this night - with the crosses covered and no glint of brass, gold, or silver to catch what tiny bit of light might be there - was eerier than usual. More than a hundred people, by my estimate, started the journey with Dante, though fewer stayed to the glorious end.

Of course, three hours is not enough time to read all 34 cantos. Fifteen of them were selected and read by folks who seemed to know their Infernos. Most readers were published poets and New Yorkers, with the occasional outsider from Boston or Atlanta cropping up. A variety of professions were represented, including university professor, architect, film agent, musician, local tour guide, and pharmaceutical executive.

Most of the cantos were long enough to require two readers, each taking half. This gave two voices, two expressive interpretations to a single segment. One canto was read entirely in the original Italian. The first half of Canto XXXIV was read in English, the end in Italian. Very powerful. Since there are innumerable English translations of Dante's work, the readers were free to choose their particular version, announcing it before they read ("I'm reading the first half of Canto XXII using the Longfellow - or Palma, or whoever - translation.")

The story stands on its own. The poetry infuses it with meter and images that bring it to life. And, shoot, any time somebody wants to read to me, I am a willing audience. I just wish I'd had my pillow and blankie (those chairs are hard and that cathedral is cold). It's easy to get caught up in the story and language, so it didn't seem like a 3-hour event to me.

After the last canto was read, the Great Organ let loose with an organ meditation that included bits of "O Sacred Head Sore Wounded." It started very quietly, then built to such crescendo that my heart was racing and the stone floors vibrating. When the music stopped I felt as though I'd been given a deep-tissue massage, all my muscles relaxed and stress relieved. Amazing!

Was it a nontraditional way to mark Maundy Thursday? I think not. Though I had participated in a Maundy Thursday Eucharist earlier in the day and had caught the end of the service at the Cathedral, this reading of Dante's Inferno opened me up to new ways of experiencing the back end of Holy Week.

That's what great art, divinely inspired, does.

The Most Dangerous Spot in SoHo

Many people might guess Balthazar's (Second Most Dangerous Spot in SoHo). But for a book-lover? Alarms and sirens should go off in the vicinity of 126 Crosby Street.

How in the world has it taken me so long to discover Housing Works Bookstore Cafe ? I have been in search of a comfortable, welcoming, well-stocked second-hand bookstore since moving to New York three years ago. Bring up "second-hand bookstore" and everyone shouts "Strand!" Well, yuck. I hate Strand. It's crowded, disorganized, and has the surliest employees on the planet. Ah, but Housing Works - yes!

Housing Works is comfortable and well-organized, plus friendly volunteers are there to assist. It reminds me of one of my favorite specialty bookstores, Partners & Crime in Greenwich Village (not a second-hand shop - but, lovely and comfy). Not only does Housing Works have a fabulous range of fiction, non-fiction, art books, music, and movies, 100% - yes, so they say, 100% - of the profits go to Housing Works, Inc. supporting people living with HIV/AIDS and homelessness.

Today I hit the jackpot. All books, music, and movies were 30% off. I needed to stock up for my upcoming R&R in upstate NY the week after Easter, and I'm on a tiny, teeny budget. Please. Like a bandit, I made out. Ten - yes, 10 - great books, $22.00, including two hardbacks (a volume of JM Barrie plays and a really wacky short-story collection) and eight trade paperbacks. All fine stuff. I'm particularly excited that I discovered a Josephine Tey I'd never read. How did that happen? Anyway, the loot is so fabulous that I just don't know where to begin.

I did not sample the "cafe" portion of the bookstore, as I'd grabbed a ginger-citrus hot tea at Balthazar's before storming the doors of Housing Works at noon (opening time on Saturday), but I suspect it's as fine as the book-selling aspect of the establishment. Next time, maybe, though I hate wasting time eating and drinking when there are so many books to explore.

Book-lovers, stay away. You will not be able to resist all those rascally little manuscripts grabbing at your sleeve, crying "Try me! Choose me!" Scary. Treacherous. You have been warned. And if you travel the #6 line, as I do, it's even more dangerous. Exit SW Lafayette at the Bleeker Street station, hang a left just past the BP station onto brick-paved Crosby Street, and there you are. Terrifyingly easy.

Protect yourself. Come armed with a sturdy tote bag. Fair warning.

Eau de Elevator

Love my apartment building. Love my very understanding landlords. But lately, one of the landlords has taken to filling the hallways and elevator with air freshener spray. And I do mean filling, as in causing such a big white cloud of spray that it makes it hard to see through the fog.

I don't recall the building smelling bad before - and I have one sensitive smeller, I tell you - so I don't know what has prompted the daily fog of perfume. Make that two, three times a day. And it's the kind of air spray that triggers other toilet smells as well, if you get my - cough, cough - drift.

It's particularly hard to make it down or up five floors in an elevator saturated with your standard air freshener. One breath and coughing spasms start, eyes water. Same with the outer vestibule where we pick up our mail. Quick! Hold breath, insert mailbox key, fumble with mail, re-lock mailbox, open inside door. Breathe. See? Why, I can feel my lungs contract just thinking about it!

Anyway, I hope with Spring on the way that my landlords will just open the hallway windows and let God take care of airing out the place. I don't know how much more air freshener I can ingest before heading for the ER.

The perfect cup

Fans know that I am a tea-drinker and shun the java stuff, thus saving thousands of dollars that most folks throw at Starbucks. I consume vast quantities of black tea - usually Earl Grey - over the course of a day. A little habit I picked up during my stint in England during the crazy 1970s.

To a tea-drinker, little things matter. The pot. The tea (loose or bag?). The add-ins (sugar? milk?). And, most definitely, the cup. When I'm feeling prissy I have lovely china cups that fit the bill. Usually, however, I need a solid mug that holds a goodly portion of the lovely liquid. But no ordinary clunky mug will do. It needs to have the right balance, the right thickness, the right glaze.

My perfect cup right now is a mug hand-crafted by a dear childhood friend with whom I recently reconnected via Facebook. Susie and I spent nine formative years together at Henry L. Barger Elementary School and Brainerd Jr. High School in Chattanooga, Tennessee, before going to separate high schools. You lose touch. That's to be expected.

But what a joy to find each other again and catch up on our lives! Then all those slumber parties, school projects, and choir concerts flood right back into the brain. Let's just say that I'm sure Susie gets Shorty PJs' references to spoolies and Noxema.

OK. Back to the perfect cup. Susie is a potter and creates her own usable art at Waterwheel Studio on Lookout Mountain, Tennessee. Naturally, when I learned this and saw her lovely work on etsy.com, well, I just had to have me some of that action. Two fabulous mugs (one for work, one for home) and a fabulous casserole dish. Beautiful and useful. And made by my friend Susie. The one who knew me when. What's not to love?

The perfect cup? You bet. And now, for one more cuppa tea. Cheers!

All in the head

The whole Natasha Richardson bang-on-the-head/bang-you're-dead episode has me scratching my own oft banged-up head. I mean, a perfectly healthy young (and yeah, 45's young) woman takes a minor spill on a bunny slope, the kind of thing we've all done in some fashion over the years, and within a couple of days the young woman is dead. How can this be? Was it the way she hit her head? Did she hit at exactly the wrong spot - 1mm one way or the other, and she'd've been fine? What separates what happened to Natasha Richardson from all the times I've conked my head?

And you know. I have a tendency to knock my head around. Remember the episode at Tabla last year, when I fell down those hard wooden stairs, banging my head on every single one of them? Ended up with lumps on the top and the back of my head. Yet, here I am, alive and walking around.

In my 20's I took a terrible fall while ice skating at Colony Square Rink in Atlanta. I am (or was, then) a good ice skater, sure-footed and balanced. But on a turn my blades got tangled up in each other, and BAM! I hit the ice with full force and speed, the back of my head hitting the ice with same force and speed. It was a close call. I was woozy. A huge knot grew on the back of my head, and while I didn't bloody the ice, little spots were just under the surface of my head lump. Did I go to a doctor? Nope? Was I sort of dizzy for a few days? Yep. Still, here I am, alive and walking around.

Those are just two examples of how my poor head has been abused by my innate clumsiness over the last half-century. So how is my head (or my luck or my various landings) different from Natasha Richardson's? Was the Cosmos just ready to fold her back into it and that little fall provided the perfect opportunity? Just wondering.

Of course it's of no use to look backward on my head-conking incidents (and they are legion). But the next time I knock my head into something, will it be one bang too many? Or should I just take comfort in the fact that I'm just too damn hard-headed for that sort of catastrophe to befall me?

Perhaps I should always wear a helmet.

Where everyone is Irish

New York City. It is wild out there today. This is the first time I've gotten to attend the St. Patrick's Day Parade since moving to New York in 2006. It's New Orleans-crazy on the streets - lots of to-go cups, if you get what I mean. Wink. Wink.

No matter your nationality, everybody's wearin' the green, usually in the form of a wacky hat. (Note to self: design outrageous St. Paddy's Day hat and sell on streets of NYC next year.) The pubs - 99.9% Irish, with Irish wait-staff - are in full-out celebratory mode.

Throngs of people - yes, seems more than the usual throng - are whooping it up on every sidewalk up/down/across the city. In short, it's Partytown, USA/Eire today.

Here's my Irish quote o' the day:
"An Irishman is never drunk as long as he can hold onto one blade of grass and not fall off the face of the earth." - Irish proverb

Here's hoping some of the folks walking around Manhattan right now can find a blade of grass to grab on to.

Happy St. Patrick's Day, y'all!

There's always money for books

One of the first lessons I taught my daughter was that whatever the economic situation, you could always scrounge up enough money to buy books. Maybe not a first edition or a new hardback but something to feed soul and mind on the $1 rack – always.

Food and shelter are true necessities and certainly must be dealt with every single day. Fortunately, we always had enough pennies to cover those two basics. But if we hadn’t I could’ve always stood on the street corner holding a “Will work for food” sign. There are, after all, safety nets in the public and private sector that – though not easy or ideal – accommodate the need for food and shelter. I’m not sure holding a sign that reads “Will work for books” would get me any takers.

At the lowest financial ebb, walking into a bookstore or up to a box of books at a yard sale can give you the strength to carry on. The main thing it does, I think, is infuse you with a feeling of impeding possibility where none might have existed before. Somewhere amidst all that written-down stuff is the very thing you need to move on, move up. A story you’ve never heard before. A fantasy character that shows you a way to soar again. A turn of phrase that changes your defeat into the possibility of success. A description of something you want to attain. Such opportunity and hope in a load of books!

Yes, a library can do the same thing, sort of, but sooner or later – if you’re a good library patron – you have to give the book back. There’s something about owning the book that increases the soul-feeding possibilities, I believe. I don’t want to give the book back. Once I read it, it becomes a part of me – of my options, goals, action-plan, and I need to own it.

Yep, there’s always money for books. There has to be.

Re-visiting Snow Jam '82

Far and away my most popular blog-post is the one I did a couple of years ago about Atlanta’s infamous “Snow Jam ’82.” The event looms large in the psyche of any Atlantan who experienced a 6-hour/3-mile drive, bunking in with co-workers, or who really did walk five miles in the snow - not barefoot, maybe, but certainly without the benefit of snow-boots.

In celebration of yesterday’s snowfall across the Southland, I deem it highly appropriate to share several of the Snow Jam ’82 stories added to my original post via comments. Maybe these tall tales will spark a few memories of your own.

From jcb: “This is when I started using the catchphrase "City Paralyzed!" in response to any snow whatsoever. Walked to and from TBS twice during that (just under 2 miles then.) Remember typing winter storm crawls for local (as opposed to satellite) and just kinda arbitrarily putting them on. There is a great edited tape from snowjam that still makes the rounds.”

From Anonymous: “I grew up in Roswell and remember just about everything about Snow Jam. As a background, Atlanta had been peppered with ice storms for several winters in the late 70's and early 80's that had brought down power lines, felled trees, iced roads, etc., so TPTB were very cautious with any winter weather. Plus the ATL at the time was much smaller than it is now so the infrastructure was less developed and the resources of the DOT were not as deep . . .

The forecast the next day was not bad. I think for Tuesday morning was in the 20's. However, there was a real possibility of snow at some point during the day. So guess what ... school systems that had egg on the faces from the previous day made the early call cancel school for Tuesday. The day was cold but not too cold and pretty nice.

After lunch the sky turned grey and then with much disbelief it started snowing - I remember it starting in Roswell about 3-ish. Ironic (?) because we would have been out of school by the time it actually had started snowing. It snowed pretty hard the rest of the day and night.

My Dad worked for an Ad Agency at North Ave & Peachtree and since that was long before the days of the wider and extended 400, he had a long slog home. I think he waited until after 6 to leave but he made the trek up 75 to 285, around the Perimeter and up 400 to Holcomb Bridge before 9 PM. He got a good laugh about traffic and the panic since he learned to drive the in snowy hills of Ohio.

We were out of school the rest of the week. It snowed until about midday on Wednesday and stayed around until the weekend. A quick second follow-up snowstorm came on Friday but it was all gone by Monday. A sequel to Snow Jam came a year later in 1983 but it was not as big or as long. The TV station tried to keep the Snow Jam brand alive for a couple of more years, but we never really had anything like it again.

From Anonymous #2: “I remember Snow Jam very well also. I was in a Decatur classroom taking a test for a job with several others. I noticed that it began to snow, but went on with the exam. As the snow fell heavier & heavier, I asked the person giving the test if we we're going to be allowed to leave. She went & checked with other classes & found that we were the only ones left in the building!

As I was driving down Memorial Dr., up ahead I could see that big hill by Dekalb Co. police station. And while I was watching from the bottom of the hill, I saw cars sliding every which way. I knew I'd never make it, so I pulled into the parking lot of a liquor store (yes, I made a purchase while I was there), & used their phone to call a cab. All lines were busy, so I set out on foot, walking up Memorial Dr. toward the interstate. A guy in a 4x4 gave me a ride to the interstate ramp & I was walking down the entrance ramp when a woman who had just picked up her daughter from daycare stopped to give me a ride. She took me all the way to my house & refused any money I tried to give her. So don't ever let anyone tell you that there aren't any good people here.”

From Anonymous #3: “Thank you, thank you, thank you for remembering this storm! I'll NEVER forget it! There were no real warnings or anything! I was at work in a meeting and saw this icy snow falling and became a little jittery. My boss allowed some staff to leave but wouldn't allow those in my meeting to go home until we completed our business.

Finally, at about 3:30 PM, we were the last to leave. It was unbelievable! I was on Northside Dr. creeping along on my way to my home in East Point & giving young men from the projects a dollar here and there to push my car up the hills. I think the kids made a lot of money that day! The ice was just plain dangerous! Cars were sliding all over the place because it was heavy icy snow! Three men approached my car and asked for a ride & for the first time in my life I said "what the hell," told them I hoped they weren't rapists and let them in. Thank God I did...they were security guards and helped me navigate the ice until I was close to home. It took me 5 hours to get there! My usual drive home took 30 minutes.

I must say though that it was exciting even with abandoned cars, people filling up every motel and hotel in the city and everyone told their stories for weeks on end! "Snow Jam" started 1982 off with a big bang & is an apt description of the worst storm I'd ever driven through in my life and I'm from Cleveland, OH!!!”

Oh, those Snow Jam stories! Since I last posted on the event, a blog devoted solely to Snow Jam has cropped up at http://www.snowjam82.com/ . It lists some other resources that should bring a warm glow. I credit Bybee Web for the photos here. Now, go have a cup of cocoa and remember when.

The Most Dangerous Spot in East Harlem

It looks so innocent from the outside. The clean brown-and-white striped awning (a dash of Henri Bendel?) is inviting, amongst the hodge-podge of shops surrounding it and begs the passerby to push open its door to see what's inside. But don't be fooled, my friends. SpaHa Cafe is East Harlem's most dangerous spot.

SpaHa (SPAnish HArlem, get it?) is not your typical Spanish Harlem establishment. As much as I love my 'hood, do we really need one more junky cheap luggage store or flea-ridden bodega? Thankfully, the cafe's business is booming. And why not? New Year's diets and Lenten disciplines be damned. SpaHa will bring you to your knees. And the staff is friendly and helpful (yeah, they'll help you right into the next bigger size jeans).

SpaHa Cafe is chock full of the most glorious assortment of breads, pastries, and sandwiches you've ever encountered. I can never resist buying a loaf of raisin-walnut bread (with almost as many raisins and walnuts as bread) or picking up a chocolate croissant (flaky, flaky pastry with a generous slab of chocolate smack in the middle - oooh!). Sometimes I just let the great folks behind the counter choose for me: "I'm in the mood for something chocolatey/fruity/nutty - what do you suggest?" And they always give me a lovely treat.

These wonders of delight are delivered fresh to the cafe from well-known and loved establishments like Balthazar and Artopolis, so no need to travel down to SoHo or over to Astoria to sample these fine confections. Nope, just swing by after exiting the #6 at 116th, then trudge on home. Almost a little too convenient, if you get my drift.

Superior food and agreeable folks - unheard of! And dangerous. Stay away! It is impossible to walk out empty-handed or empty-bellied. Resolutions cannot be kept with this menace to society in the neighborhood. Thank goodness!

Hit me one more time - with a loaf of raisin-walnut bread. Bam!

Goodbye, Old Friend

Bailey Brennan

A sweet old girl

November, 1993 - February 19, 2009

Thrilla' on the #6

Girl fight! That's what greeted me as I boarded the subway at 116th this morning. Actually, it took me a few minutes to realize what was going on, as I was busy settling into a seat on the train. The car appeared crowded, and it seemed odd that there were so many vacant seats, but my subway theory is "sit first, figure out what's going on later."

Once the doors closed I noticed the uncommon knot of people a few yards away from me. Then I heard a loud string of profanities and name-calling. Uh-oh. Someone was mighty angry at 7:55 in the morning.

Two ghetto-chicks (and since they were calling themselves that and I'm a proud Spanish Harlem ghetto-chick, I believe I can get away with pinning that moniker on both women) were having it out with each other, but good. One of the other passengers told me that the angry girl in the stocking cap had been lying down, taking up a whole subway seat (very dangerous bid'niz, if you know what I mean), when the girl in the green jacket tried to get her to move over.

It escalated and punches were thrown. No, didn't see it - just heard it, since their mobile wrestling ring was surrounded by interested subway riders. Several large men tried to break it up, but breaking up a cat-fight is a dangerous proposition, whatever your size. When we reached 103rd Street station, the conductor stopped down the train - which angered everyone trying to get to work and school - and stood in the doorway until the police arrived. The women were hauled off the train, still screaming and punching (didn't envy that policeman!), and we were free to go on our merry way.

Such excitement for a Friday morning! I'm always surprised that this kind of thing doesn't happen more often. At any moment the guy or gal next to you on the subway, on the street, in the bank or grocery line could lose it and cause mass chaos. Certainly this can and does happen, no matter the size of the city or town. But it doesn't happen very often. Even in crowded Manhattan. Whatever issues, anger, sadness, or disappointments folks have, they manage to contain them in public.

While New Yorkers are always in a hurry, people here are usually helpful and love to talk. Complete strangers share jokes and laughter. Truly. Even this morning in the midst of our little version of WWE, the rest of us were making wisecracks and calling the punches. We shared a common NYC experience. Because most of us are able to control ourselves for the greater public good (and despite what you see on CSI:NY or Law and Order), we ensure each other's safety.

Here's to the millions of New Yorkers who behaved themselves today on public transport and on the wide avenues and narrow side streets to live their lives and get on with their business. And to our two girl-fight chicks? Well, to quote the woman next to me on the #6 this morning: Grow up, calm down, and show more self-respect. That's how the rest of us do it.

Our Barefoot Boy

While everyone else is celebrating Abraham Lincoln's birthday today, our family remembers our rambunctious brother David, born this day in 1946. He would be 63 years old if he hadn't died of pancreatic cancer in 1990. He was known as our barefoot boy, because Daddy always quoted lines from the John Greenleaf Whittier poem when referring to David.

So today, on his 63rd birthday, we who loved him dearly (the croquet mallet incident notwithstanding) say, Blessings on thee, little man.

The Barefoot Boy

By John Greenleaf Whittier

BLESSINGS on thee, little man,
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!
With thy turned-up pantaloons,
And thy merry whistled tunes;
With thy red lip, redder still
Kissed by strawberries on the hill;
With the sunshine on thy face,
Through thy torn brim’s jaunty grace;
From my heart I give thee joy,—
I was once a barefoot boy!
Prince thou art,—the grown-up man
Only is republican.
Let the million-dollared ride!
Barefoot, trudging at his side,
Thou hast more than he can buy
In the reach of ear and eye,—
Outward sunshine, inward joy:
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!

Oh for boyhood’s painless play,
Sleep that wakes in laughing day,
Health that mocks the doctor’s rules,
Knowledge never learned of schools,
Of the wild bee’s morning chase,
Of the wild flower’s time and place,
Flight of fowl and habitude
Of the tenants of the wood;
How the tortoise bears his shell,
How the woodchuck digs his cell,
And the ground-mole sinks his well;
How the robin feeds her young,
How the oriole’s nest is hung;
Where the whitest lilies blow,
Where the freshest berries grow,
Where the ground-nut trails its vine,
Where the wood-grape’s clusters shine;
Of the black wasp’s cunning way,
Mason of his walls of clay,
And the architectural plans
Of gray hornet artisans!
For, eschewing books and tasks,
Nature answers all he asks;
Hand in hand with her he walks,
Face to face with her he talks,
Part and parcel of her joy,—
Blessings on the barefoot boy!

Oh for boyhood’s time of June,
Crowding years in one brief moon,
When all things I heard or saw,
Me, their master, waited for.
I was rich in flowers and trees,
Humming-birds and honey-bees;
For my sport the squirrel played,
Plied the snouted mole his spade;
For my taste the blackberry cone
Purpled over hedge and stone;
Laughed the brook for my delight
Through the day and through the night,—
Whispering at the garden wall,
Talked with me from fall to fall;
Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond,
Mine the walnut slopes beyond,
Mine, on bending orchard trees,
Apples of Hesperides!
Still as my horizon grew,
Larger grew my riches too;
All the world I saw or knew
Seemed a complex Chinese toy,
Fashioned for a barefoot boy!

Oh for festal dainties spread,
Like my bowl of milk and bread;
Pewter spoon and bowl of wood,
On the door-stone, gray and rude!
O’er me, like a regal tent,
Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent,
Purple-curtained, fringed with gold,
Looped in many a wind-swung fold;
While for music came the play
Of the pied frogs’ orchestra;
And, to light the noisy choir,
Lit the fly his lamp of fire.
I was monarch: pomp and joy
Waited on the barefoot boy!

Cheerily, then, my little man,
Live and laugh, as boyhood can!
Though the flinty slopes be hard,
Stubble-speared the new-mown sward,
Every morn shall lead thee through
Fresh baptisms of the dew;
Every evening from thy feet
Shall the cool wind kiss the heat:
All too soon these feet must hide
In the prison cells of pride,
Lose the freedom of the sod,
Like a colt’s for work be shod,
Made to tread the mills of toil,
Up and down in ceaseless moil:
Happy if their track be found
Never on forbidden ground;
Happy if they sink not in
and treacherous sands of sin.
Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy,
Ere it passes, barefoot boy!

Two sailors get married. And it ain't what you think.

If my parents were still alive, they’d be celebrating their 65th wedding anniversary today. They made it to 55. Daddy died in 1999, Mother in 2004. I’m glad they lived long enough for us to throw them a big, ol' 50th Anniversary party. They deserved it.

They met while serving in the Navy in Jacksonville, Florida. Yup. During the war. (And everyone knows when I say “the war,” I mean WWII. Guess that generational assumption will die off someday.) Daddy managed to escaped the farm in Henrietta, Tennessee, and Mother, an Atlanta native, was talked into joining the WAVES by my Uncle Frank. So I guess we have him to thank for all of this (God rest his soul).

I’m not sure when they met or how long they dated before making the fateful decision to marry. My mother’s mother was still catatonic about one of her girls leaving the bosom of the family for life in the Navy. I understand she took to her bed for several days when she got the news about Mother and Daddy’s wedding. My grandmother liked to control situations, and the marriage was not of her doing.

So. February 10, 1944, Jacksonville, Florida. And here’s the picture (Daddy and Mother on the left). Daddy was 23 and mother 27. Lovin' that hat, Daddy! Their best friends, Tommy and Mary Boyd, acted as witnesses. A few months later, Mother got an Honorable Discharge from the Navy because she was pregnant with my brother Bill. And no, they didn’t have to get married – Bro was born November 21, 1944 (you do the math).

Newly-married daughter Kate commented that she looked to her grandparents as a model for marriage. I wish she’d known them longer, before age took its toll on both, because they became kind of crotchety in their later years. But, boy, they were solid as a rock for each other all the way through. Daddy was low-key and patient, though when he’d reached the end of his rope, he could blow (but nothing dangerous). Mother was the more outgoing type. I suspect Daddy let her have her way, up to a point. It worked for them. At any rate, if they ever reached a danger zone in the marriage, I certainly wasn’t aware of it. They were just meant to be.

Happy Anniversary, you two crazy sailors! I know you’re celebrating in high Heaven. Anchors Aweigh!

The life-long lesson of catching a swing in the teeth

Safety First. I grew up being reminded of the personal responsibility for my own safety ad nauseum – at home, at school, at church, at Brownie meetings. Most of the time those reminders worked just fine. I’ve always been a smart cookie and could recognize danger when it was staring me down on the playground. On occasion, however, I had to learn the hard way. Maybe I was distracted at the time. Or perhaps I wanted to test my own youthful invincibility. Or maybe I was just being a little smart-ass, and it backfired.

At any rate, once the warnings had been given – many, many times – the adults figured we were on our own from there on out. I don’t recall ever being swaddled in foam rubber or put in a protective plastic bubble. My theory is that our authority figures believed we were smart enough to heed all those safety heads-ups. If not, well, a lesson would be learned the old fashioned experiential way. In short, once we’d been warned, it was up to us not to kill ourselves. I know that I understood that at a very early age.

Fast forward to 2009. Been to a playground or park or pool lately? Tempted to ride a bike or skateboard – even around your backyard – without a helmet and enough padding to shut off the air supply to your pores? In case you haven’t experienced any of these things recently, let me paint the picture for you. There is absolutely nothing death-defying (which was the fun part, if you’ll remember) to any slice of childhood today.

All the fun has been sucked out of life’s most thrilling moments – example, settling into a good old-fashioned wooden-seated swing and trying to get as high off the ground as possible. And, of course, at some point being dare-devil enough to jump out. Woo-hoo! And a sliding board? Please. Atlanta’s parks used to have these mile-high slides. Only the brave attempted the steep ladder (don’t look down). Sheer joy! And at the bottom? Dirt and/or rocks. But we’d go back up time and time again for the sheer thrill of it all.

Remember the guts it took to go off the high-dive at a public swimming pool? Yowser! But, oh! What a sense of accomplishment – the true Red Badge of Courage for a youngster.

Before I go on, I want you to know that I do not have mass death wishes for the children of today. Safety First!, remember? I realize the need for helmet laws for bicycles (grudgingly). I understand parents want to keep their little darlings from feeling the world’s physical pain. And I certainly understand that we live in an ultra-litigious society. Personal safety isn’t my responsibility anymore. It’s, um, somebody else’s. Or I’ll sue.

So playgrounds are plastic and soft. Swings are unswingable. Slides are three feet high, tops. And, God forbid, rocks and dirt! No, playground surfaces must be like those packing peanuts, all foam and soft. No more high-dives, either, unless you’re Olympics-bound. No more breeze in your hair, as you race through the neighborhood on your bike, Leave It to Beaver-style.

Funny thing is that I don’t remember huge death tolls from pre-1970’s playgrounds. In fact, we Baby Boomers seemed to thrive jumping out of high-flying swings and tumbling off high diving boards into the water below. I mean most of us are still around, much to the chagrin of younger generations and Social Security.

One of life’s biggest lessons – and I think most of us learned it somewhere along the way – was getting popped in the teeth with a swing. Did it hurt? You bet. But I’ll wager most of us never stood in back of/in front of a moving swing again, eh? And that one lesson, along with many other playground escapades, prepared us for all the other teeth-bashing life-lessons to come.

Will the children of today know when to get out of the way of all the big, bad swings coming right at them?