Beale Street Blues

Just returned from a wonderful weekend wedding in Memphis, Tennessee. I've never been to Memphis, though I seem to remember we drove through there on our way out to California in 1959. So, no real experience with the city renowned for blues and barbecue. And this occasion gave me the opportunity to do it up right.

I got to stay at The Peabody, the city's grand dame of a hotel. The place is massive, the lobby gorgeous, and the rooftop experience (for the wedding reception, dinner, and dancing) unsurpassed. And then there are the famous Peabody Ducks. What started as a prank in the 1930's is now a tradition that brings in hundreds of people from 11am-5pm daily. If you only have one shot at Memphis, do stay at The Peabody.

Didn't have a bad meal the whole time I was there. (Notice how my travels seem to revolve around food? Yeah, well.) Breakfast at Cockadoo's, lunches at Flying Fish and Blues City Cafe, rehearsal dinner at BB King's Itta Bena, and wedding dinner at The Peabody. Fish basket, BBQ ribs, shrimp and grits, and lots of wine and mojitos. Good eatin'. Missed getting to experience BBQ at Rendezvous, but - like Graceland - that will have to wait for another visit.

Beale Street consists of several blocks of blues and rock clubs, BBQ restaurants, and shops filled with all things Elvis and the blues. We witnessed a zombie parade as we were making our way into BB King's on Friday night, and by the time we got out several hours later, all the non-zombies were out in force (though I bet many of them looked like zombies the next day).

And then there's the mighty river. It's awesomeness comes from knowing how long it is, and that Memphis is just one town along 2,500 or so miles.

The only blues I encountered was the musical kind. I highly recommend the food and hospitality of Memphis.

Brainerd Bombers Fall in Line

Well, Reunion #2 with my elementary and junior high school girlfriends  is now just a wonderful memory - three days filled will laughter, tears, and lots and lots of food. Sort of like Reunion #1 (the family reunion at the farm). The only difference was the amount of booze consumed at #2. (Not to worry. We were up on a mountain and contained within a lovely log cabin. No driving or operating heavy machinery were involved.)

Alas, we all promised to abide by the sacred golden road rule ("What goes on the road, stays yadda-yadda"), so I can't pass along some of the best stuff. But, let's see. There must be something I can report. OK, here are a few harmless, yet adorable, highlights:

• So many junior high events that we'd forgotten were remembered, thanks to Debbi's scrapbook - and I do mean "scrap' book. Newspaper clippings (back when every little thing got local news coverage) of awards assemblies, choir concerts, river boat parties, and home ec. fashion shows (love those swingin' 60's styles!) brought back lots of memories.
• A hilarious game of Catch Phrase quickly turned into a game of Please Pass The Eyeglasses So That I Can Read My Clue. (That's not too much information, is it, ladies?)
• We still know all the words to "Hey, Baby" and the Brainerd Junior High fight song, which we spontaneously broke in to during one of our photo sessions. (Why? Who knows?) But do not ask us to remember our children's middle names or our current cell phone numbers.
• Actually, there was one incident involving the operation of`heavy machinery, but I can't tell you about it. However, I don't think it had anything to do with wine consumption.

We had such a good time that we vowed to make it an annual event and gather even more Barger/BJHS girlfriends. The more the merrier, especially since we're at the stage where we need a roomful of us to come up with one lucid fact. Now, one more time!

Oh, when those Brainerd Bombers fall in line,

We're gonna win this game another time.

For when the Brainerd team has got the ball,

We'll be the champions again this fall, this fall.

We're gonna fight, fight, fight for every yard.

We're gonna circle in and hit 'em hard.

We're gonna roll old Northside on the sod, on the sod.

Brainerd Junior High!

Reunionating

It's a season of reunions for me. Normally, I'm not big on reunions - at least, not the infamous high school type. But since neither of my springtime get-togethers involves anyone I sat with in Algebra II or fought with over the cropping wheel on the yearbook staff, I'm happily taking part. Not only taking part. Seems I'm one of the main instigators and planners of two reunions. (What was I thinking?)

Well, for both, I was thinking: Isn't it about time?

One, a family reunion (with my daddy's side) on the family farm near Nashville, Tennessee, was way overdue. It was the first time in almost 50 years that I'd been to the farm. The last proper Frazier/Pardue family reunion was in the late 1980s, but it was held at a park, not the farm. The genesis of the reunion idea was at Aunt Frances' funeral last August. It was obvious to all of us that it was high time to reconnect and celebrate the family and the family place.

So we just did it. Our goal was to make it as no-muss-no-fuss as possible. No years of planning, elaborate invitations, or food responsibilities. We got in touch with as many folks as possible via email, Facebook, and Evite, though I did hand-write two notes. We named the date, said "y'all come! and bring a side dish or dessert," and hoped for the best.

The weather was cold and breezy, but the gathering was warm and full of love. It was so good to see the farm again and walk down roads where I'd stirred up dust as a kid. It was good to spend time with cousins and Uncle Harold; why don't we see each other more often? It was fun meeting and re-connecting with more distant relations. I loved showing daughter Kate and grandson Liam their Tennessee roots, literally and figuratively. Yes, this long-overdue reunion was everything we'd hoped it would be.

And tomorrow I leave for reunion #2. So many girlfriends from elementary school and junior high had found each other via Facebook that we decided to stop posting "We should get together some time!" and actually do it. Like the family reunion, we put the invitations out electronically, and said whoever could show up, should show up. I'm looking forward to seeing friends from a long, long time ago. Like our slumber parties of yore (and I do mean yore), I'm sure we will have a Twistin' good time, unless someone breaks a hip.

Just a bit of advice. If you've wanted to get together with family or friends you haven't seen in decades, do it. It doesn't have to be elaborate. The hardest part is finding a place and date. And no date will work for everyone, but don't let that stop you. Life is too short to miss out on spending time with a scattered, spread out family or those friends who taught you to Twist or suffered through Willie Jones gym class with you. Just re-union.

Guess I'd better go pack. Wonder what I did with those spiffy mod pj's I used to wear to all those slumber parties?

Things I Do When I Can't Sleep

1. Think up brilliant story plots and titles for novels. Which I totally forget about the next day.
2. Eat cereal with bananas. If I have any cereal. And bananas. And milk. But it's really nice when the universe smiles upon me, and I have all three handy.
3. Start creating photo books on Shutterfly or Snapfish. Sometimes I even finish one. 
4. Google random people from my past. But not for nefarious purposes. Just for fun.
5. Read the first couple of chapters of Three Men in a Boat (to Say Nothing of the Dog). Unlike the narrator, I think I must have housemaid's knee.
6. Look through my New York City guidebooks to see what I simply must do that I haven't done so far. Alas, the list is long.
7. Rearrange my teapots. Yes, I have enough teapots to rearrange.
8. Wonder about what became of products advertised when I was little. Hazel Bishop Lipstick. Gleem Toothpaste. Prell Shampoo. Fizzies.
9. Make lists. Grocery. Stuff I need for the apartment. Gifts for various family and friends. Bills to be paid. 
10. Worry about how lousy I'm going to feel when the alarm goes off in the morning.

Office Daffodils

Just because they brighten my day. I have them right in my sight-line to the door so that whoever shows up - whatever the request, comment, or attitude - these little daffy-dills remind me that the world is way, way bigger than my office, my workload, my triumphs, my problems. All that soothing flower-love for a measly $3.

Ahhh, Springtime. Happy April, everyone!

To Serve Man

Last December I was asked to write a reflection for Lent 2012. It was a hard thing to do in the middle of Christmas trees, carols, and Santa, but I persevered. Well, thanks to Rod Serling I managed to come up with something. Since today, March 30, is the day of my Lenten meditation, I thought I'd share it:

One of my favorite Twilight Zone episodes involves a bunch of big-headed aliens who come to earth toting an impressive reference book. At first, everyone is terrified, but after a little diligent Alien-to-English work, one of the scientists declares that the title of the book is “To Serve Man.” The earthlings are thrilled and start crowding onto space ships headed for the alien planet. Alas, after a little more translation work, the scientist tries to stop people from leaving earth with the cry, “Wait! To Serve Man is a cookbook!”

That Twilight Zone episode bears some similarities to the Gospel reading in Mark. Zebedee’s boys, James and John, are trying to fight their way onto Jesus’ heavenly space ship by crawling over the other disciples and asking not only to board, but to be given seats in First Class, with Jesus in the middle seat.

Don’t you just know that Jesus got tired of this kind of silly stuff?  I picture him sighing before he continues. First he tells them that they have no idea what they’re asking. “Are you able to drink the cup that I drink? Be baptized with my baptism?” Like children, or anyone who doesn’t have or understand the whole story, James and John eagerly boast that, yes, of course, whatever. 

By this time the other ten guys are steaming with indignation, thinking James and John have crossed the line with their demands. But Jesus gathers them together, and then switches things around, turning logic and reason upside-down.

“First of all, I’m not the one with authority to give out seats in First Class,” Jesus explains. “And by the way, all the great and rich people who think they can buy their way up front are in for a surprise.” And here’s the twist: Jesus tells them that whoever wants First Class seats will be have to become a servant to everyone else on board. Just like him. Jesus lets them know that he did not come to sit in First Class. He did not come to be served. He truly came to serve man, and not in the Twilight Zone cookbook-sense.

When reflecting on our place in this kingdom and the next, we would be wise to stop clamoring for the First Class seats and consider our true purpose as people who serve Christ in the world.

“For the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life a ransom for many.”  Mark 10:45, NRSV

Dream a Little Dream

So what would you do with $540 million? That's the question everyone's asking right now. Who knows how much the Mega Millions lottery will be worth at tomorrow night's drawing? So far, I've contributed $2 to the cause. And that's my limit.

One dollar was chipped in with my Office of Communications colleagues at the Church Center. Our pledge - and it is in writing, and everyone has agreed - is that if we win, we will contribute a large sum to underwrite our department, since we are facing budget cuts. We have big dreams for what we do for and with the Episcopal Church, and we're willing to pony up a chunk of our winnings. The rest will be divided evenly amongst us. Seems fair. Cost to me? One dollar.

Then I went out and bought one - yes, one - ticket for my own personal self. The way I figure it is that I'm either lucky or not. Buying more tickets won't change that. Anyway, even if I bought 50,000 tickets, that's still just a drop in the bucket of ticket sales. I don't see it increases my odds any more than just buying that one lucky ticket.

Here's the thing. For $2, I get to spend a couple of days dreaming that dream: what if? After taxes are paid and I take the one-time pay-out, what would I do with the money?

It's fun to dream big. It's fun to make a list of loved ones and unknown ones that I could make very happy or help beyond measure. It's fun to think that retirement and old age would be taken care of, come what may. It's fun to list which church, arts, and aids charities I could support in a big, make-a-difference way. It's fun to dream about how the money could be used to seed important projects. And of course, it's really fun to dream of the vacations, the little paid-for house in Atlanta and maybe a pied a terre in NYC, and the just-for-the-hell-of-it stuff.

The odds of winning a half a billion dollars are massively stacked against me (and my colleagues). But dreaming big, taking stock of priorities ("where your treasure is, there will your heart be also"), and letting the imagination run wild is surely worth two lousy bucks. Go ahead. Dream a little dream. Sing it, Ginger!

Kanuga Spring

Anyone who's followed this blog over the years knows about my love for Kanuga, an Episcopal conference center near Asheville, North Carolina. Our parish has had an autumn weekend retreat there for about thirty years. Since moving to NYC, I don't get to join in as much as I used, though I did get to go last October with Daughter, Son-in-Law, and GrandBoy. Daughter was 4 months old at her first Kanuga. In short, we've built many wonderful memories at this lovely spot over years - the dances, the talent shows, the cabin-mates, the walks around the lake, the apple-picking, and a few things that, well, let's just say - what happens at Kanuga stays at Kanuga.

Anyway, I attended a conference (an actual conference, not a weekend retreat) at Kanuga this week and got to see this sacred space filtered through blooming flowers and budding green trees rather than the golds and reds of autumn. It was a wonderful experience, but I missed staying in one of the 1909 green and white-trimmed cabins (we stayed in the inn), partying with dear friends, and watching children running around with abandon. And, as much as I love spring, Kanuga-autumn will always be most dear to me.

I did enjoy sitting on a bench tucked among the pines, watching the sun go down as the geese played on the lake. What a symphony! Frogs and crickets and water fowl and night birds and who knows what all vocalizing to high heaven. Not a dissonant sound in the bunch. I highly recommend it for recharging the soul.

Oh, and I'm still Foursquare Mayor of Cabin 19. Do note even think of ousting me. You're welcome to Cabin 18 or 20, though.

St. Patrick's Day in New York

March 17th dawned bright and beautiful in New York, a perfect day for a massive parade of pipers, drums, flags, and all manner of creatures wearing green. I found a spot on Fifth Avenue at 66th Street and got as close to the parade action as possible. Enjoy!

Cutting the Cord

No more one-ringy-dingy, two-ringy-dingy for me.

I did it. I discontinued my land-line and am completely reliant on the whims of mobile phones and the internet. I realize I'm the last person on the planet to do this, but when I lived without my land-line while my apartment was being painted, it became very clear to me that I didn't need it.

The whole thing is kind of scary, but I just couldn't justify outrageously large monthly bills for something I rarely use. The only folks who'll miss my land-line are Time Warner and wrong numbers, political hacks, and TV evangelists (how they got my number, I'll never know). Oh, and some poor inmate at the local drunk tank, who calls repeatedly for Janice.

The hardest thing about discontinuing the service was giving up my highly-prized Manhattan 212 area code. Sigh. But at least I can say I did, once, have the code. Moving on.

So now I'm waiting for my new cell phone and service. Should be delivered at the office on Monday. In the meantime, I still have my Blackberry for work, which will suffice for any emergencies between now and then.

It's the end of the line. Literally. I do hope poor Ernestine has moved on to AT&T, Verizon, T-Mobile, or Sprint. Hate putting her out of a job.

"We're the phone company. We don't care. We don't have to."

The Well-Ordered Shelf

When my books are in order, my life is in order. Well. OK, that's stretching it a bit, but it certainly feels that way. After nearly a week of apartment-chaos, everything is back in its place. Mostly. But at least the books are sorted. And they are sorted (double-shelved, of course) as follows:

• Southern fiction
• British (mostly English) fiction
• Mysteries and thrillers
• Series (Harry Potter, All Creatures Great and Small, Tales of the City, etc.)
• Classics (mostly fiction, but some non-fiction)
• New York fiction
• Christmas books
• Biographies
• Reference
• World War I non-fiction (yeah, I have enough books on World War I to warrant its own category)
• General non-fiction
• New York guidebooks
• Bibles, hymnals, BCPs
• Humor, satire, and general silly stuff
• Large picture and reference books (coffee-table books)

I did a good job of filling a couple of large bags with books I no longer want, and they'll be donated to Housing Works. I also re-discovered some old friends, which caused major distractions as I got sidetracked thumbing through books I'd forgotten about. Still, I managed to complete the job. Now I'm sitting back, enjoying my nicely organized and line-up shelves.

Yep. This is as well-ordered as my life gets. All's right with the world.

Addendum: 40-Hour Lent

OK. Y'all knew it would take longer than 40 hours to put everything back in order after the landlords painted my apartment, didn't you? So my 40-hour Lent has extended to 120-hour Lent, as I try to organize and rearrange books, cupboards and closets that had been tipped out for the painters.

First let me say that the apartment looks lovely and fresh. The blindingly white paint used originally on the walls has been replaced with a warmer off-white. The floors and cupboard tops have been thoroughly cleaned. And it's forced me into a Spring cleaning mode, which is not a bad thing.

Organizing the cupboards and closets and rehanging pictures on the wall were no-brainers. Everything's neater and in its proper place.

However. The books. I say that every time I move. What is it with all these books? They had been in such disarray to the point of my not being able to find a darn thing. Plus, it was becoming increasingly obvious that I needed a good book clean-out. Here is my landlord-given, God-given opportunity to sort and straighten my 2 tons of fiction, non-fiction, and trans-fiction real-time books.

So while others are giving up chocolate, taking on good works, reading and meditating during this holy time, I'm trying to decide whether The Collected Works of Eudora Welty belongs on my shelf of Southern literature or with the classics. Stay tuned.

The 40-Hour Lent

My wonderful landlords are painting my apartment this week. I've been here over five years, and it was due a re-freshing, certainly. George and Fred recommended it before Thanksgiving, hoping to take advantage of my holiday trips to Atlanta, but I just couldn't pull it together. Nor could I get myself up for it before my recent week with GrandBoy. Finally, though, I had to suck it up and get it done.

See, I couldn't work it out logistically. I live in a tiny one bedroom apartment, and while not crammed from floor to ceiling, the place is generously consumed with furniture, books, pictures on the wall, and closets filled to the gills. Now, the first proposal was to paint both the apartment rooms and the insides of the closets in one go. I finally had to tell George that there was no way I could move everything out of the closets and move all the furniture to the middle of the rooms and leave enough room for the painters to get to the walls.

So we struck a compromise - closets on one day, rest of the walls the next. So, here I am, in the middle of the two painting days. Took me all last evening and part of this morning to clear out three closets. The good news is that the closets are nicely painted (and dry) and the shelving reinforced. Yea! But before I can do anything else, I must put everything back into the closets. And knowing me, I'll get bogged down in reorganizing them. Sigh. Then to face pulling all the books from the shelves, removing the pictures from the walls, getting the ladder and taking down all the stuff on top of the kitchen cabinets. Oh, yeah. And pushing the furniture to the middle of the rooms, as best I can.

Discipline. It takes discipline, especially after a full day's work. All righty, I can do this. But, dear Lord, I figure I'm fulfilling this year's Lenten discipline in one fell swoop - a 40-hour Lent, if you will. No need for this 40 days/40 nights business. I'm in the middle of it right now - hoisting, shifting, shoving, boxing/unboxing, sweeping, finding stuff (oh! so that's where that went!), dragging, rearranging, sorting - requiring every ounce of physical and mental energy I've got.

So while the rest of you are eking out your six weeks of giving up/taking on, I'm halfway through mine. A 40-hour Lent. And once I get through this, I'll have a nice, freshly-painted apartment and all the chocolate I want.

Godspeed, John Glenn

Has it really been 50 years since I was sitting in Mrs. Peters' fifth grade classroom at Henry L. Barger Elementary School, Chattanooga, Tennessee, watching as John Glenn was launched into orbit? Well, in many ways it seems like 100 years when I think of all that has happened to me and to the world since 1962. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. I'm not going to give a history lesson here, so look it up - meaning, Google it.

The Space Race looms large in the lives of early baby boomers - the excitement, the television coverage, the striving for excellence, astronauts, new math, those pesky Russians. And maybe it's only our small slice of the generational pie that even cares about "space" anymore. Every time I watch those early space launches or the moon landings I think, wow!, how on earth did we manage to do that? What amazing resolve, talent, and courage it took to pull that off decades before personal computers, high-tech materials, and the internet.

John Glenn was the first American to orbit the earth in space. He was in a teeny tiny tin can called the Friendship 7. The whole thing still gives me goosebumps. Even after 50 years. Watch for yourself. Godspeed, John Glenn.

A Wonderful Town

I've lived in New York City since April 2006. There's something about the place that pushes me to see, do, learn as much as I can before - at some future date - I pack it in and move back home to Atlanta. But since the first of the year, I've been steeped in all things New York more than usual.

It started when I got hooked on the Ric Burns 8-part documentary New York (thank you, Netflix/Roku) in January. I watched it straight through (well, OK, over a couple of days), picking up a lot of facts and interesting bits I'd never known before. My daily commute and weekend rambles have been greatly enhanced by what I learned. So many layers created, built, nurtured over its history by the native population, the Dutch, the English, Irish, German, Jewish, Italian, Puerto Rican, well, on it goes.

Then I read Washington Irving's A History of New York by Diedrich Knickerbocker, as recommended by the Burns series. Irving's fictional history is a funny, satirical mix-up of fact, gossip, and fable. Diedrich ("died" "rich," get it?) Knickerbocker  - not a real person - has lent his name to old-money New Yorkers, various New York sports teams, clubs, hotels, theatres, and restaurants since 1809. Irving's character is very much alive and well in the 21st century.

And last but not least, I'm coming to the end of Edward Rutherfurd's New York via audiobook. In typical Rutherfurd style (if you're familiar with Sarum, London, or any of his other Michener-type historical epics) you get hooked in by various characters and families threaded throughout New York's history. He adds flesh and blood to events that built the city and our country. A good, if long, listen, especially as I traverse the city day in and day out.

I'll give it a rest when the audiobook runs out. But the NYC documentary/literary obsession of the past two months has added to my New York living experience. New York was the very center of the revolutionary independence movement at the birth of this country. Look it up. From the early Dutch days, it was a place of commerce, money-making, new ideas. There was a work ethic, but not a Puritan work ethic, since the city wasn't founded by strait-laced religious types. (Explains a lot, eh?) Innovations in the arts, architecture, city planning, and business flourished - for good or for ill - but, by gum, anything was/is possible.

This city is much-maligned - especially during a political season - as not the "real" America. Somehow, New Yorkers are discounted as not representing the ideals and morals of the United States. Too rich? Too poor? Too ethnic? Too snobby? Too well-educated? Too capitalistic? Too socialistic? Well, I'm here to tell you, you can't get anymore American than New York City. It built and fought for the ideals of this country and nurtures them to this day. If you're interested in how I can make such an audacious statement, then I recommend watching Burns' documentary, getting to know Mr. Knickerbocker, or tracing the city's history through Rutherfurd's novel.

It is a wonderful town. And not just because the Bronx is up and the Battery's down.

Mysteries of the Anything Drawer

Everybody has one. An anything-drawer that serves as a repository for all sorts of odds and ends. Rubber bands, restaurant delivery menus, old pill bottles, drinking straws, thumbtacks - well, you know what I'm talking about, because you have one (or two), too.

The anything-drawer is almost always located in the kitchen. I know this because not only has it always been in every house and apartment kitchen I've habitated, but I've noticed that's where other folks have theirs, too. (I find this out while snooping through their homes - nah, just kidding. Or am I??) Wonder why that is? Oh, sure, the drawer may hold aluminum foil, sandwich bags, and those little twist-ties. But not everything in the drawer is kitchen-related. In fact, most of what's in there is a mix-up of school supplies, a medicine cabinet, old sock drawer, tool chest, and photo album.

The whole anything-vortex is a mystery. I mean, all of these drawers start out perfectly empty and bare. Yet, they don't become storage for silverware, cloth napkins, or stationery. No. Stuff just grows in there. Odd. How many little packets of soy sauce and Chinese mustard must I hoard? Why can't I throw away invitations and thank-you notes - or whatever I temporarily magnetize to my fridge - instead of sticking them in the anything-drawer? What's a normal number of restaurant take out/delivery menus? 8? 14? 274?

Oh, don't look so smug. You know you have an anything-drawer, too. Just curious, though. How many little packets of soy sauce do you have in yours?

Where Your Heart Leads

Ah, St. Valentine's Day. Love , it or loathe it, the fact remains that it is upon us once again. On the upside, there's lots of chocolate, little candy hearts with snappy phrases like "Be Mine," and Toy Story valentines. On the downside, well, see above.

So, how do you feel about this annual orgy of red and pink? Let your heart be your guide as you consider:

• Is it better to give more cards or receive more cards? (Be honest. Nobody's pay any attention.) 

• Struck with Cupid's arrow or bitten by the Love Bug?
• Flowers or candy?
• Snail mail, email, or a decorated shoe box?
• St. Valentine's Day or St. Valentine's Day Massacre?

Well, wherever your heart leads, this Valentine's Day thing will be over soon. After all, we have Lent to look forward to.

Happy St. Valentine's Day, darlings.

The Wonder Years

Thanks to Netflix streaming video, Roku, and a snowy weekend, I been lost in The Wonder Years over the past two days. I thought I'd just watch one or two then move on, but I got caught up in the wonder-fulness of it all. The writing and Daniel Stern's narration, a la A Christmas Story, perfectly captures life on Planet Middle School - at least the Planet Middle School of the 1960s/70s.

Everykid Kevin, played to perfection by cutie-pie Fred Savage, drags all of us back through the horrors and joys and back through the horrors of being 12, 13. 14. Emotional wounds - long since healed (or so we thought) - have those scabs ruthlessly ripped off during each episode. Lockers, junior high dances, bullies, Phys Ed disasters, parent-child battles, crushes, break-ups, misunderstandings, first phone calls, fashion, peer pressure, looking cool - is it all coming back to you now? Eeek.

Terminally-allergic Paul and the object of everyone's affection Winnie round out the trio of friends. Each brings a different facet of adolescent experience to the party. The Arnold Family is fairly normal as television families go. The parents aren't idiots, though Dad is kind of tough and grumbly. Brother Wayne is a real jerk and sister Karen tends toward hippie-militant, but the family sticks together, just like most of our families did. And the other characters that tromp through are recognizable.

I wonder if the cringe-worthy moments that take us back to our own junior high experiences resonate at all with 21st century kids. Certainly, the phone call terrors have disappeared, since a lot of ice is broken via email and Facebook now, I suppose. Have Phys Ed teachers changed? Do kids agonize over what to wear to school? Do they pass notes or slip them into lockers? Do they even have lockers?

No matter. Well done, The Wonder Years cast and crew. Your show withstands the test of time, at least for those of us who endured growing up in the pre-internet age.

Hey, we all got by with a little help from our friends.

I spent the afternoon at the 9/11 Memorial site in Lower Manhattan, walking around the two huge building-footprint fountains, reading the names, and trying to imagine what it must have been like for them on that day a little over ten years ago. 

Today was bright and blue and bitter cold. With pass in hand, I worked my way through the security checkpoints (the pass is checked four or five times during the entry process) and made my way to the fountains. The names are arranged by special groupings - First Responders, World Trade Center South or North, etc., which is a nice touch, more personal, than if they were listed alphabetically. The names include not only those who died in the towers on 9/11, but those who died at the Pentagon, on Flights 175, 77, 11, and 93, and at the World Trade Center in 1993.

While I didn't read every single name, I did walk along all four sides of both fountains touching and reading names along the way. It hit me harder than I thought it would. Each one of those people had families, friends, and co-workers who are left with memories, whys, and what-ifs. I was surprised by the number of women's names that included "and her unborn child" etched along the walls. Sad, sad, sad.

The museum is not yet open (I recommend visiting St. Paul's Chapel for a good collection of 9/11 memorabilia), so I'll have to go back when it's complete. But on this freezing cold January day, it was enough to take time to walk around touching the names of the people who lost their lives in this one particular slice of Hell on September 11, 2001.

Bucheron & Skordalia, Patti & Mandy

One of the truly fabulous things about living in New York City is that no matter the day or season, there is an infinite variety of  top-notch restaurants and first-rate theatre experiences that you can combine to create an unforgettable experience. And so it was Monday night.

After a long day's work, I made my way from 2nd Avenue & 43rd to 9th Avenue & 56th to Kashkaval Cheese Market to meet good friend Susie - in from Omaha and wrapping up a week of intense theatre-going - and new friends Thom and Adam. We had tickets for An Evening with Patti LuPone & Mandy Patinkin and wanted to chow down before the show. Well, the food and the company was truly top-notch. Plates of interesting cheese and meats, tapas spreads, homemade baguettes and pita bread, soup, sandwiches - well, check out the menu and give it a try sometime.

I was in the midst of theatre-folk - Susie, Associate Director of Omaha Community Playhouse, and Thom and Adam run the New York theatre scene (right, Thom? Adam?) - so I just sat back and listened to all the foot light wise-ness and chatter. The food was a lovely complement to the conversation.

Then, we were off to the show. Susie and I had great seats, Row H on the aisle. I was as up-close as I wanted to be, so we just sat back and let the music and entertainment wash over us. All the artists were on-stage, Patti, Mandy, musical director/pianist Paul Ford (from Atlanta, back in the Manhattan Yellow Pages cabaret era), and John Beal on bass. Anyone else in the mix would've been too much.

Musical numbers included the expected - lots of Sondheim - and the unexpected - lots of Rodgers and Hammerstein. We got to witness Mandy's "Oh What a Circus" and Patti's "Don't Cry for Me Argentina" (they were Broadway's Che and Evita). Teared up during "If I Loved You" and "You'll Never Walk Alone" (I know, so trite).

After the show we waited outside to greet Paul Ford (yeah, everyone else was waiting for Patti and Mandy). He and Susie talked old Atlanta cabaret times for a bit, and then we called it a night.

Full of fine cheese, bread, Richard, Oscar, Stephen, et. al., I slid away uptown to my little Spanish Harlem turret. Just another night in New York City.