I hear tales of energetic young men, nearly obsessed with cars, certainly tantalized by girls, pushing their personal prowess and occasionally straddling the line of what was right and what felt right. There are nights where cranky vehicles tested their ingenuity, created encounters with local law enforcement and mostly provided a type of freedom that every teen-ager craves and probably deserves.
I learn about a snowy New Year's Eve when celebratory imbibing rendered a young man immobile and his two friends dragged him home to the safety of his bed. The next morning, the mom of the inebriated teen discovers snow in her house. Somehow, in their haste, the teen samaritans left the front door open and drifts accumulated in the living room. A craftily created explanation of 'flu' settled the matter. I suspect the mom knew the truth and was just grateful the only damage that night came from melting snow.
Mt. View Road is almost our second address. It's where Carol, Steve and Di reside. We know these spaces and relish every hour spent with the family. This year it's nearly as hot as home and the humidity creates more discomfort. We move slowly, catching small breezes, welcoming strategically placed fans. There's much to admire in the completely renovated kitchen with perfect granite, beautiful cabinets and pulls, banquette seating, shelves tucked along one wall, stainless appliances and a sink to envy. The under cabinet lighting is investigated and may be replicated in California. A plethora of design decisions, months of contractors invading the family's life, yielded the final satisfaction of a beautiful and functional finished space.
Di's graphic arts expertise can now be seen in stores across the country. We're especially fond of a set of nesting boxes in shades of blue with chocolate ribbon trim. The list of people for whom I want to purchase various sized boxes is rather long. I'll be haunting retail outlets in the fall looking for our niece's creative expressions and beaming with pride.
On a cloudy and almost too hot day, we once again obey the GPS and drive deep into the countryside south of Albany in search of Henry's classmate Greg's home. Down an unpaved road with gentle hills at our sides, we find the right mailbox and turn onto a long driveway. With seventeen acres surrounding the one and a half story Cape Cod style cottage, Greg and his lady, Barbara, are completely comfortable in their bucolic setting. We, too, are impressed by the mostly untamed pasture and especially the house replete with white and blue flourishes. Oak floors seem just right, as do the abundant windows with peerless views. A bluestone patio sits flush with the rear of the house and a pergola shades an ample table and six chairs. Flowers and plants enhance the scene with lavender predominating the color scheme.
I settle back to be transformed to the mid '60's and small town Westchester County where the boys frolicked, learned many life lessons, sold/bought a car for a glass of beer (under-aged though both of them were at the time)and tested their independence with abandon. Greg is a gentle soul and it is difficult to imagine him ever misbehaving. Then again, thinking of Henry in that way is also very challenging. Both men are exemplary individuals whose lives have been filled with accomplishments, devotion, courage, and consistent use of their awesome intelligence. Barbara is an accomplished horsewoman who has won many awards and ribbons. She's also survived two extremely difficult health challenges. Her demeanor is totally positive and it is clear that her devotion to Greg is paramount. Together they take long bike rides in exotic locales and cherish their week-ends together when Greg arrives from his workweek in Manhattan. Conversation continues as we feast on grilled burgers, a most delicious tomato mozzarella salad, and corn-on-the-cob.
Laura Jean is late. She leaves two cell messages as we wait at Grand Central Station's clock-topped information booth. No problem. There's plenty of people-watching to keep us occupied. On the mezzanine across the way, we notice huge lights like you see for movies or photo shoots. Hmmmm. What is happening? To our left, a people pathway is cleared. A tuxedoed man emerges with his arm crooked. To his side, a beautiful bride, clad in a floor-length wedding gown of pale grey hues. A ceremony is about to commence.
The twosome sweeps the floor as if they are inside a cathedral (which I suppose it is in a way, a train sanctuary)and seem completely impervious to the moving crowd that surrounds them. A graceful turn to my left and they cross the expanse and begin to ascend the historic marble staircase. The groom and officiant, as well as invited guests, watch the spectacle and await the bride's arrival. When the ceremony is concluded, the newly marrieds turn to face those rushing about on the floor beneath. A royal wave is greeted with loud clapping and a few happy hoots.
LJ arrives, her exuberant self smiling broadly, and we descend to the dining concourse. The ladies choose smoothies from Dishes and Henry consumes his traditional turkey sandwich. The last time we saw Laura Jean, all of us were at Caitlin and Bobby's wedding. Since then, she's completed a MFA at Columbia, finished her first novel and is busy with the editing process preparatory (fingers crossed) to publishing. Taking temporary jobs in the interim, she's accumulating enough stories to fill the next novel.
There's also a new gentleman in her life whom she met at a Planned Parenthood event. In the evening, she's joining him at a Living Wage Rally. What's not to love about Manhattan when a person really wants to make a difference and opportunities abound? We talk about books, the city, her friend/our daughter. Laura Jean is mastering life. She's upbeat, flexible, still Southern in so many ways.
With Laura Jean in tow, we take the subway to the Upper West Side. Our destination is the My Most Favorite Food restaurant. Its owner, Doris Schecter, is a close friend of a PS acquaintance and we've promised to meet her. Doris's early life was fraught with extreme difficulty as her family struggled to survive in Rome during World War II after fleeing Vienna. It is almost surely a miracle that she was not among the millions of Jews annihilated during that tragic period.
In 1944, at the age of six, Doris traveled with her family from Italy to the United States on a refugee boat approved by FDR. Only 984 Jews made that perilous journey. On the wall of the restaurant there is a copy of a newspaper story which shows a beautiful little blonde curly haired girl (Doris, then known as 'Dorit') eating her first hot dog.
About twenty years ago, Doris began a dessert business on Long Island. With stunning success, her product line expanded, and a restaurant followed. Now she's ensconced in one of the trendiest sections of Manhattan, open for breakfast, lunch and dinner with a full menu. She's written two cookbooks, produced a movie, been on Martha Stewart, and is a culinary legend.
The three of us are fascinated by Doris's story and listen attentively. We order dessert. Blackout Cake (me,) Lemon Meringue Tart (LJ,) and Apple Crumb Cake (Henry.) The restaurant has rabbinical certification and is vegetarian Kosher. It is busy in mid-afternoon but Doris sits at our table for an hour. She is elegant, assured, thriving.
Cousin Liza suggests we meet at a neighborhood restaurant. Henry recently found her the new-fashioned way--via technology. Through family trees posted on Ancestry.com, he concluded that she might be related to a grandfather of mine. E-mails flow and we verify that Liza is, indeed, kin.
Almost instantly we are talking easily, sharing experiences, learning about our respective families. Liza is a librarian, another unifying factor. We walk to the temple for a tour of the elaborate edifice and the library's comfortable workspace. Introduced to one of Liza's colleagues, we are soon exploring the possibility that he may be a cousin of Henry's!!! This man's surname is the same as Henry's mother's maiden name. Additionally, he bears a strong resemblance to a maternal uncle. The coincidences are uncanny.
Next to Zaro's Bakery in Penn Station, we wait anxiously for our New Jersey daughter, Weatherly. She arrives and is enfolded immediately. There's never enough time with this extraordinarily special young woman. She's unquestionably family, brought to us eight years ago when she and Caitlin were roommates at NYU for the summer. Today we will be celebrating her recent selection as a member of New York Public Library's archival staff. With her dual masters's degrees in Creative Writing and Library Science, incalculable enthusiasm, undisputed intelligence, and charming personality, we're confident that the venerable library will be forever transformed by Weatherly's presence.
We're off to Rockefeller Center to chat and share lunch. There's an update on the house renovations. We see a phone photo of Brandon, deep into floor refurbishing. There's some discussion of Weatherly's dear friend, our daughter, and her upcoming adventures. With the requisite memory photos taken, a subway ride transports us to Crate and Barrel, seeking liners for compost cans. Hooray, they're in stock. With a wire basket begging to be filled, I toss in a few random items. For the ever-evolving New Jersey household, there's a new salt cellar. It may just evoke a lovely Manhattan interlude. Henry and I remain wrapped in that winsome Weatherly smile. We know she's won our hearts.
All the people in these paragraphs are enormously pleasing to encounter. Each person brings singular stories and cherished moments that enrich our lives as we intersect during our east coast sojourn.
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