A Gray Rainy Day In BigTown

Alas, I've been working many hours a week which affects my writing output. Save for the posts I write on FaceBook or the photos I take for Instagram my stories and my will to write them fade after a twelve hour work day.

Mind you, I am not complaining in the least. I committed to a sweet family to whom I would be Miss Karen to their little girls for at least a year. I had to get hired to pay the bills and stay in New York, my new hometown. I have reached six months in my agreement on a very blustery, cold rainy day on the Upper West Side. 

Sakes alives, it is tiring. Come evening, it's dinner for me and Em, some boob tube and I'm out. 

In the morning as I bundle up and head to the subway my brain is alive with ideas. I'll see something interesting and say to myself that I will write that down as soon as I have a minute. Well, that moment slides by and I cannot remember later what anything was. 

Ah, there goes the way of the great American Novel.  And that is the reason for my sporadic, but hopefully fascinating, posts on social media.

Another reason for my avoidance of Blonde in BigTown is that, well, I'm no longer Blonde. I've gone natural which due to the passing years and because of many years of salon treatments I see that natural is gray! No! It can't be true! I struggle each time I look in the mirror. My ego vs my age. My Looks vs My budget. Well, for now, I am gray. 

So truth in advertising the Blog's title is no  longer appropriate. 

What to do? What shall it be called? Blog in BigTown? No, sounds like a stomach condition? 

3rd Street Kitchen is my title for soundcloud pieces that I play on the piano which is in my kitchen on 3rd Street. But that sounds like a cooking channel. 

I could color my hair but for the sake of a blog title? And what color? Black in BigTown wouldn't work at all and Red in BigTown would bring all sorts of crazies raining down on me. I'm certainly not Blue. I love it here. 

I'm really done with the Blonde so a new title is needed. If you've read this far and are familiar at all with my writing or music or story feel free to suggest something. The creative wheels need some grease and a friendly collaboration might be just the thing I'm looking for!

Til Then, Ciao!

1986 - Chicago The Joyful Vietnam Veteran Welcome Home Parade

1986 found me in Chicago. I attended the Vietnam Veterans Welcome Home Parade my last day in town.  I wasn't going to go at first then the morning news reported that the momentum of the parade was building and so I stowed my stuff and hoofed it downtown to the parade route. It was a cool June day, absolutely glorious under a clear blue sky. 

I stood with the cheering crowds and had my Polaroid camera with me. The only photo I had taken so far was that of a pretty little Asian girl dressed in a little pink top, her shiny black hair pulled back.  She was waving a little American Flag as the veterans marched on. A mustached Vietnam Veteran was just beyond her in the photo wearing his Army jacket and standing at attention saluting the troops. 

I wanted to take more photos but found it hard to capture the event. But I had the camera and the emotion of the parade was so incredible I wanted to grab it somehow. 

As another group marched past the joy on their faces was as bright as the day itself. I stepped toward them and snapped a photo of some marchers. It spit out of the Polaroid undeveloped as they do. In a microsecond I wondered what drawer this would find itself in at home among the countless photos already there. 

Without thought I grabbed it out of the camera and handed it to the soldier whose photo I had just taken. His face lit up in incredulity. He was thrilled! So was I! What an amazing feeling to see such unbridled grateful happiness!

I took another and gave it away. And another and another. Each time 

I got the same surprised reaction.  As the groups passed I'd stand in the street, focus on someone they'd smile for the camera and then I'd give them the photo! Then they'd laugh, or shout, or squeals, hug  or grab my hand, smile more, thank me and off they'd go! Into the breach of love and welcome and honor. 

I went through the 4 packs of film I had with me, asked the crowd for directions to a camera store and ran the two blocks to buy more film, then back to the same place on the sidewalk. 

More soldiers, mostly men, but a lot of women, paraded past. One group of Army Nurses in fatigues waved and cheered from the tailgate of a transport vehicle. I got behind them and pointing up got their smiling faces in the viewfinder. The truck sped up so I had to run to give them the photo. Their faces and cheers are my clearest memory. Then turn and take a Photo. Smile! Photo! Laughter! Photo! Joy! On and on and on. 

Each $10 pack of instafilm contains 10 slides. I'd already gone through eight or nine boxes. I turned toward my comrades on the street and told them I was tapped out but would go buy more if anybody wanted to ante up and help me out. 

Money was thrown to me from all sides, they were having as much fun as I was and wanted to be a part of it! I ran back to the store and returned with all the film they had. In all I took 170 photos and gave 169 of them away. I never saw a single one. 

The soldier in my first photo slipped into the stream of Veterans when his unit marched by. 

I don't know where that photo is now. In a drawer somewhere, but I can see it plain as day. 

I believe that many of those Veterans who marched that day have passed on. It's been nearly 30 years and a lot of them were suffering then from war related conditions. 

To those who have given their all for our Freedom I give you my Thanks and I Honor you everyday and this Memorial Day 2014. 

Songs from West Side Astoria

Listen to the Album Here!!

Teymur Phell on Bass   and  Nat Janoff on Guitar

Recorded at Mantra Studios in Astoria, Queens

5000 Page Views!

 

What better way to celebrate than with the Allman Brothers at The Beacon Theater.   Here's a quick video of Junior Mack going Southbound.  The video is short because I wanted to watch the show! It is a bummer that Gregg Allman is feeling so bad but I hope he recovers quickly and gets strong soon so he and the Band can continue the great music!

Let Me Explain

Several years ago I was working with a pianist during a song gathering expedition.  I reached into my years' long collection and pulled out "Don't Explain" written and sung by Billie Holiday.  Don't Explain is a tortured tale of all consuming, all forgiving, unquestioning love.  My pianist refused to learn it.  "This is an awful song," he said, "I don't believe it."

I believe it. 

Don't Explain is a look inside the darkest longing.  That wake up in the middle of the night, cannot be alone, self-worthless part of our psyche.  Anything is better than that emptiness, including giving over to a completely worthless idea, no matter how painful. For some it is drugs or alcohol, for others it is human.

Yes, it is dark.  But hopefully light comes with the dawn rescuing us from that other place and we stand up again filled with life. Light has always rescued me from my own frailties and doubts.

My presentation of this song is different from Billie's, for I am different from her.  I know this darkness, she succumbed to it whereas I look for the light.  Poor, poor Billie.

Teymur Phell, who I am so proud to work with, heard a tango in the rhythm of this piece.  The tango, a controlled dance of passion, temper, and desire, suits me.    

Oh So Blue is My Favorite Color

 

 

Last summer I was fortunate to wander into a very cool little club, 55 Bar, over on Christopher Street. Three or four steps down from the street behind a mullioned door there is a low slung room strewn with café tables and with walls  covered in photos, album covers and posters of the greats, Robert Johnson, Miles, Anita O'day, Nina Simone, you name 'em.  My favorite is  Art Kanes's photo,  

A Great Day In Harlem, which brings the Jazz Pantheon together

for a one of a kind photo op. 

It was only 5 o'clock or so and Kirby, the bartender, was alone in the place setting up for the night.  Kirby was very welcoming and told me all about the 55 Bar's history and the great musicians who've played there over the years. While he was talking, in walks Nat Janoff, who was scheduled to play with his trio at seven.  They were both so friendly that I knew instantly what club was going to be my home spot for music.

I've been back many times, to hear Mike Stern , Leni Stern, Sweet Georgia Brown, Felix Pastorious, and like the casts of SNL the players of 55 Bar seem to form a troupe amongst themselves.  Nat has played with Felix, Mike Stern's bassist is Teymur Phell, who often plays with Nat, and who I have come to know as a incredible player.  It was only a month ago that I revealed to them I sing and we three, Teymor, Nat and I, are now meeting regularly to form a trio so we can add a new sound to the rich offerings of New York City. 

 

The video is only a peek into a rehearsal session. 

 Oh So Blue can also be found on my album with the late, very great Geoff Weeks on the piano,  but this is a totally different take on it. 

 Enjoy! 

Living in the Center of the Universe - Part Six

Sold the Pan Built a Fire 

When Em was a little girl I was able to give her a real violin.  It came by us in a wonderful way.  She had been wanting one when a musically artistic, intellectually gifted, and southern gentleman friend of mine happened to offer me a violin that had belonged to his son and which had been stored away in an attic, in of all places, Oxford, Mississippi.  With such a storied provenance the violin must be magical.  Em played that violin until her hands grew too big and she outgrew the idea of playing.  We then stored the pretty instrument in my closet.   

The violin was not for sale. 

Who then to pass the instrument to but young Master Sage, a beautiful boy who immediately drew the bow across the strings in a pleasing tone.  His home is filled

with music and musicians and love and I know that the violin will have a new and full life before it moves to the next.

*****

“How much for this piano?” “$2500 and not a penny less,” I told the old man as I sat down to play.  Okay, I’ll give you $5 for this blanket, No that’s $10, I don’t need to sell it and you’re the first customer of the day, I don’t want to give it away. Okay what about this little pile of things and the blanket for $10? So, you want to pay $10 for the blanket and all the other stuff for free?  Haha! Yes!  That’s why you call it a garage sale, to bargain!  Hand out, $10 in. Next! 

Unless family would come by and I would give them those things that could not be sold; Uncle Dan’s paintings, a wooden carving of Don Quixote that came from a trip to Madrid with my mother, some things Dad brought home from his travels, things that meant something to me but would not fit in the van. 

The mahogany table that my dad built for me I gave to my musical friends who I know will have their friends over, it will hold their wine and crayons and they will love it as a place of commune, conversation and family.     

The paper things I collected over the years filled several boxes and represented times of my life from birth until yesterday. My mother passed away in June of last year and the home that needed to be emptied out then was the same home I grew up in so there were additional files that Mom had kept for me.  My sister had put them and some special pieces aside for me when she and a few brothers cleaned out the family home in August.  I have not yet looked at the box but sight unseen they are unquestionably belongings to keep.  

But what will I do with those old tests?  Birthday cards piled up? Programs of shows I no longer remember? I could not imagine throwing these things into a garbage can to be toted to the landfill and stirred in with who know what forms of garbage.  I thought I could burn them in a bonfire.  File after file into the fire in a ritualistic letting go.  Could I do it? And where was I going to find a bonfire on short notice? 

The fabric of the Universe felt the ripple of need and the fire presented itself.  I was able to crash a party of cousins in Grandmom and Granddad’s backyard.  They gathered with beer, music and s’mores and I showed up with my box of stuff.  Bit by bit we laughed over pictures, the kids insisted on some things  I was to keep, I threw other stuff in without thought and with glee and my pile was whittled down to a slice of what it had been.  Into the pit my physical memories became ash but the memory itself is embedded in my mind.  Old drawings of Emily's, homework files, report cards, essays, poems, heartbreaks and hopes. 

The only photographable moment was when a torn Warhol poster of Marilyn burned alongside 50 year old newspapers of JFK’s assassination.  A visual I can still see but failed to capture.  I look now at what we brought to New York and realize much of it is the paper things of Emily’s.  They are her childhood memories and also then, mine. 

Isn’t that the thing about memories?  Do we need to remember everything?  Do we need to have reminders of the things in order to remember them?  Is it the things that we remember or is it the experience that we associate with them? 

I had thought of taking a photo of each object as it was sold but I was so crazy busy that that not only was that idea impossible but forgotten.  While writing this post I came across a photo of Emily holding an American Doll that Santa had dropped off in 2002.  My heart nearly cracked thinking that the doll was now in the home of a stranger. 
Those days are really over.   
We’ve really moved on.

Living in the Center of the Universe - Part Five

Going...

For Florida it was a very clear and cold morning with temperatures in the thirties.  It felt glorious.  After waking early and running around to finish up what I could  for the sale it felt like Springtime in New York.  Luckily for me the cold delayed the usual throng of garage sale enthusiasts.  I unlocked the door to find only two women standing in my driveway.  One of them handed me a dime she had found lying there.  A mother and her grown daughter, nice ladies.  Opening my home to them they  went to work in hopes of finding the bargains they needed.  They needed shelves and immediately bought all of mine.   

What do you do when the first sale of the day takes all of the places  on which all of your things are sitting?  I suppose I could’ve said wait until Saturday to get them but more people were coming in and it was a sale and I had cash in hand and they were nice about it and helped put the stuff on the shelves on the floor and on the counters and on the table and look at the dust behind the place where the shelves used to be, I need a broom quick  and more people were coming in and they were strangers in my home asking what this box from Spain cost and what about that platter that I bought at Crate and Barrel and that platter that I served Em’s first birthday cake on and a box of children’s books for $30 that cost hundreds over the course of a little girl learning how to read and love books and were in wonderful condition because isn’t that how you’re supposed to treat your books and more people were coming saying Hello We’ve missed you and I could give them no time because more people were coming and the bed was sold and dismantled and don’t worry we’ll figure out where we’ll sleep tonight, and buckets of clothes for a dollar each but wait that table cloth wasn’t supposed to be in there, but you said everything in that closet was a dollar and my son in Montana who lives on an elk ranch would love the embroidered elks. He Would? Okay take it, what about this stack of books for ten dollars?  Ten? Books?  They were great books but usually those are left for last and weigh a lot and okay go ahead Hey Em are you selling these art books? What? No!  But we already bought them! You did? Yes that’s why I’m guarding them, wait a minute those Narnia books are $10 by themselves, they are worthless open, I’m not going to fight you over my stuff, no, okay how about $20 but you said you bought them already...what? More people are pouring in the door. Take them and go. 

All day long for two days, what happened to that Blue bowl, did you sell it? No I didn’t . It’s gone. The big beautiful clay bowl my friend Mike crafted and I filled each year for family Easter dinner with rice, asparagus and mint salad? It’s gone.  Em your violin! Put it under the sheet You should put this somewhere safe it looks like personal letters from a family member What are you doing that was put away behind the barrier get out of there the things were topsy turvy Em’s coming home from the hospital dress, my grandad’s love letters, my Mother’s skirt from Panama how dare you open that, I could see it though you should put it somewhere safe like under this sheet where it was? I want to see this rug I’ll give you $20 for since it will only be outside at my house it’s a good rug roll it out on the driveway no I can’t do less than $60 it is wool no too much okay fine Just keep going decide sell sell price it Stack ‘em High Sell 'em Cheap here’s my card if it doesn’t all sell I’ll buy it and cart it off for you No time to feel keep going decide price sell decide sell decide keep sell.  

 I silently thanked that customer who unrolled the carpet on the driveway when the day was over and four of us gathered under a high Florida sky to eat lunch at dinnertime and hold on to the earth for a few moments.  Drifting away in listless cirrus rainbows amid the rustling of the palms a momentary reverie was broken by the arrival a friend I had missed dearly.  Even at this moment I ache knowing that I was not able to give her my Selfless attention since the spell was broken and I went back into work mode. 

 

Living in the Center of the Universe - Part Four

The Stuff of Life 

 

I knew I had a lot of stuff, but I did not realize just how Much Stuff.  Luckily the house had a large garage with double wide door.  The perimeter was lined with shelves filled with containers of stuff that would not fit inside the house.  For three days Em and I cleaned, purged, set aside and got ready for the sale. 

 

The ad had been placed on Craigslist:

 

 “Moving Sale. Must Liquidate (Doris Dr. New Smyrna Beach)

Leaving Florida for good and moving to 300sq ft apartment in New York City. If it doesn't fit we can't take it!  Nice furniture, antique Deco armoire, clean area carpets, Christmas collection, mirrors, knick knacks, great books, books shelves, beanie babies, American Girl dolls and clothing, estate sale finds, women's clothing, vintage and thrift clothing, size 9 women's shoes. Jamis 3-speed Bike, Vintage lamps. Ping pong table. Art. Entire series Patrick O'Brian Aubrey/Maturin. A lot of good things we’re letting go.

Friday 1/17 Saturday 1/18 8am-3pm
If it doesn't fit in the minivan we have to get rid of it.”

 

I read that ad now and still quiver.  I don’t know how we did it.  Em doesn’t know how we did it.  At one point she was almost in tears trying to deal with the momentous task before us, wondering if we could get it done while her heart was breaking saying goodbye to her precious things. But we kept moving. Moving. Cleaning. Tossing.  Wiping. Sweeping. Tossing.  Deciding. 

 

The ad was a mere image of what I was getting rid of.  Uncountable presents, travel souvenirs, memories, promises, former lives and lovers, and lives hoped for.   During my presale planning people who love me gave a lot of advice; “Be ruthless”, “Think hard about what you will keep”, “You have so much stuff, do you have any idea how you’re going to deal with all of it?” STOP! I know!! I haven’t been sleeping thinking of all this!   I have  looked at this from all angles, including within.  I am getting rid of things, yes, but things that I love, that have meaning to me.  I know you can’t Love love them but what they represent is far greater than what they are.

 

Em and I had both promised friends and family that we would make the circuit while we were in town and visit the people we missed and loved.  But there was no time. Time became a fog through which we worked.  It was the only way we could survive the week.  We were up against a hard deadline and kept at the plow.

 

There was one moment when I stole away with half a sandwich and sat to eat it while overlooking the beach.  I recall that half hour as a time of still thoughtlessness in the vast embrace of the calm ocean before me.

 

Onward.  Over those days we pulled out the items that we knew we were keeping.  Some of them were meaningless emotionally but we knew they would have more value in the city.  Other things were special things of my parents.  Priceless artifacts that meant something only to us, letters, photos, childhood mementos of my baby girl young woman that we tucked away in neat boxes and hid in a corner under a sheet.  This pile would grow larger as the weekend progressed. 

 

As we pulled items I cleaned the house that had been ignored in the year I had been away.  Inch by literal inch the house was being wiped clean of my presence and absence.

 

One of the most difficult chores was pricing each item.  How could I put a price on something that meant so much to me but was a bargain to a stranger? With a broad stroke I priced the big things, shelving, couches, lamps, cabinets, beds, the pieces that only served a purpose.  The personal items would be dealt with one by one.

8 a.m. Friday morning came early but we were ready.  Bring it on.

 

 

 

Living in the Center of the Universe - Part Three

Every Picture Has Its Shadows 

Saying goodbye to each picture as I pick it up, I dust where it was then put it on a shelf in the garage.  That artist is pretty well known in Washington.  These I purchased at the Annual Art Festival, a new piece each year.  Who will look at this little statue I got in Arizona when it sits on their own shelf? This little fossil came from an estate sale of a man I never met.  I bought his small collection because I didn’t like the idea that his family could get rid of his things without a sense of his love for those belongings.  Maybe he had bought them when he and his wife traveled the world; perhaps he purchased them on a business trip to bring home to the kids.  No matter.  I have them now and every time I see them I think of the man whose home I walked through all those years ago.  I have no idea who he was but I think of him fondly. 

What about the empty turtle shell, what should I do with it?    I found it in a park in Land O’Lakes, Florida.  1988.  A secret weekend in Longboat Key, romantic with the wind blowing across the Gulf on a cool February evening.  He saw colors in my eyes that he said reflected the sunset.  I never had anyone look into my eyes like that, before or since.  I can still feel the pull.  We took our time driving backroads to the east coast through parts of Florida made famous by old fashioned postcards of Spanish moss covered oak trees. 

Somehow we found ourselves walking on a broad expanse of lawn incredibly green under the cloudless sky when at the same time our eyes fell on two small turtle shells side by side on the grass and completely empty as though their occupants decided to vacate them and move on to another life leaving all vestiges of their old lives behind. We looked at them as a romantic sign and each took a shell to remind ourselves of the weekend and each other. Sell it?  Take it?  I’ll leave it on the shelf and see if someone makes the decision for me.

I found a first edition of Marjorie Kinnan Rawling’s Cross Creek at another estate sale.  This time I did know the person.  She was a young woman, a poet, and I had often heard her name, Noelle, as one of those whispered wistful wishes of my older brothers when I was little.  It wasn’t until after she had died of cancer and I was looking through her bookshelves that I realized whose home I was in and that I had even met her on the beach a few summers before.  Not as the sweet Noelle of my brother’s longings but as Noelle, a really nice lady I met on the beach.  As I stood in the room and read her poetry it washed over me how I missed out on being a friend to this very lovely and special woman.  I longed to reel in the few years I knew her casually and create more of a bond but I was too late.  I didn’t even know she had died.  She got cancer and was gone.  I grieved for her loss and cried in her bedroom.  I think she would have been surprised to have found me there with tears in my eyes.  The estate people sure were.  I could not bear the idea of strangers walking through her home without an idea of who she was so I placed her personalized bookplates in anything I could so that her name at least lived on.

I added to Cross Creek another book, Rawlings’ own published cookbook.  I had heard rumors they existed  and so I looked one for one whenever I was in the bookstore of an old Florida town.   Finally, tucked away in the San Marco Bookstore I found my prize.  I was bound and determined to cook that whitefish stew in my heavy iron dutch oven.  A layer of onions, a layer of potatoes, a layer of fish, salt and peppered, layered tomatoes, onions, potatoes, fish again and tomatoes.  Water to cover, seal and bake.  Cornbread and swamp cabbage slaw.  Beer and friends.   

Why did I feel the need to wash things before I sold them?  Was it to make more money or just the idea that if strangers pawed through my things I wanted those things to be clean?  Both I suppose.  As I put a load of handmade aprons in to the laundry I tied the strings so that they wouldn’t tangle.  With every apron I pictured the life I had pictured, one filled with dinner parties, company around and good food on the table.  The perfect martini glasses were still up on their shelf in the kitchen, part of the same vision.  I had had the glasses since the trip to Coconut Grove with my sister and Mother for a cousin’s wedding. I was in my mid-twenties.  The glasses were Swedish and made of glass so thin that my lips barely felt them when I lifted them to drink.   

The life I had actually lived in was always so casual the glasses and aprons were on the shelf for most of their time with me.  As I stood over the washer I could feel a welling loss rise up inside me when I realized I need not regret their going but thank them for giving me the latest incarnation of a new and exciting life before me.  I had used them for a time and now it was time to let them go on to another world.  In essence, selling these things enabled me to move into a new life with new dreams and visions before me.

 

Living in The Center of The Universe - Part Two

The Road Before Us Is Not Long Enough

Wending our way to New Smyrna was a two day trek.  We stopped in Washington to visit Lincoln and have a meal at one of our favorite dining spots, Lauriol Plaza, and did I mention we spent the night at The Mayflower Hotel?  Thanks Priceline!  It had been a sloppy weather day getting started so it was a great first stop. 

Greeted by a bright blue sky the next morning we were off to Florida, but not before another night on the road, this time in Savannah. There is nothing like leaving the bright canyons of the city to find ourselves in a tunnel of live oak trees and Spanish moss in the dark of night. 

Long showers, clean towels and a good night’s sleep put us in the right frame of mind for the last leg of the trip.  But not before exploring some of the gardens near the riverside with some coffee, oh and perhaps I’ll try on that pair of boots in the window. 

Well, we’d better hit the road. There are no more reasons to delay the inevitable.

We finally pull into New Smyrna around dinner time but first at quick look at the house.  Yes, it’s all there.  There is nothing quite as disheartening as a cold, unused and unloved house to welcome us back.  I knew there was a reason it took so long to drive down.  The house was only that, a building that held our stuff.  It was not a home that held special memories and warmth.  In fact, it was a reminder of the promise of what could have been for not only was I returning to purge the stuff that had been acquired over the course of a lifetime, but I was coming to end a marriage. 

I had been in New York for a full year and had a husband in Florida.  Granted, it was a short lived marriage, but the union was made with the intent of commitment and the promise of love.  Walking into the house felt no different than when I lived there, alone, cold and temporary.  All of my belongings were inside yet I did not belong there.  With no love there is no sense of home, with no love there is no sense of belonging.  Love is the actual stuff of life.

I thought I remembered everything when I tried to recall just what things were in the house.  I had actually forgotten just how much stuff I had! Glass bibelots I had purchased in Venice,  a collection of boxes, my depression glass platters, pottery, so many lamps, carpets, paintings, books, photos, frames, my iron dutch oven, presents I had been given, boxes of letters I had saved, rocks I had picked up in the Grand Canyon, in Hawaii, in France.  And then there were all the things of Em’s life.  Her school career, her art work, Beanie Babies, books, gifts, thrift store finds and mounds of clothes! Essentially, we had an entire store of belongings we needed to organize, decide which to keep and which to give, sell or throw away, clean, and say goodbye.

 

Living in the Center of the Universe - Part One

The Road Before Us

It has been a year since Em Steel and I arrived in the Center of the Universe and to our surprise, it is a space of only 300 square feet.  We live in our own cozy nucleus within the energetic system of New York City. 

Belong.  Belonging.  Belongings.  Is it our belongings that make us who we are?  Or do they hold us back from our longings?  Em and I belong where we are right now, in this small apartment in the center of everything.  Everything!  The whole of New York City lies right outside our door. 

 

Here there is no room for extraneous stuff.  The cabinets store only enough for what is needed over the next couple of weeks. The closets limit clothing and shoes to the particular season outside the window.  I cannot hold on to that too small pair of pants while vowing to get down a size by summer. Pretty things in shop windows have no space on our shelves.  

What then to do with an entire house filled with our belongings 1100 miles away?  I have every card sent to my parents on the day I was born until my birthday last year.  Every report card, every "A" I ever earned.  Awards, little dresses my mother sewed for me, broken jewelry I thought I would get fixed one day, photos, paintings, pretty things that sit on my dressers, shelves of books, Christmas ornaments, a lifetime of collecting things that I really love.  I have every card that was sent to me when Emily was born, her homemade costumes and files full of her art and her "Walking Encyclopedia" award from kindergarten.

Em has her own collections that she has had no need to thin.  We have always had a central place that we could call home, for no matter how the road turned there was always a place we knew we belonged to and that held our belongings.

The logistics of the task before us kept me awake for months ahead of the action itself.  Having already sold my car do we fly back to Florida?  Baggage restrictions curtailed that option, not to mention renting a car, the cost of two round trip tickets for both of us and holding ourselves to a strict arrival and departure date was too limiting.  We had no idea what lay ahead.

I thought I could book a flight and drive a car back filled with what we could fit, but the cost of a one-way car rental was prohibitive. 

When we first moved to New York City, we travelled by train carrying 12 suitcases filled with what we thought we needed at the time.  Travelling with 12 suitcases is not a simple thing and the cost of train travel is not viable. 

So night after night I would either put off thinking  about what lay ahead or I would go over each option looking for the most cost effective, efficient and sensible plan. 

I finally settled on renting a car, driving to Florida and back to the city two weeks later.  We would need a ride while there and we would have a way to bring back what we decided to keep.  I reserved something full sized which meant a four door sedan.  Upon arriving at the rental garage the service rep suggested, without knowing the purpose of the trip, that I get a minivan with unlimited miles. It was perfect.  They even folded the seats away for us. 

 

For the first time in a year I was behind the wheel of a car and was looking for I-95 via the Jersey Turnpike in weather that varied between rain and fog with traffic that was light but very quick. White lines seemed to disappear on the wintered asphalt leaving me only the cars in front of me for navigation. 

This is a road I haven't been on before.