Welcome Home?

Interesting. 

A couple of days ago I found a heavy golden miniature pineapple on the sidewalks of New York. 

Today heading into the subway turnstile I looked down to see a small pewter oval with some kind of inscription. I backed up to let others pass in and out, then, when it was clear kicked it out to where I could pick it up. I pocketed it until I could look at it on the train. 

Here it is, two sided, next to my previous acquisition. 

Hope and welcome. I am from a seaside town. I still live near the ocean, look how close NYC is to the coast. We are surrounded by water here. 

Why did I find these two pieces?

Connected in theme and to me. 

Were they gifts or happenstance? 

I don't know but I do know that because of them I still push myself to continue. To live this life that I have chosen. Good things are coming. It is hard going but it is good. 

I am on my way to the Metropolitan Museum this hour. I never know what might await.

Layers of Memory

There are some days when I question my sanity going from the Beach to the Big Apple.  

Today was one of them. 

This week has been brutally cold so it takes some planning to bundle the little one up (I'm her nanny) just to get to the grocery store. A couple of times we went to Trader Joe's , the family's store of choice, but the elevator has been out. Yes, the elevator. The very busy store has a small entrance on Broadway and the groceries are below street level, one floor on top of another.  Since I shop with a one year old the stroller is my shopping cart. No elevator means no groceries. 

By Thursday however, we were out of everything. I had to get to the store no matter how cold the wind chill. 

I layered up my tights on tights under oversized  pants. Then tank, turtle, tank, sweater, scarf, hat, hoodie, coat and gloves. 

That was after I layered up the baby. After sliding her into a pink nylon snow suit I zipped her into the stroller bag and drew tight the drawstring top to keep her tucked in. Then put the clear plastic cover secured over all to keep the wind off and we made it out the door, while patting my padded pockets to be sure my keys, phone, and tissues are in them. 

Down the elevator out into the cold, up Amsterdam Avenue the ten blocks to pick up big sister from school. 

Once there off comes my outer layers and out of the stroller comes the baby and out of her snow suit. Up the four flights of stairs to the classroom we go. 

Change sister's sneakers to boots, on go her 2 coats, leg warmers, scarf, mittens, lunchbox, backpack and back down the stairs we go. 

Yes, we have to layer up and stroller in again. I've lost a glove. Where could it be? 18 degrees, I need that glove. Unzip the coat, not in any inner pocket.  Unzip the stroller blanket to feel under the baby, no. Look under the cart, no. Go outside, did I drop it before I came in? Not there. 

Oh please, where could it be? If I left it upstairs the girls would have to come with me to find it. Those stairs. Those layers. Oh, please let me find it. 

Off comes my coat. Inside out, every pocket. Not there. 

In despair I rip my hat off my head. Found it! It was in my hat! On my head!! 

Relieved and laughing I get my coat back on and zipped up. The plastic hood back on the stroller and out the door. 

Sister steps up on the little boogie board between the handle bar and the baby and we're off. 

Two avenues over and a couple more down we thread our way into Fairway Market. New York City grocery stores make me yearn for a free standing Publix. In the city shopping carts are small and dirty, aisles are packed in various widths, lengths, even order, food selections are minimal and the patrons are not patient. 

I have Trader Joe's down to a science; I know exactly where everything is and do not get riled by the excruciatingly long line. It moves remarkably fast. 

I do not know Fairway at all. Where is the bread? Do they have frozen peas? Excuse me, sorry, excuse me,  little one please stay on the stroller, do they have organic? This aisle is closed! 

Finally at the cashier my groceries are bagged and I give the cashier two 20's for the purchase of $39.67. I was thrilled! A small victory but a good one. 

Now it's off again.  "Big Sister will you you please hold my gloves while I get my scarf back on?" "Baby girl! Wheee!! Let's go home!" "Miss Karen, I'm cold!!" "I'm making chicken soup for dinner that will warm you up, hold on, let's go!" 

Eight blocks down I wonder aloud why it seems to be taking so long to get back to the apartment. It felt like I was walking but not moving forward. Dreamlike with each step seemingly mired in cement. It had already been a long day, a very cold day and the end of day business was the busiest part of my day. Believe me, it's no walk in the park but the day's end was in sight. 

Finally, back at the building, up the elevator, open up the stroller blanket so the baby can breathe and head towards the apartment door.  

"I sure can't wait for chicken soup," says Big Sister as I dig for my keys. With keys in hand I pass the stroller to open the door and I look at the groceries which I'm about to unload. 

They aren't there. No bags. Not a single pea. 

I left them at the store. 

Yes. There are some days...

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.