SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 28, 2010
None of us really understood that things were changing for Florence.
She seemed as she always had been. Teaching cooking walking arguing fuming eating investigating practicing devouring life intrepidely sallying forth into the world as the force of nature that she was
The rare cracks were easy to ignore, more often than not camaflouged in the heart and soul of her New York.
This was the first crack I suddenly remembered ignoring.
A brief moment after a snowstorm on the corner of 6th street and Avenue A. Between her and the curb a pile of snow.
Suddenly she couldn't traverse it. Suddenly she didn't know what to do. Suddenly she was old.
Then suddenly some young men came up to her, picked her up, carried her over the mound and gently placed her on solid sidewalk before vanishing into the crowd.
She laughed and laughed and laughed about it because the sudden ride erased the sudden reality she could not longer climb her own mountains.
Jo Davidson’s “Plastic History,” Featuring His Village Friends - This is one in a series of posts marking the 50th anniversary of the designation of the Greenwich Village Historic District. Check out our year-long act...
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