Summer Reruns of Sunday Memories:Where I Still Could Find Her

Her New York began as a way of standing witness to a mother (Florence) and a city (New York) that, despite the brutality of dementia, illness and ultra-wealthy development, insisted on still being who and what they really were.  

Since Florence's death in 2008, what New York was became, at times, elusive and other times heartbreaking reminders of loss.  

Yet the exploration has never ended.  Small and big celebrations are still found in a city that refuses to completely die and in the spirit of a woman that continues to guide me forward, always.

Originally posted November 29, 2009

**

O'Keefe asked me to explain all this.

I said I was trying to illuminate where New York and Florence still were themselves even as they faded from recognizable forms.




















And now a year after Florence died and New York continued in its odd way and the home I grew up in now looks like a nice apartment for other people we never were, there are places still here and there, still persistently themselves ....















....that I go to and feel at home.

Wherever You Go, There You Are. Sometimes in Queens

It was just like what we had, growing up so long ago in our own corners of the city.  A decent pub.

That familiar daylight seeping in, the dark wood blanketing the walls, those high stools you slip onto as a feeling of greater kinder hands rises up to greet your tush and cradle you.

It was empty except for some guys scattered along the bar.  Two were doing construction in the neighborhood, finishing up their burgers.  Another, very tan and summery, contemplating going or not going or someone coming in, and in a quieter corner a man older than any bar I ever sat at, just sitting.

A talkative fellow came in, wanting to see the lunch menu.

"Lunch menu same as the dinner one," the waitress told him.

Mick ordered a really good looking chicken sandwich.

I had salmon on lots of salad.  I stared longingly at Mick's fries.  His beer looked really cute too.

When the bill came, it seemed a bit low.

"Half off for happy hour," the waitress told us.

That bar was just like my favorite bar, I told Mick afterwards.  Except it had food and didn't smell of cat pee. 

Next time... burgers.

**
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Sunday Memories of Old Homes and Family

Mick Andreano: Portraits

Donovan's Pub

This is 97 year-old Hyman.

And this is 97 year-old Hyman after we got yelled at by the bus driver for Hyman taking too long to get off at his stop.  (He is zipping off to hang out in Union Square Park.)

"That's not the way you speak to a veteran," I said to the bus driver. 

The lady with the Whole Food bags chimed in.  "Disrespectful!"

The bus driver, a young guy, grumbled something under his breath about this not being a tea party or that our socializing was holding people up...

But Hyman lost years of his life in a P.O.W. camp during World War II.  So we can fucking give him an extra 60 seconds that allows someone who knows his name to ask him how he's doing.

**
Related Posts:

Hyman

The Exhaustion of Diaspora: Part Four- Hyman Comes to Visit

Sunday Memories: Part Three - Home Where My Love Lies Sleeping

Sunday Memories: The Home Inside Our Hearts

We all grew up here.

They on two different parts of the upper west side that could have been in different countries and me on the lower east side which often was a different country.

But when you know, in the midst of chaos and fear and loss, someone is a home for your heart, you don't quibble about addresses.

One we visited in a hotel room befitting for a 15 year-old runaway.

One lived with me when we were barely 17 or 18.

And I ... I always knew I would never be unmoored from the world as long as they still knew me.

Four decades of showing up for meals and memorials, reckonings and illness, celebrations and rare comfort.  We always knew - NO MATTER WHAT - we were always here, there and everywhere.  It was family and connection.  And sometimes, in dark corners of crushing moments, it was the only family and connection we had.

Modern life's interpretation of time and distance (whether to Seattle or Harlem) makes visits rare.   Still - NO MATTER WHAT -  how little or how often we send casual hellos, when home is needed to shelter a broken heart or share rare delight, we are here, there and everywhere.

One got married in a Halloween festival, dressed as a wench to her new husband's pirate.

And just today, the other in full colonial finery got married to the love of her life on the porch of a mansion once owned by a trouble-maker woman who defied all rules of her times.

And today, like any day  I see either of them - NO MATTER WHAT - my heart both weeps and dances with joy.    

**
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Sunday Memories: Homecoming

This is Her New York

Morris Jumel Mansion

SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT!!!HANDS ACROSS THE WATERS!!!

After years of toil, several continents, different cities and many burgers, Adrian Garcia Gomez and C.O. Moed are happy to announce their joint collaboration video, FUCKING HIM (1:46).

The piece asks the simplest of questions:

• What is fucking?
• What is love?
• What's the difference?
• When do you know?

Screenings will be posted at a later date.

***

Adrian Garcia Gomez is an interdisciplinary artist working in film/video, photography and illustration. His artwork, which is largely autobiographical, explores the complexities of race, immigration, gender, spirituality and sexuality. His short experimental films, photographs and drawings have exhibited around the world. He currently lives and works in Tel Aviv. (superadriancito.com)

C.O. Moed chronicles the heart and soul of a disappearing family and a city in the throws of extinction and evolution on IT WAS HER NEW YORK. A recipient of the Elizabeth George Grant for fiction and a Rockefeller Media Arts nominee, her short stories and dramatic works have been published in several anthologies and literary reviews. (myprivateconey.com and myprivateconey.blogspot.com)

**
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The Eyes Have It

Night Boat

The street was once a place where working people lived and businesses made things and bars served anyone who needed a drink and had a couple of bucks.

Someone took an eraser and wiped it clean.  Put life into the nooks and crannies that looked like a Walt Disney movie only with a ton of cigarettes, cell phones and almost no smiling.

The clothing store kept the old neon liquor sign to display the grit it had purchased for clothes only a few could afford.   In a city where church ladies and baseball fans were the only ones who wore hats, millinery stores seemed to be flourishing.  And cafes with exclusive gardens that had gatekeepers were packed with sockless loafers and dresses so short ... I still don't understand how they sit down and they sure as hell can't stand in those heels for more than five minutes.

But turning corners and choosing avenues trying to impress no one, all I had to do was look up and remember what it was like to float on a greater idea towards a richer world.

And again, I missed my mom and all the night walks we took on our way home from neighborhoods where working people lived and bars had cheap drinks for just a couple of bucks.

**
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Sunday Memories of Old Homes and Family

Sunday Memories: Where I Still Could Find Her

Night Cruise

Songs from the Second Floor

Sunday Memories: Higher Ground

Bells Are Ringing

Not a lot of guys know the old land-line wiring.  One guy didn't even have a clue where to start with the wall phone.

Mr. Verizon did.  He not only knew the wiring, he fixed the phone.

There in the middle of all his tools was a vase. 

"You need that to fix phone?"

"Nah.  I just pick up stuff from the dumpsters and the basement garbage.  I also just got that vise."

He even took home cats dumped in basements. 

Since almost everything in the apartment were hand-me-downs or found on the street - including the cats - we got to talking.

His family's been here since 1812 or 13 - a long, long time - and one branch owned Farrell's.  Not his branch though.  He wouldn't be working Verizon if it was.

Commiserating about the city going down the toilet, he shook his head.  "They're selling the city on an old reputation - tough, gritty, a real city... but it's not anymore."

Then he packed up his tools and vase and headed out to the next call.

**
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Sunday Memories: Playing Telephone

Sunday Memories: Even the Cat Was Found on the Street

Farrell's

Memories of a Sunday Drive

It was like stepping into a time machine.

A real freight elevator with a real gate with a real handle that made it go up and down and fast and slow and stop and start.

The guy grabbed the handle and up we flew.

I used to drive one of these, I said to the Mariner.

Well not drive, drive.  In 1975, it wasn't like girls were freight elevator operators.  But, fresh out of high school, every chance I got, working in the back channels of an old, respected office supplies store, I begged the freight elevator guy, a big burly guy at least 100 years old or his pimply 15 year old second hand to let me zoom the freight up and down.  It was the closest I got to driving a race car.

How did you get it to stop right on the floor, the Mariner asked.

Oh it was just like parallel parking.  Only vertical.

**

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Look Back in Love at Home

You Never Expect What Dana Says

Bits and pieces of Dana are slowly beginning to visit other places.   

Yet, she is like a lighthouse.   

When you least expect it, her brilliant light explodes into clarity and words that change the world.  David, her son takes as many down as he can and shares them with me.

Over the next while, old stories and new moments of Dana will be noted.  What Dana Says is worth pulling close and holding tight. 

**

The dentist called.

"Overdue?  It sounds like I'm giving birth to new teeth."

[to David]

"She's still laughing."

**
Related Posts:

Sunday Moments and Memories of What Dana Says

What Dana Says: Why I Visit Dana or How I Keep Writing

Same Park. Different Reason to Run Fast

It was already a wonderful evening.  Incredible music and the perfect night air to stroll through.

Sauntering into Bryant Park, I marveled at the couples hanging about, the concession stand like a cafe in a French movie and all these folding chairs around for people to sit and enjoy.

(It always surprises me how you don't see people stealing them.)

Past a grove of trees, there was suddenly several ping pong tables and lots of guys with paddles lining the edges, waiting patiently. 

Like Mr. Godwin.

"I'm an O.K. ping pong player"

 Mr. Godwin is from Nigeria and if it wasn't for certain facts about certain things, he and his mother would be back there.  She had been a very successful milliner there.  But sometimes you gotta go where there is something more important that homeland.

Here in New York Mr. Godwin was getting ready to go to APEX to study automotive stuff.  Meanwhile, as he waited for school to start, he came to Bryant Park, signed up for ping pong and played all night for hours.

There was lots of running and dashing and jumping and slamming.

"I used to work on 40th Street many years ago.  There was no ping pong then,"  I told Mr. Godwin.

No indeed.  There was not much of anything.  Except a lot of bad, bad, bad people taking a break from crime, a lot of drugs, a lot of selling of drugs, and in the middle of this dangerous neighborhood, the deserted walking path between 40th where the office was and 42nd Street where an old bar served Happy Hour from 4 p.m. and 6 p.m. and had little hotdogs and other cute things to eat for dinner.. 

And at 4 p.m., especially on Thursdays and Fridays, all of us - all the young girls and every single one of the old broads, including Mary who was easily 60 or 70 - all of us would make a wild dash from one side of Bryant Park to the other.  For someone almost not quite five feet tall and about three feet wide, Mary ran fast.

There was no table, no ball, no paddles between our running from one spot to another.

And there was no Mr. Godwin, shyly beaming as he described how he worked hard to be an O.K. ping pong player.

**
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THE LIONESSES RULE THE PRIDE AND MARRY IF THEY WANNA...

This piece first posted in 2008, while Florence was declining, I was in touch with the woman she had been in love with, involved with and in war with since they were teenagers. 

Today the highest court of our country has recognized gay marriage as a right, making gay marriage, well, just marriage marriage.  

As I have in the past, I wonder what my mom and her lover's life would have been like if only the world had loved their love as they had.  

And knowing Florence more and more as I enter the ages she began to set herself free, I wonder if, in fact, she would have even gotten married.

How wonderful to think that if she had been alive and well today she could say "I do" or "I don't" just like everyone else.

** 

THE LIONESSES RULE THE PRIDE

 Florence walking in the Gay Pride March

1982
All the other gay seniors rode.

In the convertible, on the bus, in wheelchairs.

But not Florence.

She walked.

She was in her 60s. She had waited her entire life to walk down a street as who she really was. And she wasn't going to give up that walk for anybody or anything.

Home

Whether it is 4 a.m. or midnight, leaving home is never terrifying when you know you get to come back.

Home is the place where all the roommates are gone and all the ripped off clothes have been flung against every single wall and it's a hurricane outside and you're laughing so hard and the beat-up furniture that had been left behind in 1980 has never looked so beautiful and your 1950s bathroom so bright and cute because suddenly someone you like is happy to be lounging around with you.

Home the place you run to when your heart is so broken the cab driver keeps throwing you tissues.

Home is the place where, after you wake up to in the middle of the night, uncertain and worried, you pray in until your heart calms down and hope returns.

Home is where your parents and your friends' parents, all raised in brutal poverty, got to go to school for free and then college for free and become the artists and thinkers and musicians that made the neighborhood exciting which made all the other artists and thinkers and musicians move here because home was a place you could afford the rent as you went out into the world to create amazing things. 

Home is where you never go to sleep and when you look up at the clock it is 3 a.m. but you lost track of time because you got deliciously lost writing a story about what it was like to grow up in New York City, riding the train by yourself when you were seven or rolling sanitation truck tires down Columbia Street.  And you look outside the window and there's a riot going on so you go downstairs to check it out.

Home is the watertowers and the smokestacks.  Not trees.

Home is the city you grew up in, doing normal things like performing bluegrass in the subways and theater on the streets and demonstrating against wars and nuclear bombs and homophobic assholes and you could do it here because your parents and their parents and all the neighbors,  everyone  all made sure that's what you could do at home.

Home to millions of New Yorkers is the place they were born in, defying all the rules and getting to the point fast, and that's why in the movies when you want a character to be different than Barbie and Ken you give them a New York accent.

Home to millions of New Yorkers is the place they immigrated to with nothing in their pockets except their individuality and their dreams and goals and they got to make this city amazing because they could afford the rent. 

And that's the reason New York is the center of the Universe. 

Because it's home.  Not to an expensive apartment or loft or luxury building with two entrances depending on your income, but a land where everyone is welcomed to the table.  Including the people who, because they had affordable rents and could do all these amazing things, made it an amazing home for everyone.

After all, isn't that why everyone keeps moving here?  Because of all those interesting people?  Doing amazing things?

After all, if all those people weren't here, what would New York be? 

I don't know what it would be but I can tell you what it wouldn't be.  It wouldn't be New York. 

This Is Not A Movie Set

It's not an exotic street.

It's not a edgy photo of a "real" city.

It's not art.

It's not affect.

It's 27th Street.

Sunday Memories of When This Was Normal

Amy put out a call to all of us who contributed to Shades of Blue: writers on depression, suicide and feeling blue (Fall 2015, Seal Press) asking us to write something about writing our particular 'shades of blue'.

It meant remembering a life that now feels as far away as Mars.

And that was just it.  Writing “Nothing Helps, Except…” brought me back to the decades I spent living on Mars – a barren landscape, barely hospitable that occasionally promised me that life existed there.   It took decades of heart-breaking-open work to heal and then transform my assumption that life was and always would be so bleak.

As I recovered my soul, remembering how it FELT to live like that became a distant memory, not a daily reality.  And, quite frankly, it was nice to forget how waking up to morning was often like crashing through glass at 90 miles an hour.  (While I was drafting “Nothing Helps…” I found in one diary of that time my describing one morning as “I woke up screaming ‘I’m tired of waking up backwards’.”)

On top of stepping back into those long-ago emotional layers, it was daunting to fit a complex and repetitive journey into 3,000 words or less.  Many false starts, lots of Buddhist practice, more false starts, even more Buddhist practice.   Nothing helped.

Then one day, I visited with someone I loved very much who lives on the other side of the world and practices a much different religion.   We were talking about the anthology, when without thinking I blurted out, “Planning my suicide was the only thing that kept me going.  For years."

And that’s when I saw how I had traveled out that brokenness and returned to who I had always been.  The rewriting of the piece still took tons of prayer but once I got through the sadness of how I had lived for so long, I began asking fellow writers, some who barely knew me, to give feedback.  I appreciate their courage and honesty that helped me make the piece even stronger, for I can’t imagine it an easy thing to read how someone lived with such self-hate for so long.

An unexpected benefit came out of all this.  That pain is no longer a memory I held at a distance, but a cherished and respected one.  I wake up every day so happy – happy that I don’t live on Mars; I live on Earth and there’s life here.  Yet, because I reopened those old days, I now also see where that shadow still seeps into my hopes and dreams.

Writing that piece and writing this has strengthened my muscles of gratitude and prayer and each day I take a bigger step back from the ledge and back into my birthright.

**

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It Only Takes One Person

On the Way to Get the Cat Shaved

It happens only once a year.

Jupiter, the 18 pound plush monster-cat,  needed to get his fur all shaved off.

That meant shoving said beast into a huge plastic box, which has a handle on it to give the illusion a human being could actually pick the box up while there was an animal in it.  No, you cannot.

I get that one's arms are too short to box with God.  Mine are also definitely too short to carry this plastic box.  So,  getting to the corner of the street headed west to shaving-it-all-off-land looked like a scene out of Benny Hill, only not as funny and dangerous to anyone within a 2-foot radius.

Holding the box, jumping out of the way of marauding cars turning right at 90 miles an hour, and watching a sea of yellow cabs whoosh by already filled with paying customers, my heart and my arms sank.

Until this bright, shiny, new, van-like taxi flashed lights at me from all the way on the other side of the avenue and then somehow, without crashing into anything, cut across four lanes of traffic to pull up to the corner.

Mr. Emmanuel A. from Ghana.

Usually, taxicab drivers just want to know if their back seat is going to be the same after you leave.

But sometimes, slipping into the back seat of a cab is like a homecoming, like running into your neighbor of 40 years at the supermarket or bumping into an old pal at the bar.  

And it was no different stepping into the chariot of Mr. Emmanuel, who immediately wanted to know all about a now VERY unhappy feline banging about against plastic walls.  And also if I could direct him to where I was going as he had only been on the job for a month.

Mr. Emmanuel loved being in New York!   He loved driving a taxi in New York!  He loved living in New York!  He loved the United States Government because at least when there was corruption here you could do something about it!

In Ghana?  Mr. Emmanuel just rolled his eyes and then told short horror stories of bribes and injustice.

But back to more wonderful and happy things to talk about!  He loved animals!  Because back in Ghana he had been a farmer with a degree from the university in animal husbandry.   And yes one day he would like to practice that here, maybe even in New York.

Was there anything he missed, I asked.

Leaving his animals, he told me.   Including his 22 ducks.

The way he said that, like other times of hearing necessary diaspora, hurt-openned my heart a bit bigger. 

Before dragging out the plastic monstrosity to the famous Elly and her magic shaver, I told Mr. Emmanuel he must, he just must get his animal husbandry license here.

We need more citizens who hate corruption and, instead, love their animals, especially their 22 ducks.

The end result:  Jupiter with a "lion-cut" which actually makes him look like a small poodle.

**
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Your Arms Are Too Short to Box with God

Benny Hill

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Taxi

The Exhaustion of Diaspora - Part Six: Home Where My Love Lies Waiting

Townehouse Grooming

Taking Flight

Goggla aka Laura Goggin aka Goggla always took the best pictures of the East Village, our neighbors, beloved bars, the sky and sometimes it seemed even the wind.

Then some red-tailed hawks moved into the neighborhood.  Christo and Dora.  And Goggla turned her camera on them.

This past Saturday night, up five or six flights of old marble stairs - because sometimes you gotta climb up high to see birds -  in a building still overlooked by developers, in an apartment where the bathtub in the kitchen transformed into a bar, in a home lived in for 40 years by the same person, Goggla's photos of Christo and Dora covered the wall and amazed our eyes.

And now they can amaze yours.

Goggin Photography

Laura Goggin on Photoshelter.com

**
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Part One: Home Work

Sunday Moments and Memories Of What Dana Says

Bits and pieces of Dana are slowly beginning to visit other places.   

Yet, she is like a lighthouse.   

When you least expect it, her brilliant light explodes into clarity and words that change the world.  David, her son takes as many down as he can and shares them with me.

Over the next while, old stories and new moments of Dana will be noted.  What Dana Says is worth pulling close and holding tight. 

**

David, Polly and Dana in the kitchen during a recent visit

Dana started getting Meals-On-Wheels food:  "Some of this is not edible.  It got caught on the wheels."

One afternoon I went down to visit.  There were notes all over that she would be calling Trudy, her best friend. I asked her about how she knew she and Trudy would be these best friends.  "I just knew.  I walked up to that door and started knocking.  I was the new girl in the neighborhood and I just knew that behind that door was my best friend."

I thought she seemed to be living in this new space of thought without the struggle I had witnessed Florence so often have.  But David said that wasn't quite so.

"I'm trying to find an attitude that fits all fears," she had told him.

A woman, like Florence, who had traveled the five corners of New York and a good deal of the world, Dana now traveled between rooms of her apartment.  No matter her delight at soup brought to her or company kept, she wanted different.  "I"m becoming a vegetable from sitting around all the time.  I want to become meat again."

**
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More of What the Tourists Didn't See

It was another one of our long walks-and-talks.

But not on the main avenues and thruways...there were just way too many tourists pouring over the the city, slowing down for the good weather or stopping suddenly for the map that always seemed to be upside when I would peek over their shoulder.

So we walked with other tired and rushed New Yorkers in the know, weaving along back streets and odd walkways.  For a brief moment it was as if it was a sleepy day in an almost empty city.

Tillie needed to get food before heading back to the western part of downtown. 

Forty years ago, there was no place to shop for food because no one lived there except industrial sites and diners.  Now there was no place to shop for food because everything was exorbitantly overpriced, often in triplicate because most of the people living in the former industrial sites were billionaires.

"I have to repack my bags," Tillie said and we stopped in one of the small side streets that also doubled as a parking lot and was once named after a police commissioner now in jail.

And that's when I looked up.

**
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What the Tourists Didn't See

What the Tourist Didn't See

I don't know what the tourists were snapping away at, but I looked up.


**
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Pets of Our Lives: Part One - Pigeons 

Lin Zexu

Sunday Memories Encore Of High School Stairs

That movie, Fame didn't come out of someone's wild imagination.  It was a real school and a real place and yes there was dancing during lunchtime but not in the street and certainly not on top of taxis.  Those guys needed to make a living.  

In the street there was pot-smoking, hanging, walking and, according to some rumors, the pouring of bubble soap into the expensive public fountain that heralded the prestigious theater across the street.

Photo: Phil Posner

This Saturday night was the 40th reunion of the class of 1975 - one of the classes that partly inspired that movie.  Lots of picture-taking and memories shared, and maybe some secret regret none of us knew enough to enjoy those days more then.  (Well, Youth is wasted on the young.)

But, like Joni Mitchell said about memories being like tattoos, the faces, the joy, the embraces, the LOUD ENERGY (as the young waitress remarked) were the same.  

 photo: A. Skylar

Surrounded by a city of constant challenges, we traveled on subways, buses and ferries from the five corners of the city to Performing Arts.  It was there we had safety and respite and a home to become ourselves.  We were barely not children, but practicing our disciplines like adults - picking up the instrument, the ballet shoes, the script every day and working at it like professionals.  

 photo: A. Skylar

And there was so much less time for bullshit because there was only so much time for art before we got back on the subways, the buses, the ferries to return to the five corners of the city.  And the next day we'd do it all over again. 

 photo: M. Andreano

With special love to Yeudi who survived with me, the cute violinist I still adore, and the pretty oboe player who I'm delightfully back in touch with.  

And in memory of the Prodigy who recently died too young, too soon, from cancer.

**

Originally posted November 28, 2010:

Stairs in the former High School of Performing Arts 

on 46th Street

My withdrawal to the back staircase during lunch hour had nothing to do with any sense of integrity or autonomy. It was a full body retreat. I just gave up trying to fit in with the kids who seemed to have figured out how to be human.

So I sat by myself and to this day I wondered what I was eating for lunch since I don't remember anyone at home making any more food during those days.

Not sure how it started but the cute violinist came across me one day and asked if he could join me. He too needed a break from attempting to fit into a scene completely foreign to him.

Soon after, the accordion player who was the only one in the school found us. I think the cute violinist had said something.

The 13 year old Prodigy sent to New York by himself, living in a walk-up railroad on the east side by himself, taking care of himself by himself, began to eat with us.

Then so did the pretty oboe player, who the Prodigy liked.

I had without realizing made some friends.

**
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What Is Normal

Yeah, weather is something we stick our heads out the window to find out what we should wear that day.

But it is also something we know intimately, watching it through our landscape of water towers.

**
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Night Cruise

The whole avenue became part of a cruise ship as the guys waited for the crane to finish its job.

I knew all those lights that made this huge tinker-toy glimmer in the night would soon disappear into glass and rents so few of us could afford.

Just for a second, though, all of us belonged to this adventure.


**
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Night Shifts...

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Sunday Memories: Hineni

This is Rabbi Math.

I didn't expect to see him today. After all, going to a large bar mitzvah with all the Mariner's family present, I didn't expect to run into anything or anyone from my past.

And it's not like Rabbi Math knew me or my past or even that I included him in my past.  That's not how life-changing moments work.   They work when all a person is doing is their job...

And Boom! Someone's life changes.

It must have been the very early 1990s and times were lean.  Graduate school, student loans, part-time jobs all demanded only the essentials got paid for.  The rest had to be scrounged for.  

Which is why I snuck into the Village Temple's Yom Kipper service at Cooper Union Square. Actually, it was pretty easy.  On the second day, people came and went so walking past the ticket table looking hungry was enough to snag a seat in the back.

I wasn't religious at all.  I wasn't even interested.  Still not.  But on the holiest of the holy and the highest of the high, at that time, not observing just felt too risky.

The evening program began and somewhere, in between the standing up and sitting down and my listening to prayers and songs I had no idea how to say or sing, Rabbi Math began talking.

He looked hungry. And he looked tired.  And there was, like, still an hour to go.

He began telling this story about his mother in Florida. One day, she called him, saying he had to come down, something was wrong, he had to come down right now.

When an elderly parent calls and tells you to get on a plane, you get on a plane. He got down there as soon as he could.

The light in the refrigerator had burnt out.

Rabbi Math stood there staring at the dark refrigerator completely bewildered. And then it dawned on him.

“Hineni.”  Rabbi Math told all of us, who five minutes earlier had wished it was dinner time but now sat still, listening.

It is what Moses answered, when, standing before the burning bush, he heard his name called.

"Hineni", Rabbi Math said to his mother.

That night, I wrote that down on a tiny piece of paper "Hineni" and stuck it on my bulletin board.

Twenty-five-odd years later, I had to write about what inspired me to face the page every day. There were precious sayings by several important people stuck on my bulletin board: Jean Cocteau; Frank Lloyd-Wright; Satyajit Ray.

But on the tiniest of paper scraps was the word, “Hineni.”

“Here I am,” said Moses to the burning bush.

“Here I am,” I say to the page every day.

 **
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Look Back In Love At Home

Summer Time

... And the living is easy. At least, if you are the Buddha or a cat.

For the rest of us, it's the dreaded swimsuit and a discussion about thigh chaffing.