There was no traveling to friends or family on Thanksgiving. Maybe we took walks uptown to see Christmas windows, but never the parade. The day was for other families. And, other than the time Seymour won a turkey, Thanksgiving was more about Florence's birthday or the feeling of impending storms when suddenly all four of us were in the house together.
Leaving home was not just a change of address; it was also a chance to try on all those big holidays I saw on TV or in books. Soon, I got pretty good at finagling trips to friends' houses and unsuspecting relatives. And soon, I came to expect spending the holiday in some traditional or conventional way. Until one Thanksgiving when everything changed and life was never the same.
That it was at my sister's was rare enough. What was also rare, at least to Florence, was all that food.
MY PRIVATE CONEY presents IT WAS HER NEW YORK, the short stories that accompany the work-in-progress video and photo collection of the same name (myprivateconey.com - media link - IT WAS HER NEW YORK). The stories and the media explore the tender rubble that holds both my mother, Florence's and New York's soul as one disappears into old age and the other into gentrification. All are real observations and/or experiences with very little tall-tale telling.
Except when it makes the story better.
Please visit myprivateconey.com for additional information and sample works.