The past few weeks have been amazing to me. I continue to marvel at how the world turns to bring around surprises into my life in which I can see the divine hand in it all, and view in awe the ways God is sending his grace gifts my way.
This all started with an email to me from my minister at Social Circle United Methodist Church a few weeks ago asking me if I’d be interested in a job opening in the church’s district office. Our district superintendent had sent out a notice to all of his pastors asking for recommendations for an administrative assistant at his office. Since Richard, our pastor, knew that I have been officially unemployed for the past year-and-a-half, he contacted me to see if I’d be interested. My response to him --- as long as it doesn’t involve a daily commute to Atlanta, I’d like to hear more about it.
Lo and behold, Richard sent me the name and email of our District Superintendent – Dr. Gary Whetstone! There could only be one Gary Whetstone in the world, and that would have to be the big brother of Pam and Mona, who were members of the youth group at New Hope United Methodist Church, David’s student appointment when he was in theology school back in the 70s. Being a fringe member of our church, and not actively involved beyond my weekly knitting group, our Relay for Life team, and early service on Sunday, I didn’t even know who our DS was! I typed up a quick email to Dr. Whetstone, with my resume as an attachment. I told him that I wasn’t sure if I was qualified for the position, but I sure would love to know about Pam and Mona, as well as news about his parents.
I think Gary invited me to Athens for an interview as a courtesy, since I had a history with his family. It was a lovely interview, and I enjoyed meeting with Gary and his search committee. I knew, however, on the way home from the interview that this particular job was not the one for me, and definitely didn’t have my name on it. I faced the fact that I really didn’t want to become close to the policies and politics of the church again, and while I felt that I would enjoy working with Gary, I knew that this wouldn’t be a career choice for me at this point in my life.
However, it opened the door for me to make contact with Pam through Facebook, which led to a lunch with her last week in Blue Ridge, when Phil and I were returning home from seeing Brian at his play’s premiere in Kentucky. Seeing Pam was like having a burst of fresh air on my face, and the years faded away as we visited over lunch with her mother, Lu, at a little Chinese restaurant in Blue Ridge. Pam encouraged me to contact other New Hope youth group members who were also on Facebook, and after returning home, I did just that.
I am now Facebook friends with several of our youth group from those three years we were at New Hope. I love Facebook! It has brought me, after so many years, back to people whose lives touched mine while I lived the life of a minister’s wife, and has renewed my faith in Christian love and the incredible ways God can reach across decades and the internet to bring me back into the loving arms of those people I knew in the churches we served. It has been a year of Facebook surprises. First, it was a reunion between me and friends from Fieldale United Methodist Church in Virginia, and now with these great “kids” from New Hope. If it weren’t for Facebook and my local minister, none of this would have happened.
All of this also led to another revelation. While driving to Lincolnton this week to have lunch with a friend, my mind was wandering over the past 18 years since I first met her as my academic advisor and professor at library school. I realized that I have been an ex-minister’s wife longer than I was a minister’s wife. Those years, however, had a dramatic impact on me, and were instrumental in designing who I am today. With writing my novel this past year about a minister’s wife, and then reuniting with former church friends, a lot of memories – some of them buried very deep – have bubbled to the surface, and I can examine them with fresh eyes and attitude. I can also shed my ex-preacher’s wife cloak and simply be an old friend to laugh and cry over special memories and share in what’s happening today in all of our lives.
As I collect the days of my life, these recent days have certainly been worthy of noting in my Collection of Days. And I want to take this medium to thank those people who are now connected to me through Facebook and through my blog to say “thank you” for loving me and standing beside me, for reaching out to me, and for being my friends. For so many years I lived in the shadow of my ex-husband, who was adored by his congregations, not realizing that I could be loved apart from him as an individual in my own right. It took a bit of time for me to lose the feeling of invisibility, and I am thankful that God is patient and kind, and has blessed me by bringing so many special people back into my life.
But before I give Facebook all of the credit, I cannot end this Day without a mention of two special friends who have kept up with me since pre-Facebook days. My two friends in Virginia, Jane and Norma, are my angels who have lifted me up on their wings ever since the day my marriage ended. They never judged, they never questioned, they always loved, and they have been a constant in my life since the day I moved out of the parsonage so many years ago. And I also want to thank Wade, Brian, and Roy for encouraging me to sign up on Facebook, because it is through them that many of these wonderful connections have been made.
Wonder what the next surprise will be….. Stay posted!
Showing posts with label friendship. Show all posts
Showing posts with label friendship. Show all posts
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Saturday, June 12, 2010
The Friendship Chain
It’s funny how an assortment of random occurrences will weave themselves together to become something meaningful in my life. Let me share this with you.
Recently, while looking for a new knitting pattern for a wash cloth to take with me to my Tuesday night knitting group, I found a pattern for a “Friendship Chain” pattern online. I saved it on my Favorites list, made a couple of copies, and began knitting a new wash cloth. It was an easy pattern, one that flowed smoothly as my knitting needles clicked against each other, and within two hours, I had a completed project that I was casting off from my knitting needles. Then I made another one, and another one. There was something about the pattern that I loved – it was symmetrical in its design, and the stitch count was easy to remember, making knitting rhythmic and musical. It reminded me of singing a familiar song, one in which I knew all the words. I was pleased with the end results, and added my Friendship Chain wash cloths to my growing bundle that I hope to sell and give away.
While knitting this interesting pattern, my mind wandered as the words “friendship chain” tumbled around in my mind like a song that hangs on repeating itself over and over as a type of mantra in my brain. Memories began to emerge.
I pictured summer camp at Camp Fire Girls’ Camp Toccoa, where I spent several weeks each summer as a child and teen-ager. In my mind I saw us girls standing in a friendship circle around the evening camp fire, our arms crossed, always right over left, holding hands in a circle, singing the camp’s signature song, “Beneath the Pine Trees,” and then “Taps”, before squeezing hands in release and heading to our cabins for the night. As a Camp Fire Girl, this was a familiar ritual. After each weekly meeting our small group would form a friendship circle with our arms crossed, singing “Make new friends, but keep the old – One is silver and the other gold” followed by “Sing your way home at the end of the day.” This was our friendship chain, and the pattern I was knitting strangely reminded me of our crossed arms, standing in our friendship circle. Singing, always singing.
Yesterday, Phil and I met our childhood friend, Luci, for lunch in Decatur. Luci’s mother has recently died, and we invited Luci to meet us to express our support and friendship. Our invisible friendship chain materialized as we talked, shared common experiences, and enjoyed being back in our childhood hometown for a few hours. The links of our friendship chain were strong as we relived childhood memories, walked down familiar streets, and laughed and cried together. As Phil and I drove home, I thought about Luci and the history of our friendship, remembering our MYF group at the Decatur Methodist Church, remembering similar friendship circles with arms crossed, as we helped each other through adolescence and along our individual faith journeys.
Last night, the final thread in this emerging tapestry completed the picture as I happened upon a PBS program on television on the folk singing group, Peter, Paul, and Mary. As I listened to their songs, I was a teen-ager,back at Camp Toccoa with my baritone ukulele, sitting on a top bunk with my cabin-mates strumming and singing folk songs, including “If I had a Hammer”, “Blowing in the Wind,” “Where Have All the Flowers Gone”, and others that this group and other folk singers had brought into our lives through the magic of radio and long-play record albums. I also listened to these artists as they shared their experiences of singing during our turbulent teen-age years when Martin Luther King was teaching us about peaceful resistance, equal rights, and dreams of a racially unified America. In one of the video clips from a performance in the ‘60s, I saw Peter, Paul, and Mary standing shoulder –to-shoulder on stage with a group of singers and equal rights leaders, their arms crossed, holding hands in a friendship chain. I began to cry as I listened to their song and realized how folk music has been a vital link in my personal friendship chain throughout my life. I also heard an old, old message that had begun with the Camp Fire Girls’ friendship circles, and hadn’t left me, even though it had been buried until the day I found the knitting pattern for the Friendship Chain.
I plan to knit many Friendship Chain wash cloths. They remind me of the importance of my friends, the bonds that the friendship chain symbolizes, the strength of holding hands with friends in an eternal circle of love, and the importance of keeping a song in my heart.
Recently, while looking for a new knitting pattern for a wash cloth to take with me to my Tuesday night knitting group, I found a pattern for a “Friendship Chain” pattern online. I saved it on my Favorites list, made a couple of copies, and began knitting a new wash cloth. It was an easy pattern, one that flowed smoothly as my knitting needles clicked against each other, and within two hours, I had a completed project that I was casting off from my knitting needles. Then I made another one, and another one. There was something about the pattern that I loved – it was symmetrical in its design, and the stitch count was easy to remember, making knitting rhythmic and musical. It reminded me of singing a familiar song, one in which I knew all the words. I was pleased with the end results, and added my Friendship Chain wash cloths to my growing bundle that I hope to sell and give away.
While knitting this interesting pattern, my mind wandered as the words “friendship chain” tumbled around in my mind like a song that hangs on repeating itself over and over as a type of mantra in my brain. Memories began to emerge.
I pictured summer camp at Camp Fire Girls’ Camp Toccoa, where I spent several weeks each summer as a child and teen-ager. In my mind I saw us girls standing in a friendship circle around the evening camp fire, our arms crossed, always right over left, holding hands in a circle, singing the camp’s signature song, “Beneath the Pine Trees,” and then “Taps”, before squeezing hands in release and heading to our cabins for the night. As a Camp Fire Girl, this was a familiar ritual. After each weekly meeting our small group would form a friendship circle with our arms crossed, singing “Make new friends, but keep the old – One is silver and the other gold” followed by “Sing your way home at the end of the day.” This was our friendship chain, and the pattern I was knitting strangely reminded me of our crossed arms, standing in our friendship circle. Singing, always singing.
Yesterday, Phil and I met our childhood friend, Luci, for lunch in Decatur. Luci’s mother has recently died, and we invited Luci to meet us to express our support and friendship. Our invisible friendship chain materialized as we talked, shared common experiences, and enjoyed being back in our childhood hometown for a few hours. The links of our friendship chain were strong as we relived childhood memories, walked down familiar streets, and laughed and cried together. As Phil and I drove home, I thought about Luci and the history of our friendship, remembering our MYF group at the Decatur Methodist Church, remembering similar friendship circles with arms crossed, as we helped each other through adolescence and along our individual faith journeys.
Last night, the final thread in this emerging tapestry completed the picture as I happened upon a PBS program on television on the folk singing group, Peter, Paul, and Mary. As I listened to their songs, I was a teen-ager,back at Camp Toccoa with my baritone ukulele, sitting on a top bunk with my cabin-mates strumming and singing folk songs, including “If I had a Hammer”, “Blowing in the Wind,” “Where Have All the Flowers Gone”, and others that this group and other folk singers had brought into our lives through the magic of radio and long-play record albums. I also listened to these artists as they shared their experiences of singing during our turbulent teen-age years when Martin Luther King was teaching us about peaceful resistance, equal rights, and dreams of a racially unified America. In one of the video clips from a performance in the ‘60s, I saw Peter, Paul, and Mary standing shoulder –to-shoulder on stage with a group of singers and equal rights leaders, their arms crossed, holding hands in a friendship chain. I began to cry as I listened to their song and realized how folk music has been a vital link in my personal friendship chain throughout my life. I also heard an old, old message that had begun with the Camp Fire Girls’ friendship circles, and hadn’t left me, even though it had been buried until the day I found the knitting pattern for the Friendship Chain.
I plan to knit many Friendship Chain wash cloths. They remind me of the importance of my friends, the bonds that the friendship chain symbolizes, the strength of holding hands with friends in an eternal circle of love, and the importance of keeping a song in my heart.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
The Salt of the Earth
Living out here in the country, we have become friends with a few of our neighbors. They are wonderful people, and I am reminded what the phrase “salt of the earth” really means.
Doug is our closest neighbor. You can walk to his house if you have ten minutes to spare to get there. Cross-country, he is much closer, but I prefer to walk on the dirt road, and then up his long driveway. In the summer, I can pick wild plums along the way. We met Doug seven years ago while we were building our house, when he came over to check us out. A wiry guy, he talks just like actor Sam Elliott, and after he’s been out in the woods hunting, he looks kind of like Sam, too. Doug is an electrician, and ended up doing all of the electrical work on our home for us. Funny as hell, Doug is! He can have us rolling with his stories of growing up in the Florida panhandle with parents who believed their son needed to grow up tough, and a kid who was fearless. A murderer of English grammar, Doug’s language is colorful to say the least. A decade younger than us, he calls us Miss Jennie and Mr. Phil, out of respect for us having ten years on him. He is kind and generous, and loves to come around to sit on our porch and chew the fat with Phil. Last week when he was here, I asked him if he had heard from another of our neighbors, an elderly farmer named Earnest (pronounced “Ernst”). I hadn’t seen Earnest driving his old pick-up truck up and down our dirt road for quite awhile and I was concerned about him. Doug answered that Earnest’s children had to finally have him put in an “old folks home.” “You know,” he offered with all seriousness, “Ernst has the old-timers disease.” Doug and I are talking about going into a neighborhood business together – raising chickens for eggs and meat. He has an ideal place for it, and since he travels a lot in his work, I’ll help him with feeding and egg collecting when he is away. We think we can raise enough to provide eggs for us and for another set of neighbors, Shannon and Neshlia.
Shannon and Neshlia live closer to Doug than to us. I pass the back of their property line on my way to Doug’s house. Shannon is a house painter, and Neshlia (pronounced “Nishla”) works as a cashier in the elementary school cafeteria. Both are as country as they can be, and they also provide us with colorful language and ways of saying things we would never imagine. Shannon is slow-talking and always has a smile on his face. Neshlia reminds me of those dolls with over-sized dark eyes, innocent and curious. Whenever they come over to visit us, riding their four-wheeler, they bring their own six-pack and stay until the beer is gone. Shannon loves my bread, and Neshlia is amazed that I know how to make it. They also like my jelly, and were surprised when they brought back the empty jar that I gave them another full one. In return, they bring us venison and entertain us with their stories. The other night while sitting at the kitchen table with Neshlia while the guys were downstairs drinking and talking about the state of affairs in our country, she told me that she and Shannon were leaving the next day to go hunting. Shannon and Doug lease a hunting camp with a group of their buddies, and they spend a lot of fall week-ends there. I asked Neshlia if she was a hunter, too. She answered, “Are you kidding! I just go down to drink and hang out with the other girls for Thanksgiving.” She proceeded to describe to me how the camp was set up, with a dirt floored cooking building and huts surrounding it where each couple had their own hut to sleep in, little more than a tent with solid sides. She told me that she and Shannon were lucky with their hut. “It’s really warm,” she told me. “We have a profane heater in ours that keeps us from getting too cold.” I’ve been thinking about them this cold week-end in their hut with the profane heater!
The salt of the earth! These friends provide us with a flavoring of country Georgia life that neither Phil nor I have experienced close-up before moving here. I got a taste when I lived in a parsonage in rural Virginia, but never got close enough to those people who always kept a safe distance from the parsonage family. We have bonded with Doug, Shannon, and Neshlia in a friendship that encompasses everything that says Neighbor. We respect each other’s privacy, but we are ready at a moment’s notice to help out, have a party, or work on a project together. Shannon and Doug have helped repair a leak in our roof, Doug has installed some additional lighting in our kitchen, and the three of them pow-wowed this summer over the best way to grow their gardens. Neshlia is a warm-hearted country girl whose welcoming kitchen table is always set with a bowl of snacks on it, and she is a tender nurturer of stray cats. It doesn’t matter that Phil and I are from “the city” and have college educations. They know us as Phil, the carpenter, and Jennie, the bread and jelly maker.
And isn’t that what neighbors are all about?
Doug is our closest neighbor. You can walk to his house if you have ten minutes to spare to get there. Cross-country, he is much closer, but I prefer to walk on the dirt road, and then up his long driveway. In the summer, I can pick wild plums along the way. We met Doug seven years ago while we were building our house, when he came over to check us out. A wiry guy, he talks just like actor Sam Elliott, and after he’s been out in the woods hunting, he looks kind of like Sam, too. Doug is an electrician, and ended up doing all of the electrical work on our home for us. Funny as hell, Doug is! He can have us rolling with his stories of growing up in the Florida panhandle with parents who believed their son needed to grow up tough, and a kid who was fearless. A murderer of English grammar, Doug’s language is colorful to say the least. A decade younger than us, he calls us Miss Jennie and Mr. Phil, out of respect for us having ten years on him. He is kind and generous, and loves to come around to sit on our porch and chew the fat with Phil. Last week when he was here, I asked him if he had heard from another of our neighbors, an elderly farmer named Earnest (pronounced “Ernst”). I hadn’t seen Earnest driving his old pick-up truck up and down our dirt road for quite awhile and I was concerned about him. Doug answered that Earnest’s children had to finally have him put in an “old folks home.” “You know,” he offered with all seriousness, “Ernst has the old-timers disease.” Doug and I are talking about going into a neighborhood business together – raising chickens for eggs and meat. He has an ideal place for it, and since he travels a lot in his work, I’ll help him with feeding and egg collecting when he is away. We think we can raise enough to provide eggs for us and for another set of neighbors, Shannon and Neshlia.
Shannon and Neshlia live closer to Doug than to us. I pass the back of their property line on my way to Doug’s house. Shannon is a house painter, and Neshlia (pronounced “Nishla”) works as a cashier in the elementary school cafeteria. Both are as country as they can be, and they also provide us with colorful language and ways of saying things we would never imagine. Shannon is slow-talking and always has a smile on his face. Neshlia reminds me of those dolls with over-sized dark eyes, innocent and curious. Whenever they come over to visit us, riding their four-wheeler, they bring their own six-pack and stay until the beer is gone. Shannon loves my bread, and Neshlia is amazed that I know how to make it. They also like my jelly, and were surprised when they brought back the empty jar that I gave them another full one. In return, they bring us venison and entertain us with their stories. The other night while sitting at the kitchen table with Neshlia while the guys were downstairs drinking and talking about the state of affairs in our country, she told me that she and Shannon were leaving the next day to go hunting. Shannon and Doug lease a hunting camp with a group of their buddies, and they spend a lot of fall week-ends there. I asked Neshlia if she was a hunter, too. She answered, “Are you kidding! I just go down to drink and hang out with the other girls for Thanksgiving.” She proceeded to describe to me how the camp was set up, with a dirt floored cooking building and huts surrounding it where each couple had their own hut to sleep in, little more than a tent with solid sides. She told me that she and Shannon were lucky with their hut. “It’s really warm,” she told me. “We have a profane heater in ours that keeps us from getting too cold.” I’ve been thinking about them this cold week-end in their hut with the profane heater!
The salt of the earth! These friends provide us with a flavoring of country Georgia life that neither Phil nor I have experienced close-up before moving here. I got a taste when I lived in a parsonage in rural Virginia, but never got close enough to those people who always kept a safe distance from the parsonage family. We have bonded with Doug, Shannon, and Neshlia in a friendship that encompasses everything that says Neighbor. We respect each other’s privacy, but we are ready at a moment’s notice to help out, have a party, or work on a project together. Shannon and Doug have helped repair a leak in our roof, Doug has installed some additional lighting in our kitchen, and the three of them pow-wowed this summer over the best way to grow their gardens. Neshlia is a warm-hearted country girl whose welcoming kitchen table is always set with a bowl of snacks on it, and she is a tender nurturer of stray cats. It doesn’t matter that Phil and I are from “the city” and have college educations. They know us as Phil, the carpenter, and Jennie, the bread and jelly maker.
And isn’t that what neighbors are all about?
Thursday, August 6, 2009
A New York Adventure
In my collection of days, it often happens that some days run together and merge into a memory of giant, collage-like, proportions. This happened to me with my trip to New York last week. As I look back at everything that happened to me and around me while I was there visiting Brian, I find it very hard to separate everything to write something legible and interesting.
So, first of all, I’ll chuck the interesting and share some glimpses of the four days that I was there, aiming for the legible and memorable. It might be boring for the reader, but it helps me as I take care of my collection.
It was an amazing collection of days. I arrived at White Plains airport on Friday, with a darling senior citizen gentleman tailing me as we exited the plane, hitting on me all the way. He really was quite cute, but not my type. My eyes were glued in the direction I was headed, searching for Brian. He wasn’t hard to find – it’s a tiny airport, and quite a surprise for someone who is used to the chaos of LaGuardia. It took a total of five minutes for my bag to appear on the belt at baggage claim, and before we knew it, Brian and I were in his car heading toward the city, talking and catching up on anything and everything we could think of to talk about.
It was raining. I was glad that I had an umbrella as we journeyed down to the Village from Brian's apartment to the Fringe Festival headquarters to deposit some postcards of “The Jungle Fun Room.” As always, the subway ride kept me enthralled as I watched people and marveled at New Yorkers, wondering what each one was doing on the subway and wishing I could follow them home to see where they lived. I knew that each one had a story to tell, and I wanted to know it! But back to the rain….. after leaving the subway, we sloshed our way to our destination, dodged oncoming umbrellas, deposited the postcards and pinned a newspaper clipping about the show onto their bulletin board, and picked up some programs and other promo stuff. Stopping for a slice of pizza before subwaying it back to Brian’s place, we took care of our growling stomachs and escaped a downpour. That was the first day.
Saturday welcomed me with sunshine pouring in through the living room windows where I was sacked out on the couch. Thank goodness, the rain was over for awhile. This was the Big Day – the day of the show. A little drama welcomed us as we shook off the cobwebs of our night’s sleep, and listened to the television news reporter telling us that LaGuardia was shut down due to a potential threat. Brian’s friend, Christy, was in Norfolk waiting to board a plane bound for LaGuardia! Since she was the inspiration for one of the characters in the play, and one of Brian’s very special friends, we were on pins and needles, hoping against hope that somehow she’d make it to New York that morning. Fast forward a few hours….. we were waiting in the theater for time to enter, and she hops out of a cab. She made it!
It was an afternoon of reunions, both real and in memories. “Checking In” was a great show, and pulled out memories of friendships and relationships long buried, as everyone in the audience saw themselves in at least one of the characters, laughed, cried, and cheered. After the show, we all convened in a local bar, where the reunion continued. Many of Brian’s friends, several of Roy’s, along with the cast all celebrated the final performance, and partied. This continued into the dinner hour, when a small group of us moved to Brian and Roy’s neighborhood for supper. Of course, there was drama along the way – there always is when a group like this gets together – but the evening ended on a happy note, and we all slept well that night.
Brian had to work on Sunday, and I accompanied him to Marble Collegiate Church for the day, again wading through a New York rain – my feet got soaked. It was fun meeting the people he works with and seeing his day job stomping grounds. I especially enjoyed attending a Bible Study and the 11:00 church service, and wished that I had a church home like that one. Etched into my memory is the beauty of the sanctuary, the magnificent music, an inspiring sermon, and the warm and friendly people. For the sake of brevity, in Forrest Gump style, this is all I have to say about that.
Cocktail hour with neighbors late in the afternoon rounded off the day. I always enjoy meeting Brian and Roy’s friends, as they are so interesting and engaging, and this couple was no exception. And they had a great dog, Valentino – I love the dogs of New York and their cool names!
Harry Potter on Monday at one of New York’s oldest and most beautiful theaters, then a quiet dinner with Brian at a local pub, while Roy drove his mom home to New Jersey. No rain this day, which made it an almost perfect day. Back at home, Brian and I ate cheetos and drank wine until we got sleepy, and called it a day.
White Plains Airport on Tuesday showed me another view of this little airport. It was a zoo – crowded, unorganized, noisy, and fun. It felt more like a train terminal than an airport, and had a party atmosphere. Although everyone was jammed up together, sitting in row after row of terminal seats, trying to understand the blaring loud speaker announcing the flights, everyone seemed to be in good spirits, and took everything with a sense of humor. I was very glad that I had checked my bag and didn’t have to deal with it, but I had a nagging feeling that I might not see it when I reached Atlanta.
Finally home, I grabbed my bag from baggage claim – it arrived on the same plane with me, wonder of wonders! – and thus ended my New York adventure.
There is much more to tell, but it will have to wait for another day.
So, first of all, I’ll chuck the interesting and share some glimpses of the four days that I was there, aiming for the legible and memorable. It might be boring for the reader, but it helps me as I take care of my collection.
It was an amazing collection of days. I arrived at White Plains airport on Friday, with a darling senior citizen gentleman tailing me as we exited the plane, hitting on me all the way. He really was quite cute, but not my type. My eyes were glued in the direction I was headed, searching for Brian. He wasn’t hard to find – it’s a tiny airport, and quite a surprise for someone who is used to the chaos of LaGuardia. It took a total of five minutes for my bag to appear on the belt at baggage claim, and before we knew it, Brian and I were in his car heading toward the city, talking and catching up on anything and everything we could think of to talk about.
It was raining. I was glad that I had an umbrella as we journeyed down to the Village from Brian's apartment to the Fringe Festival headquarters to deposit some postcards of “The Jungle Fun Room.” As always, the subway ride kept me enthralled as I watched people and marveled at New Yorkers, wondering what each one was doing on the subway and wishing I could follow them home to see where they lived. I knew that each one had a story to tell, and I wanted to know it! But back to the rain….. after leaving the subway, we sloshed our way to our destination, dodged oncoming umbrellas, deposited the postcards and pinned a newspaper clipping about the show onto their bulletin board, and picked up some programs and other promo stuff. Stopping for a slice of pizza before subwaying it back to Brian’s place, we took care of our growling stomachs and escaped a downpour. That was the first day.
Saturday welcomed me with sunshine pouring in through the living room windows where I was sacked out on the couch. Thank goodness, the rain was over for awhile. This was the Big Day – the day of the show. A little drama welcomed us as we shook off the cobwebs of our night’s sleep, and listened to the television news reporter telling us that LaGuardia was shut down due to a potential threat. Brian’s friend, Christy, was in Norfolk waiting to board a plane bound for LaGuardia! Since she was the inspiration for one of the characters in the play, and one of Brian’s very special friends, we were on pins and needles, hoping against hope that somehow she’d make it to New York that morning. Fast forward a few hours….. we were waiting in the theater for time to enter, and she hops out of a cab. She made it!
It was an afternoon of reunions, both real and in memories. “Checking In” was a great show, and pulled out memories of friendships and relationships long buried, as everyone in the audience saw themselves in at least one of the characters, laughed, cried, and cheered. After the show, we all convened in a local bar, where the reunion continued. Many of Brian’s friends, several of Roy’s, along with the cast all celebrated the final performance, and partied. This continued into the dinner hour, when a small group of us moved to Brian and Roy’s neighborhood for supper. Of course, there was drama along the way – there always is when a group like this gets together – but the evening ended on a happy note, and we all slept well that night.
Brian had to work on Sunday, and I accompanied him to Marble Collegiate Church for the day, again wading through a New York rain – my feet got soaked. It was fun meeting the people he works with and seeing his day job stomping grounds. I especially enjoyed attending a Bible Study and the 11:00 church service, and wished that I had a church home like that one. Etched into my memory is the beauty of the sanctuary, the magnificent music, an inspiring sermon, and the warm and friendly people. For the sake of brevity, in Forrest Gump style, this is all I have to say about that.
Cocktail hour with neighbors late in the afternoon rounded off the day. I always enjoy meeting Brian and Roy’s friends, as they are so interesting and engaging, and this couple was no exception. And they had a great dog, Valentino – I love the dogs of New York and their cool names!
Harry Potter on Monday at one of New York’s oldest and most beautiful theaters, then a quiet dinner with Brian at a local pub, while Roy drove his mom home to New Jersey. No rain this day, which made it an almost perfect day. Back at home, Brian and I ate cheetos and drank wine until we got sleepy, and called it a day.
White Plains Airport on Tuesday showed me another view of this little airport. It was a zoo – crowded, unorganized, noisy, and fun. It felt more like a train terminal than an airport, and had a party atmosphere. Although everyone was jammed up together, sitting in row after row of terminal seats, trying to understand the blaring loud speaker announcing the flights, everyone seemed to be in good spirits, and took everything with a sense of humor. I was very glad that I had checked my bag and didn’t have to deal with it, but I had a nagging feeling that I might not see it when I reached Atlanta.
Finally home, I grabbed my bag from baggage claim – it arrived on the same plane with me, wonder of wonders! – and thus ended my New York adventure.
There is much more to tell, but it will have to wait for another day.
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