Uncluttering A Brand New Year

2012 is now four days old. I woke up on New Year’s Day I with the old saying in my mind, “Whatever you do on the New Year is what you will be doing all year long.” I was tempted to sit in a comfortable chair snacking on chocolate while watching old movies on television, but my better judgment kept me from doing this. My superstitious nature kept me from emptying the dishwasher, vacuuming the house, or folding clothes, although I know I’ll be doing these chores all year long anyway. However, I did spend part of the day reflecting on my life, and taking a mental inventory of where I am at this point in my trek through life.

Included in this exercise was spending some time uncluttering my life in the form of going through an old chest of drawers that serves as a collection point for useless and non-essential items. I thought this would be a beneficial thing to do on New Year’s Day, as it might help me throughout 2012 from squirreling stuff I don’t need and may never use. It was an interesting undertaking. I found items that I had forgotten about over the past few years, as well as some things that totally surprised me, trying to remember where they came from and why they ended up in said drawer.

One item of interest was an old composition book, the black-and-white covered kind we had as kids for taking spelling tests and writing school assignments. This particular one was titled “Private Papers”, in a third grade printing that I recognized as my own. When I opened it, I found a collection of poems I had written as an eight year old. Obviously, I concentrated on rhyming more than content, but a couple of the poems made me smile. In a separate blog, I plan to publish a few of these gems.

Another object was a brass container with a lid so tight that Phil had to pry it open for me. Inside was a collection of my father’s odds and ends, mostly Masonic Lodge and Rotary memorabilia. One thing that interested me was a commemorative coin of some sort that had the words “Knights Templar” engraved on it. From reading Dan Brown‘s books and watching movies like “The Da Vinci Code,” my imagination ran wild for a short time, imagining my father in secretive gatherings and wondering about his involvement in this mysterious society. After examining each item and thinking about my dad, Phil and I returned each to the container and sealed it back with the tight-fitting lid. Back into the drawer it went. I’m sure I’ll pull it out again in a few years and go through the process again.

A few other things I found were my mother’s high school diploma, Phil’s grandfather’s funeral prayer book, written in both English and Hebrew, a collection of picture postcards from my childhood, and my high school senior portrait. While I returned most of these treasures to the drawers, I managed to fill up a garbage bag with things that were not worth saving. Included were a compass that didn’t know which direction North was, a dried up yellow highlighter, a bundle of yarn that was beyond detangling, several strands of knotted up Mardi Gras beads, and dozens of freebies from trade shows I’d attended during the past several years.

It was odd how this activity of going through these jam-packed drawers and my introspection of my life intertwined New Year’s afternoon. Memories piled on top of memories, mysteries deepened, questions about why on earth I stashed a certain article into a drawer for safekeeping, and why I ever felt compelled to save something that clearly was worthless to begin with. In so many ways, the drawers mirrored my life, full of valued treasures, mementoes of special moments in both my life and my parents’ lives, remnants of past hobbies and interests, photos, clippings, and other paraphernalia from my life’s events.

As I returned the last drawer to the chest of drawers, now neatly organized and visibly less stuffed, I felt as if I had also uncluttered my life. With a renewed resolve to pay attention the important things in my life, discard the useless, and dust off the meaningless, I was ready to move forward into the future with a lighter burden.

It’s a brand new year. I cleaned out some drawers on New Year’s Day. If that’s what I’ll be doing all year long, it’s o.k. with me. I think keeping my life uncluttered is worth it. And I guess I’ll still do my share of the household chores I avoided all day long.

Remembering

One of my best friends phoned me yesterday to tell me that she had read my Christmas letter – not one time, but three. She said that each time she read it, she received a different message from it, which I thought was totally cool. I jokingly responded that while the third time usually is the charm, perhaps she needed to read it one more time, and let me know what she thinks then. We both laughed, but my thoughts continued after our phone call ended.

As I struggled to write my Christmas message this year, a comment that Sister Carol Perry (the Bible Scholar for Marble Collegiate Church) made in a Bible study that I watch online kept creeping up and tapping me on the shoulder. She mentioned the fact that the Hebrew people of Bible times were reminded over and over “to remember.” Remembering was very important to their faith and culture – they remembered the stories of their faith, they remembered the prophets, they remembered the commandments, and they remembered God’s promise to His people. I began to consider “remembering” from a personal perspective, leading me to write my own message in this year’s Christmas letter.

Now that Christmas Cookie Baking Day is over, and it joins my collection of cherished memories of the season, I think about Christmases past, and realize that everything worth remembering is now in my collection of memories. And this is what my Collection of Days is all about – remembering. But memories are not always happy, as my friend reminded me when we were talking about my Christmas message, and many people do not have the warm Christmas memories that I wrote about. But what about the sad times, in addition to the happy? Do we remember them all? Yes, all memories are part of the collection of life, as they merge and mingle together, allowing us to remember and to grow.

As I go back to the reference of the Old Testament Hebrew community, I see that much of their remembering was in the form of lessons learned. In an Old Testament college class I took many years ago, one of the main lessons I retained from the class was that God blessed his people, they strayed from God, God punished them, they repented, and God blessed them with a grace gift, thus beginning the cycle all over again. This became the essence of their remembering, as they told and retold the stories of their faith and their God. If it weren’t for remembering, how could they ever learn?

So, I return in my thoughts to this Christmas. As each day comes and goes, all activities and thoughts move from the present into the realm of memory. Today is a brief moment in my life, but the memories of Christmases past grow with each day that passes. It becomes less important what my frame of mind is as I approach Christmas, or what mood the season may cast upon me, but more importantly how the memory and remembering changes me as I move into my future. Whether I am happy or sad, alone or surrounded by people, busy or contemplative, a gift-giver or a gift-receiver, the important thing for me is to remember, not only my personal Christmases, but also what Christmas really means. It becomes vitally important for me to remember God’s greatest grace gift of all time.

It’s something to ponder, don’t you think?

(Please read my Christmas letter, posted on this blog on December 7).

A Time For Remembering

My Annual Christmas Message to Family and Friends.

I sit at my computer, staring at a blank screen, not knowing what to write. I feel like I am Christmased out with inspiring stories and witty essays to share. Inspiration seems to have gone on vacation, and I sit here wondering what to say. Usually by this time of year, something has touched my heart, and my writing comes effortlessly. This year- I struggle to find a creative thought. So…. what am I going to write about Christmas this year?

I’d like to say how much I am looking forward to Christmas the way I did as a child and as a mother of two little boys, but I’m not. There is so much for a child to look forward to with all of the holiday excitement in the air. I remember childhood Christmases, picturing my family gathered around our dining room table for our family dinner. I see my friends and me racing up and down the Winnona Drive sidewalk on new roller skates or bikes, and cradling our new baby dolls. As we get older, we model sweaters and new outfits for each other, and listen to our LP records on the hi-fi set in our den. I watch my mother’s delight upon opening Daddy’s gift- the one Molly and I were given the assignment on Christmas Eve to go out and buy for him to give to her. I see my own children’s faces light up in glee on Christmas morning as they dump their stockings to find all kinds of treasures, and then tear open their gifts that they had circled in the Sears Christmas catalog. I watch all of this from a distance, and I remember.

Yes, my memories of Christmas Day are warm and fuzzy.

Christmas is certainly different now. While I celebrate Christmas with my annual Christmas Cookie Baking Day early in December, once it is over, our home is quiet for the rest of the season. There’s not much to anticipate. We get together with a small group during the holidays for our annual Christmas lasagna dinner, and some years we travel during the season. But Christmas Day is usually a home-alone, ho-hum kind of day. With my sons living on opposite sides of the country, it’s very rare for them to be with me at Christmas. I miss those family Christmases.

I don’t want to sound negative about Christmas, because I’m not. I know my memories are certainly distorted as I gaze through the mist into my past. As surely as I, along with my boys, have grown up and changed, my celebration of Christmas has also changed. I think about the spiritual nature of Christmas more than I did as a child, and Santa Claus and receiving gifts aren’t important to me the way they were when I was a little girl, or when Wade and Brian were kids. However, Christmas Eve continues to be magical and mystical. It has taken a prominent place in my celebration, as I sit in the sanctuary at church and let the music, candlelight, and scripture of the holy night wash over me. While it is a beautiful narrative, the nativity story doesn’t hold the same appeal to me as it once did, as I understand that the Biblical account of the night of Christ’s birth probably isn’t totally factual, and the event may not have been exactly as it is portrayed in the Bible story. However, the significance of Jesus’ entry into this world and the impact of his life and ministry is overwhelming to me as I celebrate his birth.

I guess what I am saying this year is that being excited about Christmas Day may not be as important as I thought. Childhood Christmases are only a memory, and the reality is that life changes as the years pass. Maybe I’m supposed to approach Christmas Day differently; perhaps it’s more important for me to simply remember Christmases past as I embrace this Christmas. Christmas 2011 has something unique to offer as I open my heart to the possibilities.

My blank sheet of paper is finally filled with my Christmas message for this year. My wish for my readers is a Christmas filled with the love of family and friends, the warmth of peace and joy, the tastes and sounds of yummy food and happy laughter - all wrapped up in wonderful Christmas memories for future Christmases.

My Father's Pocket Watch

A round, gold pocket watch is attached to a long gold chain. Indentions from babies’ teething dent the worn timepiece.

The man’s trousers feature a special hidden pocket below the waistband just large enough for the watch to slip inside and disappear.

The chain is hooked to a front belt loop, making the chain look like a golden capital U.

The little girl climbs up onto her daddy’s lap, pulling at the chain to extricate the watch from its hiding place.

Tiny hands hold the watch while one little finger pushes on the watch’s magic button, making the top pop up to reveal the watch’s face, bringing smiles to two other faces.

The little girl bends down to bring the watch to her ear, turning her bright eyes toward those of her father, stretching the chain tautly as she pulls.

“Tick, tick, tick, tick,” the second hand says as it travels around to each of the twelve numbers. Father and daughter share a warm hug, a melting heart, and a child’s giggle.

I loved my Daddy’s lap and his pocket watch.

The Baby Crib

I was thinking about my babies’ crib the other night as I was drifting off to sleep. I’m not sure why this bubbled up into my conscious mind, but since it did, I relaxed and let my memories lead me by the hand into my past.

We were living in Miami when I became pregnant with Wade. Our home was a cozy one-bedroom garage apartment, surrounded by avocado and citrus trees. The little cottage apartment was barely big enough for the two of us, not to mention a new baby. As we planned for the new addition, we knew that our baby would be sharing our small bedroom with us – there was no other place for him or her – space was definitely limited. I was determined to purchase a full-sized baby bed; I wanted my baby to sleep in comfort, with plenty of room to grow.

The perfect crib found us in the baby department of one of Miami’s department stores. It was a simple style, painted white, with pink and blue spinning balls along the top of the headboard. Stenciled on the headboard panel were the cutest little puppies I’d ever seen. It was the latest design – both side rails went up and down, and the springs had three height adjustments, showing consideration for both a growing baby and the parents who lifted baby in and out of bed. The rail tops had a plastic coating on them, a safety feature for teething babies. I loved this bed at first sight, and even though we couldn’t afford it, somehow we found the money to purchase it.


David assembled it in our bedroom as soon as it was delivered. It fit nicely tucked into a corner of our bedroom, with enough room to spare for a small rocking chair beside it. I put a fresh crib sheet on the mattress, hung the nursery rhyme mobile my parents had given to us, and waited for baby Wade or Katherine to arrive. The crib and I were ready for baby.

Wade slept in the crib from the day we brought him home from the hospital until he was almost three years old. It moved with us several times over those years, and David became very proficient at assembling and disassembling it with each move.


By the time Wade celebrated his third birthday, he had made the move into a big boy bed. We were expecting another baby, and Wade was excited about becoming a big brother.

Before Brian was born, we moved into a house with a small bedroom that would serve as a nursery. David assembled the crib, and I cleaned it up and pulled out the crib sheets I’d stored away. Up went the same mobile that had been Wade’s, and we were again ready for baby.

Brian slept in the crib until he was big enough to climb in and out of it all by himself. Again, we took it down, stored it in the basement, and Brian graduated to a twin bed with rails on each side.


I knew that there would be no more babies coming our way, and thought often about my beautiful crib gathering dust in the basement. What should I do with it? My answer came one morning as a dropped Brian off at a neighborhood church day care center, where he spent one day each week while I worked a part-time job. The center was growing by leaps and bounds, and I noticed that the three cribs in the nursery room were occupied. I asked the director if she accepted donations. You’d have thought I’d offered her a million dollars! Yes! They’d love to have another crib, and hand-me-downs were most welcome.

I talked first to Wade and Brian about the idea of giving their baby bed to the day care center. Upon receiving their enthusiastic approval, we told David our plan. He agreed, and by the following week, the crib was being used by a cute baby girl. When I dropped Brian off at the center my next working day, he was delighted to see his bed with a sleeping baby in it.

I’ve often thought about that crib, wondering where it is and who is safely tucked into it. I'd like to believe that even after all these years, it is still on duty.

As My World Turns

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!

The Little Gardening Basket

I don’t remember when Mama first began picking fruit and vegetables and placing them into her little brown gardening basket. I’m sure she must have had other baskets, but I don’t remember any except this one. During the growing season every year it either sat on her kitchen counter or was swinging from her arm as she went to and fro from her garden. She would come into the house with the little basket laden with strawberries, blackberries, beans, squash - whatever was in season at the time.

The last summer of Mama’s life, the basket sat idle on the counter collecting dust, used recipes, and assorted pens and pencils. Like her garden that summer, the basket looked forlorn and lonely. It waited patiently for Mama to get well and swing its little handle over her arm and head outdoors.

Mama didn’t get well. After her death, my brothers and sister and I went through all of her belongings, choosing what we’d like to keep and what we would let go. It was a heart-wrenching job, consisting of many shared tears and memories. Somehow, the little basket was overlooked and found itself in the pile of left-overs bound for the Salvation Army. Before I gave my final o.k. to call for the truck to come and pick up the remnants of my parents’ lives, I went through them one last time. I couldn’t let the basket go, even though I had more than enough baskets of my own at home. I picked it up, placed a few odds-and-ends into it and reluctantly gave my blessing for the dispersal of the rest of the pile.

This was almost fifteen years ago. Since that day, the little basket has been my summertime companion, carrying my own berries and vegetables and flowers. It has also been my connection to my mother every spring and summer, as I’ve followed in her gardening footsteps and think about her as I fill it up with the bounties of my garden.

This morning while I was picking beans, the basket fell unexpectedly to the ground, its handle still hanging from my arm. Upon examination, I saw that on one side of the basket the handle had slipped out of the woven reeds holding it, and the weight of the full basket broke the reeds on the other side. In tears, I scooped up the fallen beans and okra I had been picking, and placed them all back into the basket. Carrying it like an infant in my arms, I slowly walked back to the house crying over the little basket’s seemingly mortal injuries.

Back in my kitchen, I unloaded my morning’s harvest onto the counter and examined the basket more closely. Determining that it was beyond my expertise to try to repair it, I gently placed the handle inside the basket and placed it on a shelf where I could always see and touch it. I selected another basket from my collection – this one much bigger and sturdier – and silently anointed it for its new job.

I’m going to miss carrying my little brown basket to the garden every morning, as well as the bond it provided to my mother and memories of her. But maybe it’s time for it to rest from its labors and enjoy the pleasures of my kitchen. I’ve decided to use it to hold dried herbs and spices.

I’m sure Mama would be pleased.

The Estate Sale

Over and over and over…… I can’t stay away!

On Wednesday at lunch with my friend, Dena, she told me that there was an estate sale not far from Social Circle. Would I like to go to it with her after lunch? Sure! I’d never been to one, and I was curious.

As we followed the signs to the sale, I realized that it was being held at a home a mile from where I live, and one that Diamond and I pass everyday on our walk. I have admired this home and acreage from a distance ever since we’ve been in Social Circle, and I was excited more about going inside the home than in the sale itself. From the For Sale flyer that I had picked up when the house first went onto the market a couple of months ago, I knew that it was one of those homes that had been added onto over the years and the center of the home had originally been a log cabin. I could hardly wait to get out of the car to take a look at it.

From the moment I stepped into the house, which smelled of a mixture of musty air, mildew, pets, and old fireplace smoke, all of my senses went into overdrive, including my emotions. As Dena and I walked through the rooms, admiring the wood beams from the original log structure, to all of the collections this family had, I was overcome with a sense of sadness. Here was a family’s life on display, and everything had a price tag on it. I felt like an intruder. The house itself was fascinating, and on my first run through it, I hardly noticed all of the treasures for sale, but felt the presence of a family who no longer lived there. It was a lovely house, and I secretly wished I were rich enough to afford to buy the entire thing – house, land, horse stables, everything!

On my second round, I discovered something I’ve been looking for. For the past six years, ever since moving into our home, I’ve wanted a sofa. I couldn’t afford a new one, so my eyes were always peeled for a good second-hand one that would fit into my barn home. In the corner of one of the rooms in this house sat a burgundy leather sofa and matching loveseat. I hadn’t ever considered leather, but the moment I sat down on this one, I was in heaven. I was elevated to an even higher cloud when Dena pointed out to me that not only was it a sofa, but it was a double recliner. The price was right, as well, well within the limits of the money I’d stashed away years ago for my new sofa. I could hardly wait for Dena to pay for her purchases, so that I could go home and bring Phil back to look at my discovery.

An hour later, I was back at the house, with Phil in tow and a wad of cash in my pocket to look at the sofa again. He liked it! He also liked the matching loveseat, which was also a double recliner, and we made a deal to buy the set. Once this decision was made, and we claimed both pieces as ours, we began looking more closely at the other things for sale. Phil found a huge box full of baseball caps and purchased the entire box. We examined the shelves of books, and found two old, old books to add to our own library. We also stopped to admire the shelves of stuffed animals and music boxes that were part of someone’s collection. Out in one of the sheds, Phil found some tools he wanted and an old fishing tackle box.

On Thursday, I didn’t go back to the sale, but the house was on my mind all day long. That afternoon, a couple of friends went with Phil to pick up our furniture, and he returned with not only my new sofa and loveseat, but with an electric meat slicer that would serve as a bread slicer. I was thrilled! When I began cleaning the leather, I found a dog’s collar and ball, two dish towels, and some change hidden in the cushions. What a treasure!

Friday morning found me and my little Honda driving up the long driveway one more time. The sense of sadness was more intense as I walked through the rooms once again, noting all of the items now missing. The huge “Gone With the Wind” collection was gone. In one bedroom, a woman was going through clothes hanging in a closet, and in another a couple was discussing whether a chest of drawers would fit into a certain space in their home. I stopped at the stuffed animal display, and selected a cute bunny rabbit with the original tag still on it. I then went to the shelf of music boxes and chose one with little animals that moved in a circle when the music played. As I was paying for my purchases, the auctioneer told me a little about the family who had lived there. I was surprised to learn that they had no children. All of the music boxes and stuffed animals were the collection of the woman, and the man was a Nascar lover with collections of caps, matchbox racecars, and beer paraphernalia. I had originally pictured in my mind grandchildren running through the house, and a grandma and grandpa who had all of these lovely things in their home for the enjoyment of children. My perspective shifted drastically, and my sadness deepened even more.

As Diamond and I walked past the home yesterday afternoon on our walk, I paused to look across the pasture with horses grazing to the home I had been so curious about. I thought about life and how we live for a short time, surround ourselves with things we love, want, and need, and then we’re gone, leaving all of the things for people like me to pick up and take home to our own lives. I wondered who the next family to live in the house would be, and how they would fill their house. Would it be filled with things, children, memories?

I now am connected to these people I never met. They are gone, but I will think about them as I enjoy my new furniture and slice my homemade bread. As for the music box and stuffed bunny rabbit? I am giving these to my little friend Lillie. They need to be in the hands of a child to love and enjoy.

Today is the last day of the estate sale. I am wondering as I write if I’ll go back today for one last walk through the house. I probably will. It is pulling me toward it, not because I want to buy something more, but because the spirits there still have something to say to me.

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.