Now that the Amagansett house is taking shape (new deck, wood floors and butcher block counters sanded, garage door opener that actually works, replace worn siding and one window [it has been about 30 years after all), I was beginning to make plans for more travel and adventures. I just hadn't expected it to start with a mini disaster here and there.
First I crashed my iPhone. When you don't know an app from an OS, that's easy to do. That, of course, happened just before I was set to leave for the Midwest for Thanksgiving. I wasn't keen on driving without a phone available for calls and for information. I know, I know. Once upon a time we stopped and used pay phones. The problem with that is that pay phones hardly exist anymore. At least ones in working order. Besides I'm an iPhone and Google convert and no longer like being separated from my devices.
So, in an attempt to be efficient, I made an appointment with the Genius Bar that was not too far out of my way as I left Long Island. Watching my time carefully, I drove up about 15 minutes before the appointment and was met in the parking lot by an Apple employee explaining that all their systems were down. Apple store systems not operating? What is happening to the universe? Not to worry, he said. All the appointments had been transferred to the Roosevelt Mall store. Back in the car for a 20 minute drive to a store that looked like the last shopping day before Christmas. I've seen crowded stores but this one was seriously crowded and mostly by aggravated Long Islanders who didn't like having to change the location for their appointment (one lady, unfortunately ahead of me, had to describe what she termed an hour drive -- somewhat difficult to comprehend when her original appointment, like mine, could not have been more than 20 minutes away at slow speed).
The customers were not doing anything good for the New York or Long Island image. The Apple folks, on the other hand, were acting like real New Yorkers. They were coping. They listened patiently (how they did that part I will never know) and kept the lists and found the next available Genius. The punch line? My iPhone was functioning and had my contacts back within half an hour.
Onward to my first stop -- but more on that later.
Thursday, December 5, 2013
Saturday, September 28, 2013
Thanks for the Memories
When someone dies, you find yourself going over and over memories you didn't realize you had. At least I do. Of course, that's after you get over being so stunned that it seems your mind just isn't working any more. That was me a few mornings ago, when I got a text telling me that a long time family friend had been shot and killed. It wasn't just the loss of my friend, although "just" is not a word that can really fit into that sentence. It was the intrusion of violence into my life. I've lost loved ones to accidents and to sudden health disasters, but violence, a violent death caused by someone's malice, had never reached me before. I love my murder mysteries, read them all the time, but I never expected one to find me or one of my friends. There is a very real comprehension problem here.
The part I can comprehend is my friend's life and the memories I have of him. Ross was my son David's trainer when he competed in horse shows. One of my favorite memories goes back to the early days of showing. It's horse show day and David and I are still new to the game. We've made sure he has all the right equipment and David's looking spiffy in riding gear and trying to look confident. I've loaded the car and am just doing the driving. We arrive at the show, somewhere out on Long Island, and start to get ready when we realize we've got a problem. We (okay I) forgot to put the saddle in the car. Pretty basic, right? I have no idea how to solve this problem. You can't just run to the corner drugstore or even the nearest shopping mall and pick up a saddle. So, in fear and trembling, we go to Ross to explain how much trouble we're in.
"Ross", I say, "we have a big problem." Ross looks at me, expecting the worst, and I tell him we forgot the saddle. "Oh," he says, " I thought you meant a real problem." Then, without moving from where he was standing, he calls out to someone else at the show and asks to borrow a saddle. The next thing I know someone walks up and hands him a saddle. Ross looks down at it to see what we've got. He hands it to David and says: "Carry it carefully. It's the best saddle you'll ever ride in." It was Hermes.
That was my friend, Ross. Always with impeccable good taste. Always there for his kids, for his friends. Don't rest in peace, Ross. Ride in peace. Ride well, my friend.
The part I can comprehend is my friend's life and the memories I have of him. Ross was my son David's trainer when he competed in horse shows. One of my favorite memories goes back to the early days of showing. It's horse show day and David and I are still new to the game. We've made sure he has all the right equipment and David's looking spiffy in riding gear and trying to look confident. I've loaded the car and am just doing the driving. We arrive at the show, somewhere out on Long Island, and start to get ready when we realize we've got a problem. We (okay I) forgot to put the saddle in the car. Pretty basic, right? I have no idea how to solve this problem. You can't just run to the corner drugstore or even the nearest shopping mall and pick up a saddle. So, in fear and trembling, we go to Ross to explain how much trouble we're in.
"Ross", I say, "we have a big problem." Ross looks at me, expecting the worst, and I tell him we forgot the saddle. "Oh," he says, " I thought you meant a real problem." Then, without moving from where he was standing, he calls out to someone else at the show and asks to borrow a saddle. The next thing I know someone walks up and hands him a saddle. Ross looks down at it to see what we've got. He hands it to David and says: "Carry it carefully. It's the best saddle you'll ever ride in." It was Hermes.
That was my friend, Ross. Always with impeccable good taste. Always there for his kids, for his friends. Don't rest in peace, Ross. Ride in peace. Ride well, my friend.
Friday, September 13, 2013
Like Old Times
Just when I thought all my immediate neighbors had left for the season. As I finished my coffee this morning, I heard something, something that turned out to be voices. Looking our my window, I saw a strangely familiar sight at my next door neighbor's place. A number of miscellaneous vehicles, including a huge camper trailer. A small tent with open sides. A few people, soon joined by a few more. It was when I realized that everyone I could see was on a cell phone that I had it. Of course, a photo shoot. Possibly a film or a tv show. All I know is that if I see Kevin Bacon, I'm keeping an eye out for serial killers. After I say hi to Kevin, of course.
Sunday, September 8, 2013
Treasure Hunt
It's all in how you look at it. That's a piece of possibly good advice that I have never liked hearing. Recently, though, my daughter, Eleanor, found a way of expressing it that got to me. If you can't change it, change the way you look at it.
That fit in very well with an issue that had arisen for me. Most of my worldly goods, other than the things I had in my car as I traveled, are now in a storage room. Getting all of my things into storage with a closing deadline coming up when I sold the farm wasn't easy. I attempted to organize it by numbering the boxes and keeping a list of the box numbers and contents on my iPhone. Let's just say that the first few boxes list almost every individual item, but at the end the descriptions got more and more general. Sometimes I listed the closet or room, sometimes a general category like pots and pans or towels and such. That's the first part of the issue.
The second part is that I envisioned neat rows of cardboard boxes in more or less numerical order. Wrong. Since I spent most of my time packing, I did not get to see the storage room much until after we had fitted in the two rugs I sent out for cleaning at the last minute. I say "fitted in" because by the time the rugs got there, there was just about enough room to shoehorn them in. When I opened the storage room door, there was almost no room to stand inside the room. So much for making a nice list of the boxes I wanted to get to first because they contained things I could use as I settled into Amagansett.
I was so frustrated. Then the advice finally got through. I could continue to be frustrated because I couldn't locate or get to what I wanted or I could regard the whole thing as a treasure hunt. I would simply take out boxes as I could reach them and see what I found inside. A treasure hunt. And that's what it has turned out to be. I'm finding things I almost forgot I had, let alone that I had packed them.
My favorite item surfaced when a friend delivered a chest of drawers that was somehow accessible for removal and would help out a lot at the Amagansett house (I hate the idea of buying something when I know I have it somewhere already). As it was moved out of the bed of the pickup truck that had transported it, he looked down and asked if I had dropped my watch. No, it was still on my wrist. Wonder what this is. I looked. It was a watch I had bought a few years ago. Not very expensive but it was a shape and design I liked and seldom saw. Also it was purchased on a girls weekend trip with my daughters and a dear friend. I was so sure that I had packed it in things I took with me on my road trip, that I had turned all my bags and boxes upside down more than once in a search for it, but to no avail. Now suddenly here it was again. I have no idea how it failed to get taken out of the drawer or how it stayed in there despite all the moving around, but here it is now. Now that's what I call a treasure hunt.
That fit in very well with an issue that had arisen for me. Most of my worldly goods, other than the things I had in my car as I traveled, are now in a storage room. Getting all of my things into storage with a closing deadline coming up when I sold the farm wasn't easy. I attempted to organize it by numbering the boxes and keeping a list of the box numbers and contents on my iPhone. Let's just say that the first few boxes list almost every individual item, but at the end the descriptions got more and more general. Sometimes I listed the closet or room, sometimes a general category like pots and pans or towels and such. That's the first part of the issue.
The second part is that I envisioned neat rows of cardboard boxes in more or less numerical order. Wrong. Since I spent most of my time packing, I did not get to see the storage room much until after we had fitted in the two rugs I sent out for cleaning at the last minute. I say "fitted in" because by the time the rugs got there, there was just about enough room to shoehorn them in. When I opened the storage room door, there was almost no room to stand inside the room. So much for making a nice list of the boxes I wanted to get to first because they contained things I could use as I settled into Amagansett.
I was so frustrated. Then the advice finally got through. I could continue to be frustrated because I couldn't locate or get to what I wanted or I could regard the whole thing as a treasure hunt. I would simply take out boxes as I could reach them and see what I found inside. A treasure hunt. And that's what it has turned out to be. I'm finding things I almost forgot I had, let alone that I had packed them.
My favorite item surfaced when a friend delivered a chest of drawers that was somehow accessible for removal and would help out a lot at the Amagansett house (I hate the idea of buying something when I know I have it somewhere already). As it was moved out of the bed of the pickup truck that had transported it, he looked down and asked if I had dropped my watch. No, it was still on my wrist. Wonder what this is. I looked. It was a watch I had bought a few years ago. Not very expensive but it was a shape and design I liked and seldom saw. Also it was purchased on a girls weekend trip with my daughters and a dear friend. I was so sure that I had packed it in things I took with me on my road trip, that I had turned all my bags and boxes upside down more than once in a search for it, but to no avail. Now suddenly here it was again. I have no idea how it failed to get taken out of the drawer or how it stayed in there despite all the moving around, but here it is now. Now that's what I call a treasure hunt.
Monday, August 19, 2013
We Lutherans Rock!!!
Yesterday in Church, toward the end of the service, came the usual announcements. Except they weren't just the usual announcements of groups that would be meeting that week and calls for sign up for various things. This week our pastor was pleased to announce that the ELCA (Evangelical Lutheran Church in America, my own particular brand of Lutheran) had chosen as the presiding Bishop of our Church, our denomination, a woman, Elizabeth Eaton.
Okay, now I was sitting up straight and listening with really full attention. While the ELCA has had women pastors and local bishops for some time now, selecting a woman to run the whole thing and to speak for us as a group -- well, it's kind of like the Berlin Wall falling. To hear that she was Harvard trained, which means she may have known Krister Stendhal, the head of the Harvard Divinity School who attended the church I went to in Cambridge during my Harvard days, that was icing on the cake. Change and tradition both.
But Pastor wasn't finished yet. Not only had my church put a woman in charge, it had passed -- by overwhelming votes -- a series of resolutions calling on member churches and their members to advocate for gun control measures that would require universal background checks, measures to stop gun trafficking and require reporting of lost or stolen guns, and measures that sought support for same gender couples and their families and measures that sought comprehensive immigration reform with a path to residency and citizenship. Way to go, folks.
This is most certainly not the conservative Lutheran Church I grew up in and I am so glad of it. We've come a long way, baby. As our pastor said with a big grin on her face, We rock!!
Okay, now I was sitting up straight and listening with really full attention. While the ELCA has had women pastors and local bishops for some time now, selecting a woman to run the whole thing and to speak for us as a group -- well, it's kind of like the Berlin Wall falling. To hear that she was Harvard trained, which means she may have known Krister Stendhal, the head of the Harvard Divinity School who attended the church I went to in Cambridge during my Harvard days, that was icing on the cake. Change and tradition both.
But Pastor wasn't finished yet. Not only had my church put a woman in charge, it had passed -- by overwhelming votes -- a series of resolutions calling on member churches and their members to advocate for gun control measures that would require universal background checks, measures to stop gun trafficking and require reporting of lost or stolen guns, and measures that sought support for same gender couples and their families and measures that sought comprehensive immigration reform with a path to residency and citizenship. Way to go, folks.
This is most certainly not the conservative Lutheran Church I grew up in and I am so glad of it. We've come a long way, baby. As our pastor said with a big grin on her face, We rock!!
Saturday, August 10, 2013
End of a Time Warp
Tomorrow is the last day for Quinn's. Truly the end of an era. Or as I prefer to call it, a time warp.
Quinn's is a restaurant in Beacon, NY. Walking into it was like stepping back into the 50s or 60s. Classic diner configuration with booths and a counter and the colors were the reds, browns and creams that go with that.
I was introduced to Quinn's shortly after Kit and Nate moved to Beacon and it became our go to place for breakfast or anything else that came close to that time frame. It was the place where all the real locals hung out, young and old alike, talking, reading newspapers and solving all the problems of their worlds. Kids were welcome and I believe we were still counting Fiona's age in days when she first went there. Of course, she and we all kept coming back. As she grew up she met everyone there. When she began her studies of the counter stools and how they revolve, she would work her way methodically down the row, spinning each and every one. Patrons who were seated would even get up to let her test out their stool and its ability to spin.
When Sandy was on her way and there was talk of closing the bridges in the area, I abandoned Long Island and headed for Beacon and Quinn's because Quinn's had a tradition of staying open no matter what. Whatever the storm, the snow, even the hurricane, Quinn's was open for those who were out dealing with the storm or were out of electricity or supplies or anything else for that matter. Quinn's was sort of like the little engine that could. I wound up staying for the 10 days it took LIPA to get my electricity back, so I had a good few occasions to stop by Quinn's. The day I walked in and our favorite waitress said: You don't need a menu, do you? I felt like I'd become an honorary local.
Yesterday morning, Kit and I had planned a last visit to Quinn's. It worked out to be after a music class for Fiona and several other toddlers. We had planned to meet one other mother and kid at the restaurant, but before we knew it the whole class of kids and mothers were coming too. Even the teacher came. And a couple of fathers refused to be left out and also joined in. Typical Beacon. Typical Quinn's. Need I say that it was great and a good time was had by all?
I will miss the pancakes (too many sorts and varieties to mention), the homemade bread and the French toast it became, the endless coffee, the memories of the talks and the celebrations, the wonderful assortment of folks you could find at Quinn's on any given day, but most of all I'm going to miss our waitress who made sure I knew where the polling place was so I could get my vote in despite Sandy and the amazing owner and cook who needed to check to see if I really liked the cheddar and sausage pancakes. Yes, ma'am, I really, really liked them.
Quinn's is a restaurant in Beacon, NY. Walking into it was like stepping back into the 50s or 60s. Classic diner configuration with booths and a counter and the colors were the reds, browns and creams that go with that.
I was introduced to Quinn's shortly after Kit and Nate moved to Beacon and it became our go to place for breakfast or anything else that came close to that time frame. It was the place where all the real locals hung out, young and old alike, talking, reading newspapers and solving all the problems of their worlds. Kids were welcome and I believe we were still counting Fiona's age in days when she first went there. Of course, she and we all kept coming back. As she grew up she met everyone there. When she began her studies of the counter stools and how they revolve, she would work her way methodically down the row, spinning each and every one. Patrons who were seated would even get up to let her test out their stool and its ability to spin.
When Sandy was on her way and there was talk of closing the bridges in the area, I abandoned Long Island and headed for Beacon and Quinn's because Quinn's had a tradition of staying open no matter what. Whatever the storm, the snow, even the hurricane, Quinn's was open for those who were out dealing with the storm or were out of electricity or supplies or anything else for that matter. Quinn's was sort of like the little engine that could. I wound up staying for the 10 days it took LIPA to get my electricity back, so I had a good few occasions to stop by Quinn's. The day I walked in and our favorite waitress said: You don't need a menu, do you? I felt like I'd become an honorary local.
Yesterday morning, Kit and I had planned a last visit to Quinn's. It worked out to be after a music class for Fiona and several other toddlers. We had planned to meet one other mother and kid at the restaurant, but before we knew it the whole class of kids and mothers were coming too. Even the teacher came. And a couple of fathers refused to be left out and also joined in. Typical Beacon. Typical Quinn's. Need I say that it was great and a good time was had by all?
I will miss the pancakes (too many sorts and varieties to mention), the homemade bread and the French toast it became, the endless coffee, the memories of the talks and the celebrations, the wonderful assortment of folks you could find at Quinn's on any given day, but most of all I'm going to miss our waitress who made sure I knew where the polling place was so I could get my vote in despite Sandy and the amazing owner and cook who needed to check to see if I really liked the cheddar and sausage pancakes. Yes, ma'am, I really, really liked them.
Friday, August 2, 2013
Finally
It took several more days to finish all the nits and nats and to cart off the debris but at long last the repairs
and/or renovations to the Amagansett house are done. I am reveling in not having workmen in and out of the house and, perhaps most of all, not having to get people back to complete anything more. Actually, I am only complaining about the inevitable side effects of having work done on a house. They did a good job as far as I can see. I am sure that - now that I've said that -- the next person in the door will point out something that I overlooked. I guess that's what handymen are for. Now if only I could find one. Just in case, you understand.
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