A New Year--Freezing Temperatures

You always forget, or one tries hard to forget, the wind chill when living in climates such as New York or Boston. The temperature's dip to a single digit is alarming enough, but it's the wind chill that can make a grown adult weep while standing outside for a bus. Today, the third day of the first month of this new year, is one of those days when a brisk walk anywhere is recommended. Today is also the day of the much discussed, dissected, analyzed, and now much awaited, Iowa Caucuses. This may be the day when we may make history by having either an African-American man or a woman running for the highest office of this land, if not the world.

But instead of watching CNN all day long to see what the analysts will predict as the day's outcome, I find myself thinking about a New Yorker piece I'd read many years ago about a sales woman at the famous Steinway Piano store on 57th. The piece, like any in this magazine, was well written. But this particular story was especially moving in depicting one woman's dreams of a concert career sidelined into the selling of these venerable instruments. The part of this piece that resonated with me the most, and the part that made me weep, was when she called her dying father from the store after hours. After a few attempts at a conversation that didn't involve a great deal of hand wringing about the end being so near, he asked her to play for him. This woman, whose talents, which hadn't been great enough to solo in major concert halls, but good enough to showcase these instruments to potential buyers, sat down and played while her father listened on the other end, most likely lying in a hospital bed. That profile was one I'd thought about, and never forgot, so you can imagine my surprise and delight as I walked down 57th and walked past this very store. Of course I peered inside, noticing the beautiful instruments, but also two women, sitting at desks. I couldn't help but wonder if one of them had been the one who'd given her dying father the gift of music in that deserted music store, so famous for the instruments, but also for those who've played inside.

And in the end, the writer, whose name I never can recall, did his or her job in relating this very human story about thwarted dreams and mortality. That is, ultimately, what good writing should do, isn't it? I think about that every day as I sit, and sometimes sit, for hours with my fingers splayed across the keyboard, struggling with one word that would, or could, convey the whole of the emotional landscape I'm trying to paint. Someday, I will get the courage to go inside that store, trying hard to appear as I'm there, for no other business than, to pick out a piano, all the while wondering if she is the one.

Snow Days

Snow days, when you were a child, meant days spent at home, venturing out to play looking like an overstuffed turkey. Yesterday was our first snow day as a family. My son, who had never seen snow, was happy to stay indoors, not wanting to go out and play in the white dusting. I am afraid he is very much a California child, whose neophyte endurance for the cold makes him lament this move since the weather seems to dictate your life in ways that is blithely inconsequential in Los Angeles.

The snow fell on the ground below. As it fluttered down, past our large living room window, the cotton-like flake, quiet in its descent, settled around us like insulation. The noticeable thing about snow is the quiet. It seems to mute sounds of every day life, sounds that are normally piercing. It is the quiet I missed, and the first thing I noticed. Life slows when your every day surroundings looks dressed as if for a special occasion. Cocooned indoors, you retreat to a coziness that is impossible in our normal-paced world. This white makes the world take stock, giving each of us a reflective moment. It is also the kind of day where a large pot of something simmering on the stove makes the isolation feel less so.

We spent the day decorating our little tree of home made ornaments, each of us missing aspects of our previous life. My heart ached just a bit for my son's Tia, who had been my cohort during the days when our house was adorned for this festive season. Soon enough, our tree was decorated, ready to receive the many wrapped packages that will surely arrive in the days to come. My son, who has miraculously adjusted to life here, played various games, drawing pictures, and finally happy to see a friend, who stopped by for a play date. I know he is at an age where these memories will be the touchstones of his childhood. At day's end, we were satisfied that our first snow storm had come, preparing us for the many months of quiet ahead.

Brisk Days

The weather has turned and is now 'brisk' a euphemism for cold. I headed to a well-known coat store to prepare for those days when going outside is painful due to cold and wind. A new added difference in my life is the proximity of my cousin, who is more like a younger sister than a cousin. She is blocks, truly a mere few blocks away, so is always on hand to meet for a little shopping, cup of tea, and to drink bottles of wine, which we do when she's over for dinner. This relationship, an extension of the crazy, close, but too close to be viewed as healthy of our mothers, is much like any familial relationship. We love each other, but are also inflicted with the complications of the relationship of our two mothers. It is something both of us cherish despite it all.

This weekend before Halloween was an overdose of this strange holiday, one I've never understood. My son, much like all of his peers, was beyond excited to get dressed as Dracula, his choice, and to attend the Fright Night at his school, sponsored by the PTA. I don't recall so many activities in LA for this one holiday, other than the vans full of trick or treaters that would descent on our little block. It seemed the entire city had activities in celebration of this ghoulish night with parties, trick or treating in the Village, and a Pumpkin Patch in Central Park. Dressed to go out for a night out with my husband, I found myself applying white face make up on my son as I readied him for his sitter and for Fright Night. As I applied the make up, the irony of my brown skinned son getting 'white face,' was one that made me laugh. I know too soon these moments when my son needs me will all be a part of the landscape of memories. The sense of watching and participating is with me every day as he take leaps in growth and maturity. The habit of spelling words I didn't want him to understand has come to a screeching halt as he sounds out letters and is spelling at the most elementary level.

I sometimes wonder if we'd made a mistake only opting for the one child. How different our lives would be if we had the messiness of having another child, either boy or girl, requiring logistical maneuvering, manageable at a sane level with only one. The excuse of living in New York seems selfish as I see families around us, families of four or more. I can already see the acceptance of the solitariness of being an only child in my son as I hear him playing by himself for hours on end, imaginary cities being created as he talks to himself. The product of just such a family makes me more aware than others of what is ahead for my son--the constant tug between craving social interaction and the refuge of solitude.

As they say, too late. The die is cast and he will forever be the only child of this unique union. I'm sure we will, his father and I, be a source of embarrassment and pride.