Ed explains to Paul that if you sit quietly, you’ll eventually hear the woodland creatures and they may even come up to you. Location: near the top of a trail at Winding Hills State Park in Montgomery, New York.
The only two things I miss about living in New York are the trees and the food.
A pricker bush at Winding Hills Park in Montgomery, New York.
When I left New York at 18 in 1988, I was off to college, but I was also searching for a place to fit in.
As I walk in the lush greenness, the familiarity of Middletown, it is not my home. It’s the place where I grew up, the town that shaped who I am today, but it’s not a place where I fit in.
Something happened to my family in the years that I’ve been gone. They’re more conservative. More entrenched in what they are doing. More easily shaped by the words spewed forth on the television or by their friends and neighbors.
They’ve got the car, the house, the kids, the white picket fence, the stability. But none of that was anything I ever pursued. And yet, there’s that non-spoken condemnation and the looks because I chose a different path.
During my vacation over the past couple of weeks, some random things popped into my head. I’ll have some more in-depth things soon.
My posts take 2-6 hours to write and another 30 minutes to post. I have dozens I want to do, but never seem to be able to find the time to get them done.
Also, my cat, Cinders, has been on my lap since I returned home from vacation. There is little else I can do except pet her. My legs are numb. Her claws are permanently embedded in my leg.
The best grandma in the world.
Perfer et obdura, dolor hic tibi proderit olim
I spoke to you on Thursday
by Saturday, you were gone
In my jealousy
I wanted you to stay
to speak to you again
to tell you I loved you once more
The morning light had come
your time was done
1:11, 11:11, it doesn’t matter the hour
there was so much more to say
No more history lessons
no more dirty jokes
no more simple days
to sit with each other
and just
be
I can still feel your soft skin
your gentle voice
in the echoes of my mind
your laugh
your smile
how you said my name
It’s been five long years
without your advice
your wisdom
your wit
I miss my cognate
my mentor
my friend
The loss
cannot be replaced
what was once extant
is now gone
If I could ask
you’d say
Be patient and tough;
someday this pain will be useful to you
Tabitha insisted she knew the best spot in all of New York to pick blueberries. It was a beautiful summer day. The sun was shining just enough to warm your face, but not enough to sweat while basking in its glow, so we thought, let’s go and see this magical blueberry land. While my family picked other fruits on farms in the Hudson Valley, we never picked blueberries. We always got them from the stores or farms in plastic or moulded pulp punnets.
Blueberries in a moulded pulp punnet.
My husband, Paul, and I joined Tabitha in her car as she drove away from her home in Rock Hill and deep into the back country of upstate New York. Twenty minutes later, we turned onto a dirt road lined with overarching oak trees, their leaves swaying with a gentle breeze. Tabitha parked in between two young ash trees at the edge of the woods.
We walked about fifty yards into the woods on a one person wide, grass-trodden trail to an open area with few trees. Tabitha wasn’t the only one who knew about this place. Wild blueberry bushes were everywhere. As we each staked out a spot to pick berries, we discussed the best way to make jams and jellies and grabbing handfuls to eat just as they were. But I wanted my grandma to make blueberry pancakes.
When I was a child, my mother always tried to ensure we had healthy foods to eat. Breakfast usually consisted of oatmeal or cereals, such as Cheerios, Grape Nuts, Raisin Bran and the like. Every now and then, Mom had a coupon for sugary cereals that we could have as a treat. My sister, Lori, and I could only eat those once the opened box of more healthy cereal was empty.
One day last week, I replied to a question at work and said a coworker had gone to get some coffee. Another coworker chuckled and asked me, “Did you just say ‘caw-fee’”? I did. Having spent roughly half my life in New York and the other half living in other states, I’ve lost most of what would be considered a New York accent. It usually only slips out when I’m angry. It’s rarely heard by anyone these days, but I suppose, to some extent, it will always be there.
Though I no longer live in New York, there are still several things anger me when people get them incorrect. It’s similar to what people from the South have to endure when it’s assumed they’re all related and married to their sisters or Nebraskans are all redneck cowboys chewing tobacco and worship the Huskers.
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