The Perfect Day.

I started yesterday with a mission: to make it to the Lower East Side Tenement Museum. That was it. I’ve been dreaming of going to that museum for months and I was determined yesterday to make that dream come true. I bought myself an educator’s membership and, for $40, began the first of many trips to the museum that explore the immigrant experience in New York at the turn of the 20th century. So, beneath the bright sun and clear blue sky with a medium latte from the coffee shop across the street in one hand, and my boyfriend’s hand in the other, we took off on the subway into Manhattan and made our way down to the Lower East Side. 

I’d been to this museum years ago when I was an undergraduate English major studying US Immigration history. My professor planned a whole Saturday in New York for us, including a trip to Ellis Island and a dinner in Chinatown. Before that trip to the city, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been there. At college I was a loner. I’d come in as a mid-year transfer during my junior year and had so few friends I was able to pour myself into my books and get lost in my studies. This worked out well in the grand scheme of things as later, because of my hermit undergraduate ways, I was accepted to a fabulous grad school. In any case, this immigration history class was one of the best I’d ever taken with a professor who knew her stuff and who I admired a great deal. The trip to New York was something I very geekishly looked forward to going on, and while my other undergrad classmates moaned and complained about losing a whole Saturday for school, I was trembling with excitement. 

The trip to Ellis Island was first and, because I had no friends in the class, I stood by myself at the front of the ferry going over. I was lost in my imagination, wondering what the experience would have been like for me had I come to the US at the turn of the century, arriving first at Ellis Island loaded down with bags and bundles from the mother land, and was still thinking these things as I stumbled off the boat and onto the Island. So imagine my confusion when, standing directly in front of me, was my very own mother. MY mother. My mother who was supposed to be in New Jersey visiting friends of the family. Here it was, ten in the morning on a Saturday in November, and MY MOTHER is standing in front of me on Ellis Island. It took me a moment to realize what was happening, but when I did, I’m pretty sure I squealed with excitement. How very real this immigrant experience was! I was a loner, on a ship to Ellis Island, and upon arrival at the gates, there was my family! The two of us had a great time that day and though she could only stay with me for the Ellis Island portion of the field trip, it made the day unforgettable. 

The next part of the trip was the Tenement Museum. I suggest you look at the website if you are remotely interested in immigration history. The museum has preserved an actual tenement building and has researched the histories of real families who lived in the museum, preserving and/or restoring their apartments, and gives a real feeling of what it was like to live during the time. In a building that would now house no more than 30 people, there used to live upwards of 120 or more. No light, no fresh air, no space. It is a phenomenal museum and is so full of information and room for the imagination that the experience sticks with you for a while. It stuck with me for six years and yesterday Dennis and I went back for more. He’d never been, and I’d been talking about it for years, so when we arrived and we were the only two on the 1:40 tour, I just about exploded with excitement. I could ask any question I wanted, I could go anywhere I wanted, I could say anything!!! We took a tour that focused on the garment industry workers, visited three apartments in the tenement (one from the late 1890s, one from the 1910s, and the last from the 1930s,) and learned about the history of the museum itself. 

 

So the mission was accomplished and then some. Because after the museum, we walked a few streets over and had a great lunch in Little Italy, then walked it all off on our way north to Bryant Park to hear free jazzin the blazing sun. It was a testament to how much I love jazz really because when we finally decided to stand up, we were drenched in our own sweat, soaked right through our shirts and pants. There were actual rivulets of sweat streaming down my chest and gathering at the top of my jeans. That’s not an easy thing to admit, but I’m doing it anyway. After the show, we rewarded ourselves for our long walk and shameless display of active sweat glands, by having curbside Mr. Softee ice cream cones. 

At home we watched a movie and both fell asleep an hour into the film. It was the perfect day, the most perfect day I could imagine. I think I will like it here very much.

Wood.

Moving is no easy thing. I know some of you currently/recently in the process of buying new condos or moving into new homes can attest to the horrendous ordeal of hunting for the new place, securing the new place, moving from the old place, and filling the new place. Dennis and I had accomplished the first three pretty easily, thanks to the magical way my moving to New York fell into place, and so the biggest chunk of work is the last—the filling of the new place. Since I was moving home from Brazil with a maximum of 5 bags and since Dennis has been without a home for the past six months while he couch surfed at his friends’ places, neither of us had anything more substantial to offer to our new home than coffee mugs and a record player. 

So this final task of finding furniture, arguably the most fun, could be the most stressful and expensive. The world of furniture is overwhelming beyond words. Here we have blank walls and beautiful hardwood floors. We could fill this space with anything. And that “anything” is a scary prospect. Where do we begin? Colors? Where do we sit? Rugs? Sofas? How do we light the place? Where do we sleep? How do we eat? We had nothing. And starting from nothing is an excitingly frightening place to be. 

Add to this the fact that I am a teacher and by no means have any sort of cash flow that would allow for extraordinary spending. Dennis, too, doesn’t work a standard 9-5, so while we weren’t exactly strapped for cash, we are working on a budget well below that of typical New York City professionals. Thinking it would probably be best to get furniture out of state and bring it down to the city ourselves, saving on shipping and purchasing costs, we found just a wooden table, chairs, and bookshelf at both Pier1 and Ikea. 

I am not complaining about these things. They saved us tons of money and we love the style. They’re meant to look like wood and that’s what we like. I say “meant to look like” because they all have just that veneer on top of MDF. It’s not ideal, but wood, we found, was much too expensive. Real wood was simply out of our budget and so we were stuck with veneer. What we wanted, of course, was real wood. It lasts forever if its well constructed and it’s beautiful. If we move again we don’t want to worry about whether our furniture will make it through the move. This is the case, of course, with MDF stuff. Not the case with real wood. It’ll last. And that’s what we want, both for our furniture and for us. 

Yesterday, my first trip to the city now that I am a resident, we wandered around antique stores in Chelsea. For his last job, Dennis had to scout antique and high end furniture stores for filming and so he took me straight to the places he went to. They were amazing. Not exactly affordable for us, but really fun to look at nonetheless. Our priority was to find the following things: a bureau, a bench, another bookshelf, a bed, and a coffee table. Of course we wanted something with style, character, and durability. Finding nothing affordable in the cool places and thrift stores, we thought we were stuck looking at the MDF-high-style places like West Elm, the Door Store, and Bo Concepts. All of these places have a style we love but prices through the roof, just like we’d imagined NYC prices to be. 

UNTIL….we walked from one thrift store toward the Door Store on West 17th and looked to our left. No sign hung above the windows, nothing that would indicate anything fabulous inside other than huge 30% off signs photocopied and taped to the window. The sun’s reflection prevented us from really seeing inside the store, but what we did see was wood. Real wood. And without really even discussing whether or not we should go in and look at prices for the real wood, we walked in. 

People, we walked into the gates of heaven. It was 30% Real Wood heaven. Everything in the store, everything everywhere was 30% off, in solid real wood, any finish we wanted. There were stickers on some of the furniture with hand written numbers, numbers I thought had to be reference numbers and not prices because if they were prices they just didn’t make sense with the piece. A bookshelf. Of solid teak. Beautiful smooth dark brown finish. A bureau. Mahogany. Plenty of storage. A bench. A chair. Mango wood. Impossibly comfortable. Perfect for us. 

I’m going to tell you where we were and then you have to go. Just go to the website and look around. And if you’re in NYC, then go visit the store. The stuff is beautiful. And all solid real wood. They have locations in Chelsea and in Brooklyn, plus a studio there. Okay, here it is. From the Source. And if you want to talk to someone, talk to Mahlon (pronounced “Maylon.” I don’t know, I’d have trouble pronouncing it by sight.) 

Even better? We bought our pieces yesterday at around 4:30. By 6:30 they were in our apartment. No joke. 

 

So there we have it. Brand new, handmade, real wood furniture. In our home. My happiness is boundless.

Guilt at the GAP.

In the search for classroom appropriate clothing for this new school year, I went to a store I used to frequent, the GAP. Having such short legs, I am usually able to find pants that fit me at the GAP, and, having only two pairs of pants here in Vermont this week, I thought I might find another pair. So yesterday, Friday, I made a purchase at the GAP on Church Street in Burlington and was very pleased….until I found an even better pair at another store. 

So today I went back to Burlington to return the GAP pair and do some other errands for my mom while I was out. However, in the midst of my day yesterday, the debit card I’d used EXPIRED and the replacement card was lost in the mail. (This is a supremely abbreviated story from the several hour long ordeal and three phone calls with three managers at Bank of America yesterday.) So when I went to the GAP today to return my jeans, I told them my card had expired and asked if I could have the return in cash as I’d paid with a debit card.  At first it wasn’t going to be possible. But then the fabulous manager, who remained fabulous for only a moment for reasons I will soon explain, found the cash for me and completed the return. Excellent.

Only the return came with a gigantic side of guilt. Because this manager muttered under his breath, and to other employees, and to me out loud in the face, “This is all the cash we have. And now we have no cash. This is totally depleting the cash.” Even as he counted out the money twice and handed it to me, he continued to say he had no cash left. Three or four times I heard this from him and even as I walked out of the store, I heard him complain to another employee that he was all out of cash because MY return had made the store run out of cash.

I don’t know, but it seems to me that as a manager in a store where customers fuel your own job, the last thing you should be doing is complaining to their faces. It’s not good business. I’ve worked in some pretty nice places where customer service is a priority. And the first thing we demonstrate is our ability to go (joyfully) out of the way to make a customer or guest satisfied. That makes sense to me. So today, when I was overcome with a sense of shame and embarrassment and guilt, the last thing I felt was satisfaction. What could the manager have done? I’m thinking of two alternative responses to my return request: 

1. Explain that because it was a Saturday the store had no extra cash to make this return and could I please return a different day when this return wouldn’t tax the store’s cash supply. I think I would have been fine with not doing the return today if I knew what the problem was and if I knew what I could do to instead.
2. Complete the return with no complaints and save any complaints until I left the store entirely. Nothing makes me feel better about patronizing a business than feeling comfortable and accepted the entire time. And nothing makes me want NOT to patronize a business than feeling guilty for somehow inconveniencing the employees.

 

By the time I’d left the GAP, I’d said a few muffled apologies and hung my head in shame. I don’t ever want to be the cause of someone’s frustration and it appeared I was. But if it was really going to be that much of a problem, then why would the manager agree to do the return? And furthermore, once he agreed to do it, why would he passive-aggressively complain about it to me? 

What should I have done? Any thoughts?

The True Blue Spirit of Arcadia.

At one point this afternoon while I was on the phone with Dennis, I clicked over on call waiting to find one of my mom’s great friends, Joyce, at the other end. Since my mom was entertaining guests downstairs, I stayed on the line and talked with Joyce. One of the many things we discussed was how my mother has the ability not only to make friends wherever she goes, but to keep them. Forever. It is in that respect that my mother I differ terribly as I have about as many friends from my past as would fill a motorcycle, while my mother has magically captivated caravans of double-decker buses, filled to the brim and spilling over with friends, even more of them running behind in the dust of those buses with smiles on their faces waving banners with my mom’s name. And these are not just fair weather friends. They are the sort to drive, let’s say, from Hingham, Massachusetts, pick up a friend from Maine, and then come to our house in Vermont for a couple of hours—-all to drop off a quilt. THAT kind of friend.

You may have heard me talk about a magical place from my youth called Camp Arcadia. This was my summer camp in Casco, Maine when I was 11, 12, and 13 years old. It has been around for almost a hundred years and is steeped in tradition, down-to-earth good natured-ness, and lots of blue uniforms. It was the camp my mother and aunt went to for a decade when they were young, and the camp I dreamed to go to when I heard my mother tell stories about it. 

Arcadia is a camp only for girls, so the friendships my mother made there were strong and true, unlike the friendships we make when boys are in the mix. Those were the friendships uncluttered by jealousy or competition. They were friendships built on a love of the outdoors, by the shared experience of spending whole summers away from parents, by going on hiking and camping trips into the White Mountains of New Hampshire and coming back with stories and songs from those trips. Camp Arcadia is a place that helped make my mother who she is today: strong, determined, responsible, and caring beyond words. Camp helped her form the basis for all the friendships she ever made and as much commitment as she placed into her friendships at Camp, she did the same for all the friendships that would ever come into her life until now.

I write about this today because two of my mom’s friends from her time at Arcadia came to visit today, from Hingham, MA and from Maine, and brought to her a beautiful quilt. A handmade quilt, enormous and loving, and colorful blue and green: the same colors of real Maine summer days. On the quilt are pockets taken from the blue camp uniforms from years ago, and in each pocket a quilt square decorated with words, drawings, and prayers from her other Camp Arcadia friends. It goes without saying the emotion and love that went into creating a piece like this, and that went into receiving it. We were all in tears, the six of us there in the living room. My little mom in her lime green pajamas, the thin silver hairs sticking out on her pink little pinhead. For hours they all sat together and read the wishes on the quilted squares, looked at pictures, told stories, laughed. I could not help but stare at my mom, watch how she came more alive with every passing minute that she was in the company of these women, the ones she met when she was just 10, 11 years old. 

In fact, she came so much alive, she thought she might go for a drive with the “kids,” as she later referred to them, and show them around our town. She even asked me if that would be alright. “Please!” I said. I could barely contain my excitement. She has not left our house in three weeks, nor has she been in regular clothes in that same time. She changed into regular clothes—-soft blues to represent Arcadia colors, and the three of them hopped into the car and toured the town. As soon as I saw the car drive away, a hunger overcame me as if I had not seen food in months. It was the oddest physical reaction to happiness (or maybe it was relief?) that I’ve ever had. I have found my stomach tight and clenched recently and haven’t felt hunger in a while. Perhaps it was seeing my mom go out and do something normal that made me relax and feel something besides anxiety again. 

When they returned, they toured the house and the grounds. I watched my mom point out the flowers she’d planted, the hammock they’d hung up years ago, where the contractor had leveled the ground when the new addition went on. It was, for a moment, just like normal. And everything was so good. And everything was just as it should be. And it was so, so good. And I forgot about tomorrow and the tests and the chemo and I just watched my mom walking around with her friends.

I am so thankful for these friends, for all the friends of my mom who would—and who have—given their time to help her, in whatever way they know how or can. At Arcadia, we seek to have have what’s called a “true blue spirit,” which means we are filled with honesty, caring, determination, positivity, morals, good citizenship, strength, love, the will to do things well, and the desire to be good people. I know not all of my mom’s friends went to Camp Arcadia. But all of them have that true blue spirit. 

 

 

**** You can see pictures of this amazing quilt over at Team Tina. We’re going to put pictures up tonight.****

Return of the blogger.

The past four days have been less than eventful but adventurous nonetheless. Dennis and I continue to move into our apartment in Sunnyside, never entering the building empty-handed. We carry with us any number of things: new pillows, green curtains, dog eared books and vinyl records. Dennis spent the evening hooking up his record player to some great speakers, and our apartment was flooded with good music, the kind of sound only vinyl creates. Our two friends VOLUNTEERED to help us move in, asking in return only that we bring them down with us in the car. So on Saturday we loaded up our two cars for several hours in Connecticut, picked up our friends on the way to Queens, and within a half-hour had completely unloaded our cars. Then commenced the building of Ikea furniture, for we had not a single chair to our name. Our friends jumped right in and began helping us assemble our table, chairs, lamp, and bookshelf and before we knew it we began to have a living room. Friends are so good. To thank them, we took them out to a fabulous—-and I do mean FABULOUS—-dinner at a tiny place called Quaint right nearby. This place was PROBABLY THE BEST MEAL I HAVE HAD IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA IN THE PAST ELEVEN YEARS. If you are ever in Queens, find this restaurant for either brunch or dinner and you will have yourself a very happy mouth.

Our Fourth was spectactular. SPECTACULAR. We found ourselves surrounded by friends, standing on Milford Beach underneath fireworks. Oh, they were just beautiful. And because we were on the beach, I could see up and down the coast all of the fireworks displays in blues and reds and greens, silent explosions miles away. I screamed and shouted and threw my hands up in the air like a little kid. The red fireworks made my friends’ faces light up soft and bright and I looked around and thought how happy I was. And how beautifully American the whole evening had been. It was a 4th like none other for me, absolutely alive with celebration and contentment.

Now I am in Vermont, back with my family. It was a rough homecoming. My mom’s hair is beginning to fall out and I am finding it all over the place. Where once this was a thing to joke about, now it’s something kind of sad to see. I guess I could remain sad at seeing this, but when I look at my mom and see all that she’s doing and find myself just amazed. My mom is so strong and so it’s hard for me to even believe that she’s sick at all. I hope to be writing more this week.

Taking a breather.

So for the next couple of days, I’m going to be out wandering Northern and Southern New England, so I won’t be around very much. Please don’t forget about me! I’ll touch base again when I am back in Vermont, which will be after the 7th. For now, I’m going to take a very long weekend to relax and rejuvenate and spend time with Dennis and some good friends.

I hope you all have a wonderful Fourth and that you are safe over the weekend.

Until soon!

Wandering.

I’m feeling a little helpless these days. Now that my mom is feeling so good, it’s almost as if I have no job to do other than to make sure she eats a lot and to help her with bandages at the end of the night. Even during the day she’s so much like herself it’s as if I’m wandering around looking for something to do, so I constantly ask her how she’s feeling, ask her if I can get anything for her to eat or to drink, or ask her if she needs anything at the store. Thanks to her recent healthy appetite, there’s usually always a grocery run that I can make, but besides that, I wander the house while she does stuff with her Internet business or talks on the phone or pays bills or whatever. I feel trapped here by my own responsibility to make sure my mom has everything she needs. At night, when it becomes too much for me to handle—-when I become too much for myself to handle—-I go for a drive.

Tonight I went to Burlington. I didn’t intend to go there. I did intend to go to the grocery to pick up more berries and cream cheese. But suddenly I found myself in Burlington on Church Street wandering around with a cup of coffee in hand. I had no purpose being there, other than to walk around other people. All the stores were closed, the bars and restaurants filled. It was a little strange and lonely walking around, feeling the absence of Dennis, a presence that is always by my side, always someone solid to hold onto. I stared at faces and looked in store windows. I listened for a minute or two to a band playing outside of Red Square, a bar on lower Church Street. But, like it’s been for the past two years in Brazil, I was mostly quiet, mostly observant. I longed for friendship, for a rowdy crowd of friends. But this is what happens when you move away and lose touch, and while I wouldn’t for a second regret moving away, I do regret losing touch with friends. Going to Burlington used to mean meeting up with people I hadn’t seen in a while—”a while” meaning a few months. But now, it’s an exercise in people-watching, an activity among strangers. I do love Burlington, and I do love Church Street. But it’s always so much better sharing that place with other people.

I did see one person I knew, Liz, a girl I’d graduated from high school with eleven years ago. I hadn’t seen her in a long time and it was really nice to cross paths again. She’s entering her first year of teaching in September and I was reminded briefly of the summer before my first year of teaching. Nothing is quite as special as the very first class you have as a teacher and so I am excited for her to experience that magic in her first fifth grade classroom.

I also saw my own fifth grade teacher this morning in the coffee shop in my little town. We were in each other’s company for a few minutes while we each ordered our coffees and then suddenly I looked closely at him and nearly shrieked with joy. I threw down my change on the counter, nearly spilled my coffee, and hugged him. I can’t remember the last time I saw him—-well over ten years ago, maybe even fifteen!—-and we talked for a little while. On the drive home I thought about how much I adored my teachers, how they hung the stars when I was younger. And I was surprised by how joyfully I reacted when I recognized my teacher and how he, squinting at me for a split second, confirmed my recognition by asking, “Gina Coggio?” I feel really lucky to be in a position in other kids’ lives to help them feel so positive about school and about learning and about themselves. Often when I’m teaching, I find myself thinking back to some of my middle school teachers, this one in particular, and I remember assignments they gave or jokes they told in class. I feel lucky to be teaching at the middle school level again knowing that my own memories of that time are vivid.

So I guess I’m not entirely alone here. My heart is missing my friends who were the touchstones of my youth, who made my growing up as full of stories as it was. They’ve all moved elsewhere, gone exploring the world just as I have. It was nice, though, to come back and see new old faces. It feels like I am growing up.

Took a hike.

While my little mom was entertaining guests yesterday  afternoon, Dennis and I took off for Stowe, where we thought we’d go for a hike. We drove up and through the Notch Road, the tiny, windy seasonal road that goes between Smugglers’ Notch and Stowe, two towns on either side of Mt. Mansfield, the highest mountain in Vermont.  I’d had it in mind to find a trail that leads to a series of little waterfalls, but because I hadn’t been to that particular trail since I graduated from high school, it was a challenge trying to find it again. So rather than spend our time driving back and forth along the Notch road with our eyes peeled for what may have been a trail, we just parked and found a real trail up Mt. Mansfield.

In 1999, I spent the spring and summer living in Jackson, Mississippi and working for the state Geological survey as an intern. We worked during the week down on the coast in Hancock, Harrison, and Jackson counties, in the little towns of Bay St. Louis, Lakeshore,  and Waveland, and in the larger towns of Pass Christian, Biloxi, and Gulfport, the same towns that would be destroyed in the wake of Katrina just six years later, from the Louisiana state line over to Pascagoula. We mapped the coastline by walking the entire length of the three counties, and East and West Ship Islands,  carrying GPS mapping gear on our back, sometimes two or three times if the gear didn’t pick up a signal the first time around. Back in Jackson, we imported the data into our computers and built maps from them. That summer it was flat and hot. It was filled with a lot of silent walking from just after sunrise until just before sunset, with a break for  po’ boys and sweet tea at lunch time. It was about plotting the shape of the land beneath me on the beach and out into the hot Gulf waters swarming with jellyfish. It was about charting the flatness and the movement of the sand for miles and miles, on public white sand beaches and in the waist-high wetland Spartina bordering the Pearl River.

Finally, in August when I returned to Vermont, I was so hungry for topography, so hungry for a deep, dark green environment, I spent day after day hiking to the top of Mt. Mansfield by myself just to drink the altitude in. Spending a summer in the flats of the South, where the land didn’t rise to more than a couple hundred feet, had been more than my body and my eyes could take. Coming back to Vermont was like being born all over again and sitting on top of Mt. Mansfield and breathing deep that clean cool air was like taking my very first breath of real life.

I was reminded of that Mississippi summer yesterday as Dennis and I plodded our way up the Stowe side of the mountain. The air was thick and heavy and cold. The day promised to storm and we knew it so we went out expecting to hike for just a little while. Fog had settled down over the mountain and rested on our skin. The ground beneath our feet was muddy and dark, rich with nutrients and with an overpowering earthy smell. Back in Brazil, the land is so dry and smoky it’s a rare thing to smell the lushness of a deep green forest. The smell, the air, the closeness of the trees on the trail made me dizzy. It was a lovely, full feeling.

After an hour or so we turned around and headed back home. The rain had begun to come down with intent and our stomachs grumbled with the same determination, so we wound our way back over and through the Notch toward home, stopping on the way for black bean burgers and beer. Before we knew it we were home and fast asleep, our bodies indulging in the satisfaction that comes after a good hike and a good meal. I hope to hike some more this summer, making it to the top of Mt. Mansfield and looking down on my town from above.