Fuhgeddaboudit

I thought we’d do a Snow White and make flowers bloom and birds sing (I may be mixing my Disney metaphors here)- you know, bestow Spring upon the land as we tripped gaily north.  But New Jersey went all Evil Queen on us and we plunged back into Winter.

The new Mario Cuomo Bridge over the Hudson River.

We dug out the down jackets, filled the propane tanks and lit the fake fire.  All was good.  We caught up with daughters Kate and Hilary, friends and family, and spent a weekend back in the old ‘hood in Brooklyn.  

I had my first Oyster Epiphany at CT and Diane’s on the first night of our first cross country RV trip back in 2010.  

The second one was just as memorable.

Bruce and Dan holding Diane and me firmly in our seats as a vicious thunderstorm raged outside.  Shortly after the restaurant lost power.

We’d brought our beloved dog Poppy’s ashes with us to scatter in the park where a tree was planted in her name by dear Gisela.  Poppy was known as the Mayor of Prospect Park for her ability to meet and greet every dog she encountered during the off leash hours - no matter the size or temperament - in between snarfing down the weekend’s picnic leftovers, that is.  

A gift from the amazingly talented Anna Macleod.

The one tree blooming in Brooklyn.  Hilary and Mango , with a shell shocked Daisy (the noise! the cars, dogs and people!) wondering when it will all be over.

Each time I go back to New York I marvel at how I survived there for so long.  It’s utterly exhausting and relentless.  It can’t be just that I’m old now - surely the traffic wasn’t this bad, even in Brooklyn?  And parking?  Fuhgeddaboudit.  An old New Yorker once told us there are three things people will kill for in Brooklyn: love, money and parking, and not necessarily in that order.

There are plenty of harrowing rites of passage you encounter as a parent and they’ve all been written about and advised on forever.  You can prepare for them.  But no one tells you about the first time you place your life in the hands of your “adult” child, i.e. when they get behind the wheel and drive you somewhere.  Maybe it’s not the same nerve-shattering, adrenaline-spiked, stomach-lurching and sweat-soaked experience for everyone, but for Dan and me it was.  This adult child, who shall remain nameless, but her name begins with H and ends with ILARY, drives like, well, like a New Yorker, although you can be sure I never drove like that during my 24 years there.  Dan of course did - and still does at times.  It’s hard to lose that New York instinct to never let a car cut in front of you, which is why you have to drive as close to the car in front of you as possible, especially at high speed.  I’m having heart palpitations as I write.  I almost kissed the ground when we made it back to the woods of New Jersey.

After a couple of days of quiet contemplation on the ironies of Life, and speaking only in whispers, we set off northwards again to Canada.  Slowly.