Home to New York

Somehow I missed posting on Friday and Monday. I always say somehow when I don’t really have an excuse other than simply not doing something…. so somehow it happened, or didn’t happen for that matter.

I think I was too busy relaxing. Seriously.

My brain decided it had nothing to say because it couldn’t be bothered to think of words.

The big kids and Henry went camping on Friday. I guess Thursday I was too engrossed in packing their bags, daydreaming of the things I’d do with most of the people who demand my time and attention being out of the house to think of something smart to say here.

So I didn’t.

Instead, I packed their bags and mine – as I had a little trip of my own planned. But first…

Friday afternoon I dropped the kids off with the Giant downtown at his regular parking garage. Then I parked in a no parking 4-6 pm spot even though it was 4:30, but I knew I wouldn’t be more than five minutes. I knew exactly what I wanted.

Two chocolate covered strawberries to go.

I was back at the car before a meter maid could get there and don’t worry, I parked in front of three other cars that were illegally parked so my car didn’t hold up traffic any more than it would’ve already been held up.

Then I headed out to the burbs of the ‘Burgh, ran through the kids’ consignment shop to grab some Sunday shoes for Piper arriving home around 7. After trying to tie up a few loose ends while Piper ripped up some toilet paper in the bathroom, then brought her little pile one piece at a time into the kitchen to create another pile, then dumped out the contents of a bowl of Cheerios and refused to pick it up, I finally got the picture and took her outside to do some mulching. Every kid likes playing in the dirt, right?

Saturday I was up early and on the road, excited to visit my grandmother and mom (who was at my grandmother’s house) in New York. I arrived right around lunchtime. My mom offered me a sandwich or left over spaghetti. I’d had a feeling this would happen….. it’s clear I don’t eat often enough with my mother or talk to her about food because after almost 3 years of being gluten-free she’s still offering me wheat products. Doh!

That aside, the four generations of us girls had a great time visiting throughout the afternoon and the next day.

At one point on Saturday I was walking from the living room into the kitchen when something caught the corner of my eye and my brain told me it was my Papa coming around the other way into the kitchen from the dining room. I could see him in my mind’s eye in a pair of gray dress pants and a white undershirt. It only took a split second for me to remind my memory that my he’s no longer with us.

Y’all. This hit me hard. Hard enough to make tears spring into my eyes thinking about the fact that my Papa wouldn’t be coming around the corner anymore. He wouldn’t be rubbing his stubble or rough hands across my cheek or giving me 30 minutes to stop rubbing his back.

It stung and still stings as I write this.

It was sweet to listen to my grandmother tell stories of their life together… to share a few letters he wrote to her when they were newly married and she was visiting her family in New Mexico without him for several weeks. “I now know what a brook feels like when it’s gone dry,” he wrote in one.

It was life-giving to be in that house again – the one they moved to in 1959 from “the house on the hill” where my Papa’s family had lived for years and years and years. He was born there as a child and had babies there himself.

It was like breathing in extra oxygen to walk the field where we played as kids and remember escapades of years gone by.

As I left I took in as much as I could into this brain of mine, not sure if I’ll be able to make it back next year. I’m so grateful for the time I had this past weekend.