Butterfly!

Last week on Ft. Washington Ave. I was nearly run down by a four year old squealing with joy: Butterfly! Butterfly! Butterfly! she said.  Her stubby legs pumped at top speed, making her pig tails jump up and down on either side of her head.  The lilacs were blooming.  The sky was crystal clear.  And there was no reason not  to be overjoyed by the prospect of butterflies.  Her parents followed behind, smiling and indulgent.  Such displays of exuberance are unfairly reserved for the very young.  I wanted to throw my arms in the air and run alongside the girl, rejoicing over earth's power to renew itself each spring. 

Several days later, I passed the same girl and her mother.  The girl had used string to attach two floppy paper plates to her back.  They were decorated with wavy crayon lines and cut on one side to make a straight edge next to her shoulder blades.  The mother reached for the girl's hand and said gently, Come on Butterfly.  The girl skipped along, her wings fluttering behind her.

Spring Eaves Dropping

"You know what I want," she said, "I want beer and dinner."  She was white-haired and alone.  She sat at the table directly across from me.  The waiter had placed his hand on her shoulder and listened to her like he would to his grandmother.  He knew her.  He brought the beer in a lady-like wine glass.  She took a sip, then looked at me and said, "I'm Joan.  What's your name?" Veronica, I replied.  "Where you from?"  she asked.  Los Angeles, I said.  "I went to Glendale College.  I wrote for the college paper.  I worked at Webb department store.  Do you know it?  Probably before your time." I shook my head no, I didn't know it, it was indeed before my time.  She continued, "I had a friend from that Norwegian town up north.  What was the name?"  Solvang, I said.  "Yes, Solvang!" She grew excited and dropped her fork.  The waiter swooped down to pick it up.  Just then thunder exploded outside the restaurant.  A few people got to their feet to take a look.  She said, "I hope you don't have far to go.  I'm just one building away."  Not far, I replied, I will run if I need to. 

But I needn't have run.  The thunder was nature reminding us of her power.  The day had been beautiful, the first real day of spring when one still needs a light coat despite the blue sky gracing us with her presence.   Poochini and I had spent the afternoon in Central Park, where all of Manhattan had turned out.  Especially the French part (Manhattan being an outpost of Europe, as we know).  The language of luuuuuv was everywhere.  People were saying s'il vous plait at the Bethesda Fountain, French kissing at the Boat House Cafe (where I fed Pooch French fries), and smoking in a very Frenchie way at the new food court in Tavern on the Green's former garden, whose exclusivity has been superceded by food on wheels:  Pera (a Turkish food truck), The Chinese Dumpling Truck, a soup truck, and an Italian gelato truck (the economic downturn has done wonders for democratizing food in Central Park).  The wall of people had over-stimulated poor Pooch, who walked across Sheep's Meadow in paroxysms of nervous coughing.  Despite the seizure-like quality of his affliction, I think the outing was good for him.  His nose forgot to run.  Now, after five hours of wandering, he is lying nearly comatose on his little dog bed, the corners of his mouth upturned in a smile of contentment.

But I needed more of an outing.  Maybe it was the sun, but something in me was missing California tonight.  When I miss California, I eat Mexican food.  So I headed to the Mexican restaurant down the street, which is where I met Beer and Dinner Joan.  There are many women like her in my area.  Unlike the Central Park crowd, not many speak French.  In my neighborhood, they speak Spanish, Russian, Yiddish, and Hebrew.  The woman who runs the neighborhood drug store is from Riverside, not far from where I grew up.  She came to be on Broadway, and stayed when that didn't work out.  There are others.  For instance, my neighbor Mrs. Katz, who has Alzheimer's and is obsessed with the layout of my apartment (yours is bigger than mine).  There is the old German Jewish woman one floor down from me, who always has her hair done just so, still wears make up, and is completely (snap snap) Put-Together.  When she says hi, I do a double take.  Her accent reminds me of Dad.  Then there was the old Russian lady who lived above me, and whose bumps in the night disappeared a few months ago.  She has been replaced by a young woman whose bumps carry on throughout the day.  I can't say that I like the replacement.  The older neighbors have better stories.  Their bumps are less vindictive.  As if, after so many years of life's ups and downs, they've learned to go easy on their neighbors.

Winter

The first snowfall is trying to arrive. The temperature has been waiting for it all week. Too cold to walk to work anymore, and the Rose Man wasn't on his corner this Friday. The wind whips off the Hudson and swirls around Fort Tryon Park where I went running this morning. My dog and I maneuvered up and down ice-covered paths, concentrating hard, trying not to slip. We made it to the river, where my dog looked up at me with eyes made tearful by the wind. Why are you doing this to me, his eyes questioned. I had the same question for myself. Three hours later I am still trying to coax the chill out of my bones.

Bumps Upstairs

I just met Tamara, my upstairs neighbor. Six months ago I moved into this building, and since then the bumps upstairs having been gradually worse (more so now that the weather is cooler and I am spending more time indoors). This morning, I reached my limit. I had debated for weeks about whether to knock on the door upstairs to find out what all these bumps were about. I was nervous, fearing an angry reprisal for interrupting my neighbor's world in my new building. But Tamara is lovely. She is an old Russian Jewish lady, in her late seventies. Her memory is fading (I had to introduce myself three times). She invited me into her place and we talked about the bumps in this building. They bother us both. Now that I have met Tamara, I understand. I don't want to come home one day to a big bump, followed by silence.

Nosey

My dog likes to sniff everything: newly sprinkled lamp-posts, icecream that escaped a child's tongue and has dried on the sidewalk, discarded chicken bones (where do they come from? I never see anyone walking down the street gnawing on a chicken leg. But if they're on the sidewalk, my dog finds them). This morning he tried to sniff an old man while crossing the street. The man took it in good humor, in fact seemed enamored of the dog (everybody loves my pooch, this is an objective fact). He smiled adoringly down at the overzealous canine. "Well, hello Mr. Nosey," he laughed, then continued stiffly and slowly on his way.

Elevator

The other day, while riding the elevator up from the 190th St. A-line stop, I crossed paths with a woman and her four year old (?)adopted son. They must live somewhere near me-- I have seen them a few times before, usually riding in the elevator. Though I know they don't live there. Three other children were in the elevator. They were rambunctious and loud. The little boy, who looks Indian and has silken, raven, straight-as-an-arrow hair cut in a bowl shape, calmly reached for his adopted mother's hand. He kissed it, then smiled quietly up at her. Neither of them said a word as the elevator rose amid the anxious chatter of the others.