"The city seen from the Queensboro Bridge is always the city seen for the first time…" –F. Scott Fitzgerald
First light, and Hallie is coming down the stairs. I hear her footsteps as she pads her way along the dark hallway and into to our room.
"Da?" she asks, standing expectantly at my side. I look up at her solemn face, then lift the covers and she crawls in. "Da," she whispers again, exhaling as she cuddles back down into sleep.
Raising the blinds, I see snow. First of the year, more than expected and still falling. Hallie supplants me, cuddling into Amy as I head upstairs into the hesitant glow of a stalled sunrise.
Showered and dressed, stepping outside is a release. Everything a little brighter, a little fresher. The snow is untouched and the garbage cans are frosted white. The sky, however, broods. A gunmetal, end-of-the-world gray, more twilight than dawn. Even the snow is lifeless, finding too little light to sparkle.
At Family Corner, Jen clocks me at the door, "What up Bell?"
"Nothing much. How are you"
"Morning Derek," shouts George, moving fast over the carry-out orders.
My spirits rise.
"Egg and cheese," she asks?
"Yes please, and medium coffee, skim milk."
"Sugar?"
"No, no sugar." But as she turns I reconsider, "I'm sorry, yeah, one sugar would be great."
The cup is warm, and I bask in the flow – the gentle banter, and the comfort of having a place here.
"Egg and Cheese?" George is looking at me, eyebrows raised.
"That's mine."
He tosses it over, rings me up and I'm on my way.
The snow's turning to rain. Sipping my coffee, I move fast, making it to the train relatively dry. Up the steps and onto the platform, I'm just in time to watch a train pull away.
I walk back to the farthest reaches of the roof, lean against the large metal storage bin and take in the view – my neighborhood from west to east. The great arch of Hellgate Bridge, rising from the railroad tracks as they make their way over the river before bending north to Harlem, The Bronx and New England; the smoke stacks at Con Ed and their rising steam, cotton on slate.
The tenements climb Crescent Street, and the steeple of Immaculate Conception stands over it all. Buildings fall away to the east, and the sky grows large over the Steinway factory. A jet takes off from LaGuardia and I follow it until, magically, it's gone. Vanished into the mist.
The train arrives and the car is warm. Stepping in, I take my favorite seat. Lulled by the rain, I unwrap my sandwich and look out toward the city. And suddenly I see myself swimming in a vast, unfathomable ocean, and realize that I need to go deeper. More a feeling than a thought, I'm not sure what this means.
The train begins to move.
Making its way through Queens, small flocks of black parkas clamor for seats at every stop until, finally, we begin the slow turn toward Queensboro, arcing toward the city like the grande dame of all rollercoasters, sweeping into view the 59th Street bridge and the skyline beyond. Gravity takes hold and we plunge into the station, pausing briefly for the requisite running back and forth, before continuing on, down to the streets and further still, out of the rain and into the darkness.
Tags: Astoria, City Life, New York City, Queens, Rain
Categories Astoria, City Life, Journeys, New York, Queens, Rain
A Democratic Spirit is one that combines rigor and humility, i.e., passionate conviction plus a sedulous respect for the convictions of others. As any American knows, this is a difficult spirit to cultivate and maintain, particularly when it comes to issues you feel strongly about. Equally tough is a DS's criterion of 100 percent intellectual integrity – you have to be willing to look honestly at yourself and at your motives for believing what you believe, and to do it more or less continually.
This kind of stuff is advanced US citizenship. – David Foster Wallace
What if what you do to survive kills the things you love? — Bruce Springsteen
Earl Stressman, the son of German immigrants, worked at a creamery and did construction around Grand Rapids, Michigan, living in rundown houses, fixing them up, and then moving his family on once they sold. His wife, Gladys, whose roots run too deep into the tangled terrain of Appalachia to even begin to unravel, ran a series of small coffee shops with her six daughters to help make ends meet. The fourth of these, my mother got her high school diploma and was married a year later.
Ralph Bell, the son of Welsh immigrants, worked nights at the Grand Rapids A&P warehouse while his wife, Merle, raised two daughters and a son. Their house had two bedrooms and my dad slept on the couch. Saving money from his paper route, he bought a car and went to community college, got a job with General Motors, married my mom and moved to Detroit.
Three hours across the state, Detroit didn't seem much different from the world of my cousins back in Grand Rapids. While aunts, uncles, and eventually cousins, took jobs with Steelcase, opened restaurants and drove trucks, my suburban neighbors worked their shifts at various auto plants, chauffeured for the Ford family, or ran their Dunkin' Donuts. My dad went to work in a suit and tie, but most collars were still solidly blue.
At Christmas we'd drive back across the state and celebrate with both families. My mom and her sisters had six boys in two years, and as our ages tripped into double digits we formed a loose, mischievous pack, sneaking away from the gifts and the eggnog to hurl snowballs at the passing traffic on Plainfield Avenue. The slam of ice on metal, the red flash of a brake light and we were off, kicking up snow and laughing as we ran, god's own outlaws.
And then we grew up – jobs, military service, marriages, kids, divorces and death. I got into college by the skin of my teeth, left home and rarely got back to Grand Rapids. But when we'd meet, however infrequently, those little boys were never far away — Gladys and Earl's grandbabies, four generations off the boat and spoiling for mischief.
During my lifetime Detroit withered and died, and the consequences rippled across the state. My childhood world faded along with the factory jobs and I miss it to this day. But what I miss most is the humor, kindness, and unspoken love that wove its way down through the generations. It's the gift of those who brought us here, outsiders all, wanting the same things we do today – a safe home, good work and a family to love. And while there's no going back, if we're lucky we can carry that gift forward in the people we love, and the lessons they teach.
My aunt Bonnie died this past winter. She was something. Queen of the realm with her cigarette and Diet Pepsi, she was irascible, opinionated, funny as hell, and as long she walked the earth I had a home, no questions asked. Her passing leaves my mom the last of the Stressman girls, a loss she feels deeply. We all do. Prickly, raucous and outspoken, those six women didn't always get along, but their love for each other was fierce, and the respect they earned unquestioned.
Bonnie's family held a memorial service this summer, which was more like a family reunion, as she would have wanted. My cousins' band Tenderfoot played, marking the event as they have so many times throughout my life with the songs my family loves. Some of my cousins were there, some of them weren't. But it was a blue-sky summer day and it was good to be together, as it always is.
I don't know much these days. I don't know who we are, or why we do the things we do. I don't know. Humor, love and kindness, that's all I got.
But I'm haunted by those boys, running through the snow and laughing like hell, with the world before us as we disappear into the night.
Tags: Family, Immigrants, Michigan, Politics, Values
Categories Childhood, Family, Michigan, Politics, Values
If ever there was a sun that shines on me,
If ever there was a dream come true,
If ever the truth existed,
It was you
–Martin Sexton*
In the autumn of 1993 the sun shone in Northern Italy as grapes were harvested, gently crushed and slowly allowed to ferment. Sunlight was captured in a bottle, while half a world away, I met a girl.
I was 30 years old, just back from Europe, and I was alone. I was not a religious man, but there were prayers. During those gray fall days, they went something like this: "Dear God, if I have to choose between having a career as an actor and finding the person I want to spend the rest of my life with, please let me find that person."
Of course, I still expected both. But I had begun to sense that maybe all my dreams were not going to come true, and I wanted to make sure my priorities were clear, which was wise. Because, looking back, it was as if I had walked into the mountains without a map, dropped my compass in the river, lost all my food, and took every wrong turn. Until I met Amy. Beautiful, talented, funny and wise, she found me wandering in circles and, together, we found our way home.
Wine is about moments. Fleeting on their own, together they create an alchemy of weather, skill and time, evolving toward the moment the wine is tasted. There's magic in all of this, but there's a special magic in the sharing. Wine never tastes as good as it does with Amy. And tonight, when things settle down; when Hallie's in her PJs, and Heath's had his shower, in celebration of our marriage, twenty years ago today, we will open that bottle of wine, a 1993 Barolo, and unleash the sunlight of the autumn we first met.
And we'll kiss, and I'll realize, once again, just how lucky I am. And then I'll say another, simpler prayer.
* You (My Mind Is Woo) by Martin Sexton
Tags: Anniversary, Love, Marriage, Prayer, Wine
Categories Amy, Anniversary, Love, Marriage, Wine
Durant Station
Durant is situated at the intersection of U.S. Highways 69/75 and 70, fifty-two miles east of Ardmore and seventy-six miles southwest of McAlester. Occupation of the townsite began in November 1872 when a wheelless boxcar was placed on the east side of the Missouri, Kansas and Texas Railway tracks. In 1873 Dixon Durant erected the town's first building, a wooden store, on the east side of the boxcar. Named "Durant Station" for his family, it was shortened to Durant in 1882. — Oklahoma Historical Society
I tease Amy that she comes from a desert state. Growing up, that's what I assumed Oklahoma to be; a vast wasteland of parched earth and the lined faces of those who had tried to farm it. The truth was more familiar. Another town that seemed to revolve around the chain stores and fast food restaurants out along the highway, while the once vibrant downtown limped along on the strength of its few remaining businesses. Another community that no longer wished to commune.
Heath doesn't see it that way. For one thing, a couple miles down the road is Okie Donuts, where, I kid you not, they make the best donuts in the world. Heath used to ride out there in the morning with Amy's dad for coffee and a Boston Creme. Now I take Heath. The owner treats him as a special guest, having come all the way from New York. And then there's the donuts: light, fluffy, and sweet, but not too sweet. Good sweet. The kind of sweet that gets you out of bed at 6 AM, because if you're too late all the maple will be gone.
After donuts, we drive back to Durant in the early morning light. The highway's faster, but we take the back way, just like Amy's dad.
Farmers are talking outside Wright's Drive-In as we roll into town, sipping coffee in the morning sun.
Downtown the buildings still stand, soaking in the light and giving back the warmth and color of their red clay bricks.
And somewhere in the past, a button-nosed girl is buying a ham salad sandwich at Durant Drug and stepping into the Plaza Theater for the afternoon showing of Endless Love. As romance blooms onscreen, the streets outside grow humid and warm; humming with footsteps, the laughter of chance meetings and the sound of cars going by. The sun is low as the movie ends, and the girl and her slightly scandalized mother step outside and make their way home, past friends and neighbors; checking the time and talking about dinner as they go.
The sounds fade, the air grows cooler, and the people disappear. Heath and I are alone on the cobblestone street. The drugstore is gone and the Plaza is now an office building. For the first time Heath grows impatient, so as we walk, I try to paint the picture for him, attempting to bring to life a town I never knew, but which did so much to create his mom. He listens, he nods, but he's ready to go.
The heart of Durant may be battered and worn, but I don't think it's moved out to the highway. It's not in the McDonalds drive-thru, and it's not at the Waffle Shop, and it's sure as hell not at the Walmart. No, it's still downtown, where the old facades continue to glow, beautiful and resilient, like Amy, her family, and so many of those formed by this place. The heart beats softly these days, forgotten by many, but it's there: fifty-two miles east of Ardmore and seventy-six miles southwest of McAlester, just east of the old boxcar, waiting for those with ears to hear.
Tags: Community, Durant, Family, Fathers & Sons, Oklahoma
Categories Amy, Community, Family, Fathers & Sons, OK, Oklahoma
"We Americans are trained to think big, talk big, act big, love big, admire bigness but then the essential mystery is in the small" — Jim Harrison
We were away, and it was much needed. Doubt had crept in. Our little world had taken a turn and much of the unspoken support we relied upon had become suspect. Along with the broken snow shovel and old clothes, friendships had become frayed, and as if we were traveling familiar terrain in an unexpected snowstorm, we had come up short, lost in a sea of white, unsure of the direction home.
Walking along the Delaware, we swap Heath's camera back and forth. The hills are quiet, and the river speaks a language I don't know, hiccuping, groaning, and burbling its way through a world slowly becoming solid.
We see things differently. Heath fascinated by the small and near, while I look for sweep and curve, trying to take it all in. But his eye is good, finding the beauty at his feet while I continue to scan the horizon.
Comfortable with the stillness of the day, he's a pleasure to walk with. The incessant banter of our life at home has settled down, and we listen to the water and the wind as he walks on, stopping occasionally to look around, as if searching for signs.
Watching him, I search for signs myself. What does he see? In a brain whose synapses gather and splay like a flock of birds, what does a snowy day in the Catskills look like? How does it feel?
People are hard, and those that appreciate us are rare. That's true for anybody. The natural world, though, that's something different. Perhaps it's where we can best appreciate ourselves.
I hand him back the camera and he snaps the shutter, catching me unaware. Taking a moment to check the image, he nods, and walks on. I catch up, and walking beside him, we follow the river home.
Tags: Autism, Catskills, Fatherhood, Fathers & Sons, nature
Categories Autism, Catskills, Children, Fathers & Sons, Journeys, Nature, Winter
It was already dark when Amy and Heath got home. I had told Hallie we were going for a walk and she already had her shoes on, having struggled into her pink velvet boots, which weren't the shoes I would have picked, but in Hallie's world they worked.
When Heath got home, he was excited. We had told him about the shopkeeper down the street who had been beaten a few days ago by a man shouting "I kill Muslims." The Giving Tree, our local yoga studio, had organized a meditation for peace, and we thought we should stop by.
On our way, Amy and I went over the meaning of meditation, leaning heavily on the fact that it would be quiet, and we should do our best to keep it that way. Heath continued walking, happily bopping along, seemingly oblivious to all I had just said.
"Heath. Heath."
"Did you hear what I just said?"
"What did I say."
"We have to be quiet. I got it, I got it."
The crowd was small, forming a circle on the corner in front of the store. Seven or eight people sat on the sidewalk meditating. A few dozen others stood around quietly, some holding candles. Hallie was up on my shoulders and I rocked slowly from side to side as she took it all in. Occasionally she would say, "Wow." One of the women on the ground smiled.
For about two minutes it was really nice. Then Hallie wanted down. So I ran her around a bit off to the side, where we wouldn't disturb anyone, and we quietly took the kids inside for a treat. Cookies, chips and crackers were gathered, and as we were digging around for our money, Heath stepped to the counter and said, "I'm sorry for what happened to you guys. I hope you're OK."
The shopkeeper looked at Heath for a moment, then touched his heart, assured him they were OK, put his palms together and bowed.
Heath then said he couldn't believe anyone would do something so horrible and started into a rant about the generally shoddy condition of humanity, which confused the man, and Amy had to step in. But for a moment there, he had really nailed it.
Walking home, I told him I was proud.
"Because you spoke eloquently, and you spoke from the heart."
He thought about that for a moment, and then said "Oh. OK," before moving on, heading towards home, seemingly oblivious to all I had just said.
Love Fatima Food Mart
Astoria Gathers to Support Fatima Owner After Anti-Muslim Attack
Tags: Astoria, Autism, Children, Fathers & Sons, Intolerance, Islam, Kids
Categories Astoria, Community, Fatherhood, Fathers & Sons, Heath
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