Whenever the world grows cold, and I feel the need for reassurance and warmth, I think of my grandmother. She seemed to come more regularly into our orbit every fall, as the days began the march to the holidays. My Mom would bring us into her hometown of Hoosick Falls to spend the weekend with Gram just as the fall ascended to its apex. In preparation, I would make a batch of apple cinnamon muffins. They filled our house with the comforting smell of cinnamon and spices. Nestling them into a cloth-lined basket a la Little Red Riding Hood, I loaded them carefully into the car and we made our way along the backroads into the little town where Gram spent most of her life.
In close proximity to Vermont, Hoosick Falls was a sleepy village, through which the Hoosick river flowed. Water played a part in our journey there, as we crossed bridges that went over streams and said river. “Over the river and through the woods to grandmother’s house we go” was an apt musical cue, and we would sing it out loud as we entered the town.
That first night we would settle in to an old-fashioned meal cooked by Gram, accompanied by apple-cinnamon muffins for dessert. We went to sleep in spite of our excitement over the next day’s travels.
Some years the leaves were in the midst of their glory; others they had already been rendered bare. The sky was usually gray, and the air damp, but the scent of fireplaces made it all feel more cozy. Along with the rustling of leaves, the sound of rushing water came to signify fall, as it ran behind one of our favorite places to stop: the candle mill.
As one of the main destinations for me and my brother, its two-or-three-story building stood on the edge of a roaring stream, always full of fall rain. Before we got outside to inspect it closer, however, we had candle work to do. There was one small section, on the landing between floors I think, where they offered a pair of pure white linked candles which you could dip in various wax colors which were heated and smelled deliciously of light, if light could have a fragrance. We would dip and make our own designs (I always tried to make an entire rainbow on the candle, but after the third or fourth dunk it was futile, and the yellow never got as light as I wanted it.) That wasn’t the point – we loved it, being able to take part in something like that, putting our own little spin on something as wonderful as a candle.
Afterward, we would go behind the building and look over the bank onto the rush of water. A little waterfall crashed further up the stream; it was noisy there, in the best way. We wanted to get closer, but there was danger there too. Childhood verges ever on the dangerous. We gripped our paper bags of candles tightly, as we edged nearer the ledge. Mom and Gram pulled us back and then it was time for dinner in Manchester.
Those weekends were why Gram would come to symbolize the coziness of fall to me. Together with my Mom, they crafted a sense of warmth just when the world began to go the opposite direction. Later, Gram would teach me to crochet, another act of creation that would see us through the winter as well. But that’s another story to tell, and we’re not quite there yet.
Our as-annual-as-we-can-muster-it Treasure Hunt for the twins was staged a couple of weeks ago. That’s when we have our niece and nephew over for a fall treasure hunt around the backyard followed by some hot chocolate with marshmallows. The turning of the seasonal clock finds us inside for the rest of the time, since the pool is too cold to swim and the air and lawn are too damp to play. This year we found an old spell that actually worked, as when we returned to where our Treasure Hunt began, the empty box over which we chanted our incantation was filled with a Halloween surprise. (I’ll let the twins tell that tale themselves.)
As is always the case, the hunt for Halloween treats took far less time than anyone expected (hoped) and soon we were left with sugar-spun kids looking to fill three hours with non-stop entertainment.
The Halloween trick-or-treat bags were a hit, as were the rubber-ball eyes that glowed when they bounced on the ground. These too, though, were forgotten as quickly as the Treasure Hunt and soon more distractions were needed.
As the fun Uncle, it was up to me to occupy the twins’ time with magic and make-believe, and no other place on earth is more amply stocked for just such a demand than our attic. Costumes, accessories, decorations and dreams were all to be found if one took the time to look carefully. The twins are still at an age where those things matter, where a few magical turns in the proper outfit can lead to corridors of enchantment and mysticism, where the land of imagination reigns supreme over the dull trappings of reality and adulthood.
Sometimes that magic finds its way downstairs and onto my own head. If the top hat fits…
If you happen to see Andy (or, even better, if you have his cel number) be sure to wish him a Happy Birthday today. There is enough sorrow and darkness in this world; we need more happy days like this, and we need to make the most of them when they’re at hand. He’s had a difficult few months health-wise, and this is also the time of the year when things get a little sadder with the closing of the pool, the end of the summer, and the anniversary of losing his beloved Mum.
Still, we forge ahead. I’ll do some fall cleaning and make him his dinner of choice. He’s indicated he wants to lay low and not go out, which sounds practically perfect. Quiet birthdays are woefully underrated. Andy has always preferred a non-scene like that. Preparing for winter brings out the meditative mode in us; it’s one of the first things that attracted me to him. On this birthday, I wish him a year of better health and more happiness. I love you, Drew.
The featured photograph was taken twenty years ago, as my ‘Aunt’ Elaine turned sixty. Impossible to believe that she’s turning eighty tomorrow, mostly because she’s ten times more active than I am, and I’m getting tired just writing this. A lifetime of community activism and work is impressive; that she has barely slowed down in all this time is the veritable mark of legend. After making Amsterdam her home in the early 70’s, she not only set down roots, but crafted a legacy built through hard work, endless volunteering, and transformations that saw her evolve from wife and mother to Montessori school founder and teacher, to various Presidents of organizations (I lost count of all the Presidencies which she has earned and served as).
She has played an active role in the General Federation of Women’s Clubs since 1979. Aside from basic life functions, I can’t think of anything I’ve done since 1979. As we gathered for a joint celebration of her birthday and her son Stephen’s marriage to Hye Sun, I was once again happily astounded by how she managed to elicit such a collection of people who have loved her all these years.
No one else can bring people together in such a way, and she is the living embodiment of the old adage that you catch more flies with honey than vinegar. It’s but one of the many things I have learned from watching her over the years.
I always wondered how she found the drive and energy to do all that she does. I’ve seen her traverse New York City and Europe in the span of three weeks, then return and have a pistachio cake on the table for an impromptu dinner. Her indefatigable spirit, even in the face of hardships and tragedies, is the stuff of hyperbolic myth, and events which might otherwise have derailed persons seemingly less-frail were surmounted in almost super-human fashion. Yet through all her personal pain she’s always devoted her life to serving her community. In a way, that became her purpose in life. It emboldened and fulfilled her in ways that the traditional confines of a stay-at-home Mom and widow could never allow. It never sacrificed her family life, not in any way I could see, and her example, coupled with my Mom’s, helped me become a person who never saw gender roles limit what any of us could become. That didn’t mean it wasn’t difficult – it simply meant they worked extra hard to make sure none of us noticed.
A very modern woman who values history, she is the living embodiment of how we keep the stories of our families going – these stories that told us where we were from and how we got to be where we are today. Those stories are no longer being passed on as much, but she continues to do her best to ensure that they are not lost. Tomorrow, we pause to honor all that she has done, and also to celebrate how lucky we are to have her in our lives. Happy Birthday, ‘Aunt’ Elaine!
My memories of Stephen are like those that come from a distant relative forever on the periphery of family events. I was rarely directly involved in his world, but got to see some of it in glimpses and passings-by. Holidays and birthdays and simple summer days, I was there for most of the major events thanks to our family’s friendship with the Ko family. As the third of the Ko children, nestled in between the dominant older boys and the youngest baby girl, Stephen somehow managed to shine as his own star, impressing both mother and father in the manner that everyone else tried in their own various ways to attain.
He’d avoided the brunt of being one of the first-two born, and the competitive destiny that befalls many of us brothers no matter how hard we fight against it. He was also several years removed from the baby girl of the family, Suzie, with whom I would grow up. As the youngest kids in most situations, Suzie and I went largely unnoticed. Maybe because of that we got to see a little bit more. Even with such cover, Stephen glided more or less outside of my radar, and the few memories I have of him are rather ephemeral and innocuous.
One day I was playing with the Barbie dolls in Suzie’s bedroom. That glorious room, with its pink gingham canopy bed, lost completely upon Suzie but absolutely adored by me, held a large collection of mostly-ignored dolls and doll houses, and every time I went over to visit I’d find a way to play with them. Suzie would be supremely bored and usually slip away to find something – anything – more exciting than dolls. I’d brush their golden hair and arrange them by the pool. I’d set them in a car and send them on a summer drive. I’d seek out the fanciest ball gown and change them into it. They simply didn’t get the proper treatment they deserved while under the careless watch of Suzie. Just as I was doing this, Stephen walked by the room and asked if I was playing with Barbie. I’m sure I said absolutely not, even if I wasn’t quite socially cognizant enough to feel shame. He passed on, heading out to play basketball or something, and never mentioned it.
A couple of years later he took us to see ‘The Sting’ when he was supposed to take us to a children’s movie. He told us not to tell anyone, and I hope I didn’t, but I was angered that we had to watch some boring adult movie, and greatly unimpressed with the selfishness of young men even when it came to their baby sister and her equally-selfish best friend.
There was something more sensitive about Stephen though, and while he would tease my brother and I as much as his older brothers did, we never felt the same fear that they could inspire. There was something gentler about him, an artistic temperament that seemed to feel things a little more keenly than the average person. He lived a charmed childhood, from my limited vantage point, and he had the kindness, confidence and laissez-faire attitude that may have been a result of his cushioned position in the family.
The world isn’t always kind to those who feel things more keenly, however, and I occasionally imagined his moments of torment and pain, especially when his father died. Everyone died a little on that day, and I don’t think anyone has fully recovered. There is no recovery from such a swift, gaping loss. A bit of it heals, a lot of it scars, and in the end it’s with us for life – the constancy of which may be the slightest bit of balm on such a sea of hurt.
Families survive, somehow, and those who live hopefully find happier moments with which to build new memories, which is the happy ending of this post. After marrying his fiancee Hye Sun earlier this year in South Korea, Stephen has returned to celebrate with those of us unable to make that journey. He and Hye Sun are sharing a grand party both for their wedding and his Mom’s 80thbirthday celebration (another post for another day). We will be joining them in our hometown of Amsterdam, NY – the city where we grew up – and for one of those rare moments our families will once again be together. That hasn’t happened in a very long time, and we’ve all missed it.
For most of my childhood summers my brother was my best friend. Away from the daily circumstance of school, and without cel phones or the internet, we lost touch with school friends that we had grown accustomed to seeing daily. Stranded in the same house, raised by the same parents, my brother and I are the only two people in the world who shared almost the exact same upbringing. No one, not even Suzie, has a keener understanding of what it was like to grow up in the Ilagan household, with all its requisite glories and flaws and luxuries and discipline. My brother shared all those things for the first decade and a half of our lives before we went our own ways and forged our own paths.
Back then, it was just him and me, and I didn’t mind in the least.
TONIGHT IT’S VERY CLEAR, AS WE’RE BOTH LYING HERE
THERE’S SO MANY THINGS I WANT TO SAY
I WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOU, I WOULD NEVER LEAVE YOU ALONE
SOMETIMES I JUST FORGET, SAY THINGS I MIGHT REGRET
IT BREAKS MY HEART TO SEE YOU CRYING
I DON’T WANT TO LOSE YOU, I COULD NEVER MAKE IT ALONE.
We had friends in the neighborhood that we’d play with ~ Michael and Eric and Jennifer ~ but I was more content when it was the two of us, riding our bikes across town to grab baseball cards and candy, or down to the small corner aquarium store to see the fish. There was a huge 100-gallon tank of freshwater fish near the back of the store, filled with colorful decorations and large denizens slowly swimming above its graveled expanse. I remember the owner of the store, Linda, and how we could mark the passing of time in her hair and, later, her pregnancies. She had a short hair phase, then there was a tragic perm moment (from which she never quite recovered) and finally ~ thankfully ~ she started to grow it out. By then we had almost grown up.
I AM A MAN WHO WILL FIGHT FOR YOUR HONOR
I’LL BE THE HERO YOU’RE DREAMING OF
WE’LL LIVE FOREVER, KNOWING TOGETHER
THAT WE DID IT ALL FOR THE GLORY OF LOVE.
This song, an unabashed love song, is a strange one to intertwine among memories of my brother, but its essence could be read on a grander scale than finite romantic love. It was part of ‘The Karate Kid’ ~ a movie that I saw with my brother, and it filled the radio of one of those childhood summers. In the hot and humid nights, back when heat and humidity didn’t bother us (childhood has a way of making us weather-resistant), we’d listen to this on the radio, caring not a whit for Peter Cetera’s cheesy delivery or the banal cliches of knights in shining armor and castles far away. What did we know of romantic love at that point? Nothing, and we didn’t want to know. Sometimes children have all the wisdom.
Instead, we reveled in brotherly love, even if we would never say or acknowledge it. We emboldened one another. It’s often been assumed that my brother was more of a risk-taker than me, that he would make questionable choices and do occasionally-foolish things, acting as daredevil to my more sensible angel. That wasn’t really the case when we were kids. My brother was most often the voice of safety and reason when I wanted to do something really stupid. He was the one concerned about Mom and Dad and what they would do to us if we got caught. I just had the confidence to assume we wouldn’t get caught, and most of the time that carried us through. Like when I stole an expensive (or so I thought at the time) baseball card from one of the local dealers. We were browsing with a friend, and on a dare or desire to impress my brother (I could do crazy-ass daring things too!) I stuffed some rookie card down the front of my shorts into my underwear. I thought I did it furtively, but the owner, a cigar-chomping rotund gentleman with straggly yet curly hair that was running away from the top of his head, must have seen me, and immediately stopped me from leaving the store. Alerted at this point by the accosting, but unaware of what I had done, my brother looked at me and waited. The owner said he saw me stuff a card down my pants. I denied it, and through sheer force of will and defiance, one of the only times in my life when I have been so bold, I stood my ground and dared him: “If it’s in my pants, why don’t you come and get it?” (I didn’t watch all those soap operas for nothing.) He backed away and just yelled at us to get out of his store. We got on our bikes and quickly pedaled away. Amused and a little irate, my brother asked, because he didn’t quite believe me, whether I had taken the card. “Of course not,” I replied. Then I rode ahead of him a little, pulled the card from my underwear, and waved it in the air to show him without saying a word. Older brothers have been doing stupid shit to impress their younger brothers since the world began. Most of the time it doesn’t work.
YOU KEEP ME STANDING TALL, YOU HELP ME THROUGH IT ALL
I’M ALWAYS STRONG WHEN YOU’RE BESIDE ME
I HAVE ALWAYS NEEDED YOU, I COULD NEVER MAKE IT ALONE…
We had our arguments, like all brothers will, and at the end of them we’d separate for a while, cooling off in our respective corners. The world would turn a little dimmer whenever that happened. I remember one time we were building a fort in the forest and we got into a ridiculous fight about how to make it or something, and it ended with us going off to make our own separate forts.
We eyed each other suspiciously, scrambling for materials before the other could get them, racing to see who would finish first and whose would be the better. Neither of us ever won then. We were better as a team, stronger when we were together and on the same side. But sibling rivalry runs deep. We did not see that then. Our forts, and the loneliness that resulted from erecting them on our own, were emblematic of our struggle. We abandoned them. The summer storms ripped their walls of twigs apart. Every time we’d return after a heavy rain, more had washed away. The floor, which we had raked and swept and kept free of debris would be littered with leaves and branches. Deciduous boughs, bent and tied to form a canopy, broke free of their string and returned to their natural form, taking the make-shift ceiling with them. Summer could be as destructive as she was sunny.
I AM A MAN WHO WILL FIGHT FOR YOUR HONOR
I’LL BE THE HERO YOU’RE DREAMING OF
WE’LL LIVE FOREVER, KNOWING TOGETHER
THAT WE DID IT ALL FOR THE GLORY OF LOVE.
For a summer best friend, one could do a lot worse than my brother. He had the qualities I lacked but so often admired. He wore his sensitivity on his sleeve; I kept mine hidden. He was more open and raw about getting hurt, emotionally and physically; I kept my pain quiet and private. He was quick to play and please; I was quick to run and hide. Yet for all our differences, for all our childhood summers, those differences bound us together in ways I still don’t completely understand. We each seemed to supply what the other lacked, whether we realized it or not. But maybe it was simpler than that. Maybe we just wanted a playmate. When the sun was out, and the summer beckoned, the best thing to do was share it with someone.
IT’S LIKE A KNIGHT IN SHINING ARMOR, FROM A LONG TIME AGO
JUST IN TIME I WILL SAVE THE DAY, TAKE YOU TO MY CASTLE FAR AWAY
And so we carved out our summer adventures. When my brother would journey out on his own or with a neighborhood friend, I’d sometimes stay behind and immediately regret it. At those times I’d stay inside, watching out the window like a dog waiting for its owner to come home, hoping they wouldn’t be gone for too long. Solitude was my resting stance, but that didn’t mean I wanted to be alone all the time, and certainly not on a sunny summer day.
It takes me a long time to feel safe and comfortable enough to make friends, so my brother was often my conduit to social interaction in those days. He was a talisman of sorts whenever I felt anxious about being accepted or part of the group. In that way, he was more like an older brother, and me his younger charge in need of a little help. He was better at talking to people whereas my shyness was crippling. He probably did more to bring me out of my shell than anyone else, and in his company I could feel bold and brash (and apparently bodacious enough to steal a baseball card). Without knowing it, my brother was the protective hero that I would so long for when the world turned its back and closed its doors.
I AM A MAN WHO WILL FIGHT FOR YOUR HONOR
I’LL BE THE HERO YOU’RE DREAMING OF
WE’LL LIVE FOREVER, KNOWING TOGETHER
THAT WE DID IT ALL FOR THE GLORY OF LOVE.
All these years later, summer is still the season that seems to bring us together as brothers again. Christmas does that in quicker and shorter fashion, but summer, for whatever magical reason, finds my brother and I able to see each other more, to visit and hang outside while his kids swim, or have a sleep-over without having to worry about anyone getting up to go to school. We’re able to travel easier and get to see each other more in the summer months.
Now that I’ve reached the age where most of my friends have been married off, there are fewer occasions at which we get a chance to dress up, so whenever the opportunity arises we take it. If it also coincides with a fundraising effort for a hometown cause, so much the better. Such was the happy confluence of events when we went to a benefit at the Amsterdam Castle. Filled with hometown heroes, it was a fun night out with my family, and I got to see several friends I haven’t seen in years.
Before the festivities, however, we took a few family photos, because that’s what you do when you’re all dolled up and have a beautiful afternoon for a backdrop.
Yes, I wore florals. For spring.
And yes, it was groundbreaking.
Elaine joined us and with all of the people we met at the castle, I was pleasantly reminded of all the goodness that happens when a community comes together for a cause. (If you’ve ever been curious about what the inside of the Amsterdam Castle looks like, give them a call and reserve a room.)
Most exciting for some of us was when Andy posed with my Mom in front of her new car that he helped her select. Car Pride. It’s real.
The wooden paneling of our family room surrounded us with warmth. The couch, in an old ratty plaid fabric, sat against the wall facing the television set. It was the room where some of my earliest childhood memories were made. The time my brother threw himself off the couch in a tantrum and cut open his head on the corner of the coffee table. The time we were playing in the toy cabinet and I moved a lock of his hair so it fell to the other side, saying I liked him better that way, and the way he smiled and chuckled at such meticulous behavior. And the time that my Dad, when I was too little to know how precious the act was, peeled grapes for me so I didn’t have to eat the sour skins. My legs, chubby and far too short to reach the floor, fit on the couch cushion beside a bowl filled with grapes.
Like so many things about my Dad when seen through the prism of childhood, this was another moment of pure magic. He’d pluck the grapes from their shriveled vine and, with the delicate and sure maneuvering of a doctor, in a few quick motions he’d have them peeled and ready for devouring. They were so much sweeter that way, softer and smoother too, and for a kid that was divine. We sat there together, probably only going through about six or seven of them – how many grapes could a little boy eat? – and I would call out for more. I couldn’t even form the word yet – all I managed was “geeps” and my parents would echo that attempt whenever I wanted a grape.
A man of few words, my Dad said more to me in peeling those grapes than I could ever muster in years of blabbering and writing. With each peeled grape, a little ‘I love you’ was given from a father to his son. The very same love that was in our after-dinner walks for ice cream in the summer, or when he’d let me ‘help’ with mowing the lawn. Mostly I just stood there, at a safe distance, but feeling like I was doing something. A good father knows how to do that – to make his child feel safe and important.
It remains one of my happiest memories, and on this Father’s Day I wanted to say thank you to my Dad for filling my childhood with such treasures.
For Mother’s Day breakfast, I booked us a table at the nearby Norma’s. (I wish I’d thought to do so last year when we were still on a Norma Desmond ‘Sunset Boulevard’ high.) We enjoyed it now, walking through the impressive lobby of the Parker Meridien into a cozy corner where other mothers were enjoying an early celebration of their day. Since I was actually spending the weekend with my Mom instead of merely writing about her, there was no Mother’s Day post, so this will have to suffice.
We’ve been doing these Broadway weekends for several Mother’s Days now. I think we each enjoy them for different reasons, as they afford us an uninterrupted bit of quality time with one another – not in serious, sustained conversation all the while, but in simpler, quieter moments. We make good travel companions because despite our appreciation of style and elegance, we’re both pretty low-maintenance. The pacing is easy, and no one gets riled if plans morph into something slightly new and unexpected.
We also get to reminisce and remember the people we love, and some of whom we have lost. They show up in surprising ways – a dachshund to remind us of Gram or a dinner dish to remind us of Aunt Luz and Uncle Roberto. Of course we also reflect on those still with us (but I’m not about to dish on all that). It’s good to have a designated long weekend to allow for such sharing, and it has become an important tradition for both of us.
This year was a good one, and looking back on the weekend it was practically perfect. This may have been the most consistently-great set of shows we’ve seen in years, and it will be difficult to top them. That doesn’t mean I won’t try next year…
{And here’s a bonus look back at our first time at ‘Sunset Boulevard, circa 1995.}
What began over two decades ago has become an annual event to which I eagerly look forward for the whole year: Mother’s Day weekend with Mom. Despite mixed weather forecasts signaling rain and storms, we somehow managed to mostly avoid the wet stuff as we navigated our way through three shows, three dinners, and some decent shopping in New York over Mother’s Day weekend. Happily, each of the shows surpassed our expectations (reviews to come) and the dinners and meals (more loosely scheduled than in years past) worked out well too.
It began with the train ride into the city. Traveling along the Hudson, we passed spots of rain, patches of clouds, and brilliant glimpses of sun-dappled forest. As one who thrives on extremes (of mood, of dress, of design) I always thrill at going from the tranquil, natural state of the trees and river then emerging from the train station into the concrete metropolis in a matter of minutes.
This time around we stayed at the Warwick Hotel, a historic piece of the city that proved more than amenable to our comfort requirements. (A dapper little bear at the front desk did his greeting duty with practiced aplomb.) Our suite had a charming entry-way, then a lovely sitting room (which we never quite utilized as much as we should have) a decent-sized bedroom (by city standards) and an adequate bathroom (read: small). Still, when staying in New York it’s not the hotel room that matters, but what you do outside of it.
That first night we kept things traditional and old-school: a pre-theater dinner at P.J. Clarke’s. We’d never been, but it’s a bit of an institution: the building standing alone in the midst of all those skyscrapers, the dessert specials written out on a chalk-board, and the red-and-white checkered tablecloths reminiscent of picnics from the past.
After that we returned to the room for a quick siesta before taking in our first show: ‘The Boys in the Band’. A full review will be posted once it officially opens, so I’ll simply say it went wildly beyond our expectations in the best possible ways. (And Jim Parsons didn’t trip until a couple of days after our performance.)
We walked back to the Warwick, found its warm comforting light, and retired for the evening. A full day of shopping, dining, and theater-going was one the agenda for us…
After dinner and birthday cake, we headed back outside for a bit of play. The sun was still out and the air was beginning to warm for the season. (We had no way of knowing it would still be a few weeks before it arrived properly, and there was great joy in that ignorance.) After a winter spent mostly indoors, everyone was happy to be out and about.
Children will always find ways of entertaining themselves. Only boring people get bored.
I’m not sure what the game was, or what I was supposed to be refereeing, but I did my best.
Most games are simply an excuse to run around and exert some energy.
Those aren’t high on my to-do list, so I mostly watched and encouraged. I can be very encouraging in place of running around.
As the birthday dinner wound down, the sun gradually lowered itself in the sky. Soon it was time to go.
But this was just the very start of the fairer weather, and soon we’ll be having them over for pool days and barbecues and party sleep-overs.
Sometimes, particularly in cases of birthday-candle-blow-outs, the photographs say more than any collection of wordy descriptions could manage. See what these are saying without my blustery prose…
The Ilagan Twins celebrated their 8th birthday recently, and I’m just now getting around to posting the pictures from a gathering at my parents’ home. They were born at the tail-end of March, but we hadn’t been able to get together until a few weeks afterward, when the weather was only slightly better. That didn’t dampen the spirits, or the possibility of heading outside for some rambunctious fun before and after the dinner festivities.
I still remember the rainy day on which they were born. Andy and I got the call that afternoon and after work we drove to the hospital to meet our new niece and nephew. We were instantly smitten, and since that time we’ve watched and played a small part in their childhood evolution.
If we haven’t seen them in a few weeks, as was the case this time, I marvel at how much, and how quickly, they’ve changed.
They are eight now, and the days are flying by.
This is the time to catch them and make memories – just as they are starting to make ones that they will remember into adulthood. There’s something exciting in that. Dangerous too, if you’re not careful. Children will listen.
The sun stayed outside while we went in for dinner…
My favorite time of the day in the condo was at hand, as the afternoon sun was slanting through the bedroom bay window just as we returned from our museum visit (and a bit of shopping). We planned on meeting my Mom and Emi for a pre-dinner snack and cocktail/mocktail at the condo. Suzie and I tried on a few new purchases, then got down to slicing some French bread and stirring up a Shirley Temple just as they arrived.
It was a perfect cocktail hour with three of my favorite ladies in the world, and then it was time to head to dinner at the Beehive, where I hoped Emi would enjoy some live music.
It was a lovely dinner, mostly because of the company we kept.
The night was nice enough for us all to walk back to their hotel, where we got some chocolate and then took a quick look at their view. The unexpected adventure is always the best kind.
Like the proverbial ‘Easter egg’ treats in the extended versions of certain DVDs, here are a few outtakes from our Easter Sunday with the family. Andy wisely stayed indoors for this portion of the day’s festivities, while I pulled my flimsy coat around me to no avail. The twins didn’t seem to mind. Such is the magic of childhood. One is never cold or hot when the opportunity for play is about.
