Since December of 2021, I’ve been a full-time caregiver for my mom, 87, who suffered a stroke in November 2021. I’ve learned a few things about caregiving — and am still learning — so I thought I’d share some things I’ve figured out along the way. I’ve made mistakes for sure, but I’ve also had a few successes.
It’s more important now than ever to prioritize. I work from home, so I get to be about 10 feet away from Mom while I work, for which I’m super grateful. I’ve cut back on some of my volunteer work, especially anything that requires me to be out of the house, since Mom can’t be left alone. There are very things we do in which we don’t include Mom.
Create routines. We’ve set up a schedule of meals that are mostly the same each week. Friday night is hamburger night, Sunday is hot dog night, and so on. This gives Mom some stability and sameness and allows her to anticipate and, I think, feel a sense of security.
Find fun things to do that are easy for her. Our town has a Christmas light display that you drive through, which she loves. We do it every year and talk about it so she looks forward to it. We also have TV shows that we watch regularly — right now we’re binging Master Chef (Season Two). We talk about what’s going on and who we like and don’t like. I think it makes her feel a little more a part of things.
Be willing to make a fool of yourself. I do all sorts of crazy things at home like singing and dancing to make her laugh. I try to crack her up as often as possible. I’ve always heard that laughing is good for the body and soul, so I’ll do nearly anything to give her a chuckle at my expense.
Artie snoozing at Mom’s feet
Pets are wonderful companions. In spite of herself, Mom has grown to love Artie, our mini Aussiedoodle. He sits on her lap and snuggles with her and I’ve actually caught her talking to him. It’s nice that she can enjoy him without the responsibility of caring for him.
Become a location scout. There are some places it’s easy for us to go, some places not so much. I’m learning to skip locations and venues that aren’t accessible for her, to keep her from getting frustrated and feeling like an outsider.
Develop and cultivate patience. Sometimes it would be more efficient for me to do something for her, but it’s better for her to feel as independent as possible. It can be hard for me to let go and let her do things, but when I can (while watching out of the corner of my eye) I let her try first.
Talk about the future. I want her to have things to look forward to — gatherings with family, dinners out, special events — so I talk to her about what’s coming up on our calendar and long-term season changes. She’s especially looking forward to spring and summer, when we sit on the patio, look at the flowers and enjoy a glass of wine together.
Understand that you will get frustrated. It’s not unlike parenting in that it’s the most rewarding job, but can also be the most challenging. I don’t have a lot of time to myself, but I balance that with the memories I’m creating with Mom.
Educate yourself on the medical stuff. I’m lucky to have a sister, brother-in-law, and nephew who are physicians, so I can get easy answers to my medical questions as quickly as I can send a text message. Otherwise I’d have to spend quite a bit of time researching and studying her medical needs.
Schedule time off regularly. I’ll admit I resisted this at first, but a family member insisted and I’m glad she did. I use the time for simple me time — hair and nails, shopping, errands, and sometimes I go to Jim’s office to get some work done before we go out to dinner.
Empathy is important. Before her stroke, Mom was an independent, active person who could come and go as she pleased. Now she depends on us for transportation to appointments and to church on Sunday. I try to frame it as time together rather than highlight the fact that she can no longer drive.
Reset your housekeeping standards. We are blessed with a wonderful housekeeper who comes each week and I often wonder what she must think of us. The house looks great after she’s been here, but it only lasts a day or so. I’d rather spend time with Mom watching TV than clean house, so I really don’t care.
These are only a few of the lessons I’ve learned from this past 15 months; I’m still learning. I mess up each and every day and try to do better next time. Above all, I try to enjoy our time together and ensure that she enjoys it too. I wouldn’t trade this time with her for the world.
Oh, boy. Please, 2022, be better than (at least the last part of) 2021.
I’m looking back over the past month or so and thinking that if I tried to write it as a story, any decent editor would reject it as far too improbable.
Here’s a (not so) quick timeline:
November 25 • We had a wonderful Thanksgiving Day with the family. Other than missing our oldest, Elizabeth, who lives in San Diego, it was pretty perfect.
November 27 • After a strange phone call with my mother, my sister calls me and I rush over to my mom’s house, to find that she’s apparently had a stroke during the night and cannot walk. We get her to the Emergency Room as quickly as we can, and, as the day goes on, it becomes apparent that she has, indeed, had a stroke. My sister stays with her the first night in the hospital, as Jim and I have church responsibilities the following day.
November 28 • My birthday, which I hardly noticed. I moved into Mom’s hospital room and slept on a cot in her room, as I didn’t want her to be alone.
November 30 • I woke up in the middle of the night with horrific stomach cramps. back pain, and nausea. I laid in bed for about an hour before I gave up and rang the nurses’ station for help. They promptly put me in a wheelchair and got me to Emergency, where I was diagnosed with a kidney stone. After I got some meds I felt better, but my sister urged me to go home and rest. While she was in the hospital, we began to realize that she was no longer going to be able to live alone and started to make plans to move into her home to care for her. Who has a kidney stone while staying with their mother in the hospital?
December 2 • (ish) Mother was released to a rehab hospital, with a release date of December 21, which gave us a mere three weeks to organize and execute a move. Because of the holiday season and lack of notice, the move has to be in two stages. I was hoping to have it completed before Mom came home, so she wouldn’t have to live in chaos. But, nope.
December 10 • Watching the weather, the warnings were ominous. Late in the afternoon/early evening I got a text from my nephew, who said he and his parents (my sister & brother-in-law) were headed to Mom’s house to get into her inside closet for shelter. Jim and I, with about 30 minutes notice on the coming storms, decided we would go to Mom’s as well. The one downside of open concept homes is the lack of interior rooms and both ours and my sister’s homes lacked a tornado-safe room. That’s how five adults and three dogs ended up in my mom’s toy closet for hours.
December 23 • Moving Day, Phase One. We had a busy day. Elizabeth had arrived from San Diego and we had our traditional family Festivus meal of catfish. Mother had trouble getting to sleep, and we realized she was having a lot of trouble breathing.
December 24 • We took Mom to the hospital at 2:00 a.m. due to her labored breathing and they admitted her for pneumonia. When they got us into a room, it was 5:00 a.m. and all I could think about was crashing on the cot in her room. I woke up at 10:00 a.m. to her doctor making rounds.
December 25 • Christmas Day but not really Christmas Day because Mom was still in the hospital.
December 26 • We realized that the upstairs HVAC unit was a goner. Thankfully they were able to replace it quickly.
December 30 • I wake up with inexplicable pain in my knee as well as stomach cramps that were much milder, but not unlike those that accompanied the kidney stone.
Today we’ll celebrate the end of 2021 with the family. We’ll all be in comfy clothes with no makeup and really won’t care a lick about anything except being together and the fact that it’s another holiday without Mother.
Mother the day she came home from the rehab hospital. Happy to be back in her favorite chair.
I could draw all sorts of conclusions from this saga. If I believed in karma, I could certainly go there and begin to wonder what horrible things I might have done to create this mess.
The only thing I can say is that it’s just life. Life is challenging sometimes, and it’s always unpredictable. It is stressful to be sure, but we don’t face it alone. I’ve tried during this time to look forward to the time when we’re all settled in, Mom is home and we have time to adjust to our new normal. As I write this, I’m sitting here with an ice pack on my knee, which is helping, so all is not lost.
In the meantime, I will focus on gratitude. I’m grateful for:
Our move to Jonesboro two years ago. Not only is Jim enjoying his new career in real estate, we are thankful we’re in a position to care for Mother so that she can stay in her beloved home.
My girls’ time with their grandmother during these trying moments. When Elizabeth arrived home after two years without seeing her due to Covid, Mom was asleep in her chair. Elizabeth crept over to her and sat on her lap with her arms around Mom’s shoulders. I wish I’d videoed it. When Mom woke up, the look on her face was pure joy. What a moment.
My supportive family, all of whom have Mom’s best interests at heart and try to do what’s best for her.
A sister, brother-in-law, and father-in-law who are physicians and can interpret the complicated medical jargon for us.
Our church and community, who have been so gracious and generous with their prayers, concern, and genuine caring.
Elizabeth snuggling on Jaboo’s lap just after waking her up.
For 40 years, the holidays started for me the week before Thanksgiving. It was a short work week, and I’d start packing on Monday for my one-and-a-half-hour trip to Jonesboro, Arkansas from Memphis. I couldn’t wait to get in the car and drive over one of Memphis’ two bridges crossing the Mighty Mississippi River.
I’d carefully plan what to wear on Thanksgiving Day with the family, and to church on Sunday morning. Saturday night after Thanksgiving we would always celebrate my birthday with a big dinner of Mom’s homemade chicken & dumplings, my favorite.
When Jim and I married in 1986, we split our time between his family and mine for the holidays, which made it even more special. Different traditions only added to the festive feeling and I happen to love turkey and dressing.
When we had children, packing became more complex. If you’ve ever traveled with infants and toddlers, you know what I mean. And, of course, they had to be dressed perfectly for the holiday pictures. Through those years, the packing and anticipation of the trip became part of the fun of the holiday.
When we moved here to Jonesboro in July 2019, I gave little thought to the holidays and focused on getting settled and helping Jim get started in real estate.
In November, when the subject of Thanksgiving came up, it occurred to me that there would be no packing and driving, no bridge crossing, no overnight stays. It’s a short 15-minute drive to my sister’s house, so if I forget something I can easily drive home and get it.
When I expressed this to Jim, he replied by offering to drive me to Memphis so we could drive across the bridge. Sometimes men really don’t get it, y’all. But it was a nice thought.
Change is a constant. I don’t fear it, I welcome it, because it always brings new experiences to enjoy and new insights.
If you take a close look at “Santa,” you’ll notice a family resemblance. That’s because Jim wore the Santa suit at our neighborhood party. We were hoping the girls wouldn’t notice.
I think as we age, the changes in our lives help us adapt to the challenges. I miss the days of young children and smocked dresses. I miss staying up late to finish matching sister outfits for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.
But I no longer have the energy to stay up late — this one-time night owl is now regularly in bed by 11:00 p.m. I’m too tired at the end of a day to spend hours preparing a full dinner. I’m thankful that I no longer have to worry about diapers, carseats, strollers, and the like — at least not until and unless I have grandchildren.
My mom, at 86, can no longer make the homemade chicken & dumplings, so we’ll do something different for my birthday. I really don’t care as long as we’re all together. But I’d be lying if I said I don’t miss the gathering around Mom’s dining room table and those yummy dumplings.
Our youngest, Sara Ann, is coming in from Little Rock, so she will be the one packing the car and driving. Elizabeth, our oldest, is in San Diego and can’t make it home. I’m still not used to having a member of our family absent on Thanksgiving.
Tonight, the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, we’ll stay in our own home, prop up our feet and watch TV like a regular weeknight. And maybe toast the holiday with a nice glass of wine.
Then tomorrow we’ll pack up Artie (our puppy), an appetizer, and homemade cranberry salad and drive 15 minutes to my sister’s. And it’ll be a great day, except I’ll miss Elizabeth something fierce.
This was shortly after I tried to dye my hair purple. IDK what I was thinking. These are two of the few dresses I didn’t make for the girls. But I love velvet, so I couldn’t resist. My girls with their young twin cousins
I attended a Catholic school in first and second grade, a perfectly fine school. However, in Jonesboro, Arkansas at that time it was the only private school, and 99 percent of all of the children went to the public schools in town. They were creatively named North, South, East, and West, and I desperately wished I could attend one of them. I hated being different.
Our Lady of Jonesboro Catholic School* was small, with only one class in each grade, taught by nuns from the adjacent convent. I can only describe myself as possibly the worst Catholic school student in history.
Each morning we went to chapel. Girls were required to wear a veil on their heads, and I was fascinated with the many different designs and colors available. My parents probably spent a fortune on them, because no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t keep up with a chapel veil to save my poor scatterbrained soul. Thankfully, our teacher, Sister Ann*, kept a supply of extras for girls who had no veils, but I’m pretty sure I depleted her stock a couple of times that year, which did nothing to endear me to Sister Ann.
Sister Ann just didn’t like me, no matter what I did — I’m pretty sure I knew that, even at six. She didn’t like that I couldn’t keep up with my chapel veil, and she didn’t like that I didn’t like milk.
After my first day of school at Our Lady of Jonesboro, I knew I was in trouble and that first grade was going to be a long year. Apparently Sister Ann thought it was very important for little first graders to drink their milk. All of it. And lunch came with one of those small milk cartons that sat squarely in the very special milk-carton-shaped space in the lunch tray. I still hate those things.
Sister Ann would stand at the cafeteria’s exit, next to the trash can where all of the good children threw their empty milk cartons. The good children would crumple the top of their milk cartons into the bottom, signifying to Sister Ann that it was empty. She would look at them and smile and nod as they threw away their empty cartons and ran out to play. Good, nice, milk-drinking children.
I knew I’d be in trouble if she caught me with a full milk carton, so I would wait and watch for her to become distracted, then bolt to the door, pitch the milk and leave. But more often than not I was stuck at the door with Sister Ann. She would pick up my milk carton, shake it, and send me back to my seat to drink my milk. No smile. No nod. I tried to bash in the top to make it look empty, but they don’t bash all that well when they are mostly full. Once I tried just telling Sister Ann that I didn’t like milk. I was sent back to my seat to drink it anyway.
I began to develop strategies for disposing of the milk. By the second week of school, it dominated my entire lunch, as I searched out other kids who might drink my extra milk. As my welcome wore out with one group, they would finally tell me they were sick of drinking my milk, so I would move on in search of true milk lovers. No time for socializing, I had work to do. I had to get rid of that milk.
Soon I got the idea to mix the milk in with uneaten food. This meant I had to leave food uneaten, so there were a lot of hungry afternoons in school. Spaghetti was especially good for soaking up extra milk, and the rolls looked good, but I only used them for milk sponges.
I realize how obsessive this sounds; but the fact that I remember these thought processes means I had far too much anxiety as a six-year-old. I spent my entire first grade year in dread of lunchtime. All morning I’d be sick with worry over how I would deal with the milk and avoid Sister Ann’s reprisal. Then after lunch I could relax, only to do it again the next day.
I’m not sure why I never told my parents about the milk anxiety; I’m sure they would have done something to help. They weren’t milk drinkers either, and my dad really didn’t think it was that good for you. But I didn’t tell, and I spent my first year of school unnecessarily miserable about lunch. I made few friends because I spent lunchtime table hopping to find takers for my milk. I probably didn’t learn a thing in the classes before lunch, preoccupied as I was by lunch anxiety.
I also remember feeling that I didn’t fit in; everyone else liked milk, why didn’t I? What was wrong with me? Sister Ann sure thought something was wrong. I remember wishing I could just like milk and be like everyone else. And I wished I could go to public school like everyone else, where I was pretty sure there wouldn’t be a Sister Ann.
I was thankful when the year ended, and even more thankful when my second grade teacher turned out not to be a nun, but a lovely woman named Mrs. Garfunkel* whom I admired greatly. And Mrs. Garfunkel didn’t care about milk.
This dumb little story tells me a lot about myself; it at least partially explains why I still feel like I never fit in anywhere. We never know the full extent of the demands we make on children, and the impact it can have. I’m not blaming Sister Ann for all of my issues, but in her stubborn insistence on my drinking milk, she planted a seed in me: that I was a screwup who couldn’t remember her chapel veil, and a bad girl because I didn’t like milk.
We never know what the children in our lives are miserable about and don’t tell us. But I think the lesson is that we need to be very careful that the hills we choose to die on are worth it. Sister Ann chose milk and chapel veils. And, partly because of her choice, there’s a 56-year-old woman who still doesn’t fit in. I wonder if she would think it was worth it.
*All names have been changed. This is not a smear piece, just some thoughts and insights I wish I’d had when my girls were six. Also, I have nothing against nuns, but Sister Ann was really just not a very nice woman.
Epilogue: I got smarter in the ensuing years. I didn’t like tomatoes either, and remember telling one of the counselors at church camp I was allergic to them. Much to my relief, they kept me far away from tomatoes the entire week. If I’d only known the word allergic in the first grade, my entire life might have been different.
When you become a parent, you sign up for a life of mixed emotions.
You want them to sit up, but you know you’ll miss holding them.
You want them to walk, but you fear they’ll fall and hit their head.
You want them to go to school, but it means they will leave you. It means they’ll have 180 days away from you. And they might fall on the playground and skin their knees.
You want them to make friends, but it means someone else will influence them in ways you won’t anymore.
You want them to know what it’s like for a boy to make their heart beat faster, but you don’t want them to get their hearts broken.
You want them to enjoy their first kiss, but you don’t want it to go any further.
You want them to pursue their dreams, but your heart breaks at the thought of them leaving.
You want them to grow up, find their passion, but it’s so hard to let go.
Until you do.
Until you watch them fall in love. And the child that you held on your knee is in someone else’s arms and that’s their home now.
Or maybe they don’t fall in love, but they make a life for themselves far away and you watch them become who they were meant to be.
It’s strange when you realize you don’t know their wardrobe, you don’t know their friends, or what music they listen to in the car.
And even though somewhere that isn’t your house is home for them now, you can hardly contain your joy as you watch one make a home with their love — the same way you did all those years ago — and the other build the life she dreamed of and a promising career.
It’s a paradox that our greatest joy is both in holding them close and in letting them fly on their own. Yes, it’s ridiculously hard to let go. But it is so worth it.
Throughout our girls’ college years, we moved each of them at least three times. From home to dorm, dorm to apartment, and from apartment back home.
Today our oldest, Elizabeth, 25, moved again. This one is for real.
In fact, as I write this, she’s driving a U-Haul, towing her car, somewhere between Birmingham and Atlanta, on the way to Charleston, South Carolina. Which in and of itself is a major Mommy Freakout Moment.
But amid the anxiety is a swell of pride and a sense of excitement for her. She left our nest years ago, but today she flies far away.
Her move reminds me that our primary job as parents is to equip our children to live independently, and to prepare ourselves to loosen our grip as they pursue their dreams.
The hardest lesson for parents to learn is to hold our children more loosely with each passing year. The times we most wish to wrap them tightly in our arms to protect them from harm and struggle are the times it’s most essential to let go. It’s not easy. But I choose to be thankful — and a little proud — that we’ve raised a strong woman who can handle this challenge.
Elizabeth, a three-time marathon runner, ran the last 10 miles of her first marathon after badly spraining an ankle. Rather than quit, she kept running through the pain, and completed the race with a more-than-respectable time. She knows how to gather her strength, but rely on her faith to see her through adversity.
Not far from Aniston, Alabama, the U-Haul truck blew a tire. Every woman’s nightmare is to be stranded alone at night on a highway with car trouble, but Elizabeth kept her head, called for help, and is now on her way again, frustrated at the loss of travel time. She is strong and determined — she is not patient.
As difficult as it is to watch our children take risks, the rewards of watching them face uncertainty with courage as they run toward their dreams are manifold.
I’m letting go for real this time, and I can’t wait to see what happens next. Look out, Charleston!
Hold everything in your hands lightly, otherwise it hurts when God pries your fingers open. — Corrie ten Boom
I shot a bit of video with my phone throughout our trip and sort of mashed it together here. (Remember, I’m not a video expert. I just have an iPhone and iMovie.)
Sunday brought steady rain and cool temperatures, so Mom just decided to hang in the room before we went to brunch. Determined not to waste a moment of my waning time in Manhattan, I decided to walk five blocks to NBC Studios and visit the observatory at the top on the 67th – 69th floors. It rained on me the entire time, and by the time I got there, my feet, shoes, and pants were soaked. Which is miserable. And for all that, this is the view I got. I know.
Since the view was a bust, I decided to at least walk through Rockefeller Plaza
Times Square in the rain
I’m really sort of glad it rained, as this made it much easier to leave. I felt bad for all the tourists making their way through Times Square; it was a sea of umbrellas and not easy to get around. As my mom would say, “Someone’s gonna lose an eye.”
I end with this photo, because this dinner was the best sendoff on the eve of our trip; we had a great time together, and it’s even OK to leave New York with these folks to come home to.
Like most of you, I remember exactly where I was when I heard. Here at home, getting ready to take Sara Ann to school.
Elizabeth was already at school, as middle school started at 7:15. Jim was out of town — in Connecticut, actually — and my mom was staying with us, because I hated staying alone.
Mom was upstairs on the treadmill and I was in the den watching the Today Show. We both saw the first plane hit the tower at the same time — I heard her scream from upstairs.
I really didn’t want to take Sara Ann to school that day, but thought it would be better for her to keep a sense of normalcy. Which was fine, until I heard on the radio that another plane hit the Pentagon just after I dropped her off.
So, 12 years later, I’m standing in the shadow of those where those towers once stood.
Security is very tight while the Memorial is under construction. Almost like airport security. I’m told that it will be open to the public from all sides when the Memorial is complete.
Tight security
When you are standing in line, you see these signs that remind you of the solemn nature of where you are. That the place where someone may have died is sacred ground. I needed no reminder.
Now, we’re inside the Memorial site and I’m running my hands over the names etched into the railings on the north pool. In the very footprint of the buildings that fell. I cannot help but look up, far into the sky, where 12 years ago, husbands, wives, mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters, realized there was no escape. Where first responders witnessed the horror and walked up the smoky stairs instead of scurrying down to safety. My mom talked about how she ran her hand over each of the names and prayed for the families. I thought that was fitting.
Then she reminded me about the survivor tree, which was salvaged from the wreckage of the towers, nursed back to health and replanted on the grounds of the memorial. A living tribute to the fact that this city, this country, will mourn its losses, but it will ultimately survive.
After some time, I sat down to rest my tired feet. As I looked up at the beautiful new tower under construction, I noticed that every few minutes, an airplane was reflected in the building’s exterior. It’s small, but you can see it if you look closely, and, for me, it was haunting.
If you’re anywhere near New York, go see this. It’s moving and beautifully done, and the museum when completed, will be a poignant reminder of the day that changed our nation forever.
Ground Zero was heavy and emotional and rightly so. After our tour, we were hungry, so my mom suggested we eat lunch at the Essex House, a small deli that served as a medical station in the wake of the attacks. They still have the spray-painted sign on the wall, and it was a fitting way to honor this establishment that was such an important part of the first responders’ efforts. And they make a darned good panini.
This next part is going to sound weird. It certainly did to my mom. But, since I was 11 or 12, I’ve been obsessed with Simon and Garfunkel, which will come as a huge shock to those of you who know me.
So one of the things on my list was to go to Bleecker Street, which is the subject of a vintage Simon & Garfunkel song, one of my favorites. My mom had no clue why this was so important to me, but, bless her heart, was patient nonetheless as we made our way to Greenwich Village for the sole purpose of taking my picture in front of the street sign.
I suck at the Art of the Selfie, so I asked Mom to snap my photo. Apparently, she sucks at the art of the iPhone photo, as this is the one she snapped of me. But it’s ok. It is me and it is Bleecker Street.
I decided while we were in the Village, we may as well see Washington Square Park, which is lovely. I confess here and now that I handed my mom’s iPhone (the battery on mine was long dead by this time) to a couple of total strangers and asked them to snap my photo.
For our last night in New York, I had made reservations at Mesa Grill, a restaurant owned by noted TV chef Bobby Flay. It’s in the Flatiron District, a very trendy area which is, like most of Manhattan, expensive.
Condos in the Flatiron District (5th Avenue @ 16th Street)
An emotional day; highs and lows. From the somber weightiness of Ground Zero to the thrill of something as simple as Bleecker Street and a phenomenal dinner. I didn’t want to go to sleep, as I knew when I woke it would be time to leave.
Tomorrow: My walk in the rain and Manhattan Miscellany.
Did Beth really touch the side of Paul Simon’s former apartment building?
Did they see Art Garfunkel on Fifth Avenue?
The answers are yes and no.
After the Circle Line, we made our way to the Upper West Side, which is a decidedly different sort of neighborhood than Times Square or Hell’s Kitchen. We saw lots of families, kids, young mothers pushing strollers, and people walking dogs. We ate lunch at a great sidewalk cafe, Isabella’s, that sits across Columbus Avenue from a middle school.
After lunch, we walked back toward Central Park, down West 76th (or 77th) Street. It’s a beautiful, expen$ive residential street lined with trees and row houses with interesting architecture. This was the first time I’d ever spent any time on the Upper West Side, and I enjoyed walking through this neighborhood.
Walking down Central Park West, we passed the building in which Paul Simon once lived. It’s called the San Remo and it’s a very posh building that faces the Park. There were two doormen standing just inside the door, all dressed up in sharp uniforms. Yes, I did actually touch the side of the building. Which is almost as good as an Art Garfunkel sighting. Almost.
My other must-see in this area was the Fifth Avenue Apple store. Of course. My mom actually bought a new case for her iPad there. It was teeming with people and so crowded it was hard to move around. But still, just a slice of Apple goodness.
You can’t really go to New York without at least walking up or down Fifth Avenue. I took this picture near the Apple store (Fifth Avenue between East 58th and 59th), looking downtown, toward the Empire State Building.
By this time our feet were yelling and screaming for us to please stop walking, so we took a break at the beautiful St. Patrick’s Cathedral (between East 50th and 51st Streets). I’m not Catholic, but this place cannot help but inspire awe and reverence. I sat near the front and snapped this picture of the altar. Stunning.
Then my mom, a former Catholic, lit a candle for Jim and his job search, which put a nice-sized lump in my throat. Thanks, Mom, if you read this. That was a moment.
After St. Patrick’s we went back to the hotel to rest our feet (and a glass of wine, of course) before seeing Motown and a late dinner at City Lobster. Any day that ends with a Broadway show, wine and lobster is a good day, right?
What a wonderful thing it is to wake up in New York City.
Our first outing of the day was the Circle Line cruise. Yes, it’s touristy, but neither of us had ever done it, so I think that makes it OK. The boat goes all the way around Manhattan.
We started at Pier 83 at West 42nd Street and 12th Avenue, in Hell’s Kitchen. The neighborhood, formerly a crime-ridden slum, is now a trendy — and expensive area. Ninth Avenue, around 42nd Street, is known for its variety of ethnic food. There will be a return trip to this part of town.
The cruise took about two-and-a-half hours, though you can take a shorter trip. I stood at the bow for the best photo opps, and was hoping the entire time that no one would feel the need to do the Titanic thing. No one did.
One of the first sights we saw was the iconic Brooklyn Bridge. One of these days I want to walk across it and see lower Manhattan from the Brooklyn side.
Brooklyn Bridge
For about 30 minutes, I heard no English. I was surrounded by Spanish, French, German, and what might have been Russian, but I’m not sure. I think it’s apropos that I realized this as we approached Ellis Island, and passed very near the Statue of Liberty. The Statue is closed due to damage from Hurricane Sandy, so we got as close as anyone else could. It was hard to imagine I was really that close to the Statue of Liberty. I took about 50 pictures of it. That was the first time I’ve seen it except from the window of an airplane, and it took my breath away.
It was windy and a little chilly, but so very worth it, as the view of lower Manhattan was nothing short of spectacular; the photos don’t really capture it.
My crappy attempt at a selfie with lower Manhattan in the background
Moving uptown into Harlem, the only thing to see besides a bunch of nearly-identical apartment buildings was these colorful murals. For all I know, these could be gang signs, but I found them interesting.
I checked out the south Bronx, notorious for being a rough and scary place to be. Indeed I do believe I’ve seen about all I need to see of the south Bronx.
The central-northern part of the Bronx looked a little nicer, with some newer-looking residential development and Yankee Stadium. I liked seeing it, though I’ll never be mistaken for a Yankee fan.
I recommend the Circle Line for anyone who wants to get a good overview of Manhattan from the water, or for anyone who likes to take pictures.
After that we looked for a cab to make a quick stop at the hotel before heading out for lunch. There were none to be found, so we took a pedicab, which is a bicycle that a guy with very well-developed calves rides and pulls you behind him in a cart. It was a much better way to see Hell’s Kitchen than in a speeding cab, but when we got out, he told us it would be $36 … each. For 10 blocks. So no more pedicabs. Sadly, both my iPhone and my camera batteries were dead by the end of the cruise, so I have no photos of Hell’s Kitchen.
This is getting long, so I’ll do a separate post on our lunch at a sidewalk cafe on the Upper West Side, and touching the apartment building where Paul Simon used to live.
Yesterday’s flight went smoothly, after the minor glitch with my boarding pass was settled. I don’t love flying one bit, but I survived the flight nicely, thanks to my iPad, New York Times crosswords and my “calm” playlist. And what may have been a tiny glass of wine.
Once we landed it seemed as if it took forever to get out of the airport and to our hotel, which is right near Times Square, at 47th Street and 7th Avenue, an easy walk from the theaters and just a couple of blocks from Fifth Avenue. Here’s the view from our window.
We quickly unpacked and settled in, then hit the streets the way people do in New York: on foot. We grabbed quick sandwiches at a place I’d heard about online call Pret a Manger. They specialize in fresh, handmade food. Everything is made and served on the same day, then the leftovers are donated to charity. I love the philosophy and the sandwiches were delicious. This sign hangs in the dining area:
We walked up Seventh Avenue, over to Sixth, then all the way to Central Park, where we decided to be touristy and do the carriage ride. It’s a great way to see the Park. My heart beat a little faster when we passed the Sheep Meadow, the site of Simon & Garfunkel’s Concert in Central Park in 1981.
Then we saw Richard Belzer, better known as “Detective Munch” from Law & Order SVU. He was walking through the park fast, wearing exercise shoes. Celebrity sighting for day one.
We were starving and exhausted, so we decided to grab a quick bite before heading to see Lion King. The bar at our hotel has great appetizers and a really cool view of Times Square, so we went there before and after the show for appetizers.
Oh, my, Lion King was amazing. The costumes, the sets, the creativity – making people look like animals without being cartoonish is quite the feat. Go see this show. When we walked out of the theater, it looked like it was still daylight. The lights of Times Square are that bright.
One of the things that thrills me about New York is the concentration of talent and the diversity. You don’t see this level of creativity and innovation without different points of view.
Cool sights of the day:
The basically naked woman standing in Times Square with “I <3NY” painted all over her body. And no one freaking out, except maybe the guys appreciating her fine derrière.
The woman about my age with her close-cropped chartreuse-colored hair trimmed to a Mohawk.
My mom getting her picture made with the “Statue of Liberty” in Times Square. See below.
I’m already a day behind, and today was amazing, so stay tuned.
Random thoughts: I still haven’t seen Art Garfunkel and I really might not leave here.
Tomorrow morning I’ll leave for New York City for the first time since 1993. I could not be more excited; it’s one of my favorite places.
My mom is treating me to the trip, since Jim isn’t working now (see this post if you need to catch up).
We’ll see two Broadway shows — Lion King and Motown, and we’re planning a trip to Ground Zero and just chilling in lower Manhattan, which I’m looking forward to seeing more of than I did last time. We’ve got dinner reservations at Bobby Flay’s Mesa Grill for Saturday night, but the rest of the time we’ll be on our own, to wander as we please.
We’re staying in Times Square which is anything but quiet, so I’m guessing there will be things to see at all hours. I hope I can sleep.
Honestly, New York is so magic for me, just walking down the street and looking around. It’s always fascinated me and I’ve spent hours on Google Street View walking the streets of Manhattan.
Though I’m excited for whatever we encounter, I have five things I want to do:
See Art Garfunkel on the street. He lives on the Upper East Side and since we’ll be in Central Park anyway, we’ll walk up Fifth Avenue hoping for a sighting.
Visit the Fifth Avenue Apple Store. The one with the glass cube.
Get a photo made in front of the Bleecker Street sign in Greenwich Village. If you don’t know why, you’re not a Simon & Garfunkel fan.
See Ground Zero and the Memorial. Enough said.
Do the Circle Line boat tour around Manhattan. Yes, it’s touristy, but I’ve always wanted to do it and the photos will be awesome.
I’ll blog daily (assuming I have any energy left) and report back on Fifth Avenue, Bleecker Street, Art and the boat.
