Here come the holidays. First up, Thanksgiving. I'm not making a turkey this year. No, instead my daughter wants to go to New York to see the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, live. Which is, in my book, all kinds of crazy and yet...it's not the first crazy road trip the two of us have embarked on. It's our thing. We've been known to go out on a simple errand not to return for several hours having been struck by the spontaneous road-trip fever. No one even bats an eye at it anymore.
But this may be up there on the crazy scale. I mean, the traffic and the train are going to be insane. And then there's my crowd-induced claustrophobia, or my general disdain for the commercialism of Christmas. But boy-howdy, my inner child is jubilant at the prospect of being right there, curbside, as the floats and the balloons go by. Daughter is starry-eyed herself, imagining us in our ear muffs and winter boots wielding hot-chocolate filled travel mugs.
I raised a romantic, what can I say?
Since I'm clearly covered in sap already over here, I couldn't help lighting on Purple Moose's entry this week. Sweet melancholy, lovers reunited...yeah.
Snow on Snow on Snow
The CD played and she softly sang along: In the deep midwinter, snow on snow on snow.
Melancholy touched her spirit. It was this time of year, her formerly favorite time, when Roy had left for Iraq. He’d smiled and touched her forehead with his at the deployment center.
“Ah, my sweet love, I’ll be back before the deep midwinter. We’ll be together before snow piles on snow. I love you. I’ll see you soon.”
Her heart left North Carolina that day. She missed him terribly.
Roy’s rich tenor joined her alto and she looked up to find her joy.
Back to Essays of E.B. White (because it's still within reach) and I open to (once again, I kid you not) the essay titled, "Here is New York". It is a somewhat dark essay of E.B. White's changing New York. Here is the opening paragraph:
On any person who desires such queer prizes, New York will bestow the gift of loneliness and the gift of privacy. It is this largess that accounts for the presence within the city's walls of a considerable section of the population; for the residents of Manhattan are to a large extent strangers who have pulled up stakes somewhere and come to town, seeking sanctuary or fulfillment or some greater or lesser grail. The capacity to make such dubious gifts is a mysterious quality of New York. It can destroy an individual, or it can fulfill him, depending a good deal on luck. No one should come to New York to live unless he is willing to be lucky.
The word is: