- I’m still dumbfounded by the people who complain about the big golf tournament in town. So corporate and blah blah blah. It does great things for our city. It brings revenue and people. Fact.
- Unless you live in that one section of Washington Road, you really can’t complain about the traffic. Years of planning and restructuring have yielded results most event planners envy. Traffic used to be an issue. It barely is anymore. Avoid mornings and evenings around the golf course, or get out of town.
- I overheard someone saying there’s only one week of the year when Augusta is beautiful. Who doesn’t straighten up their house for a party? Augusta is a nice place year-round. When the biggest golf tournament in the world comes to town, we spruce things up a bit. Makes sense, right?
- Whatever you think about the personal life of Patrick Reed, he did just win a green jacket. Bashing him is as unsportsmanlike as the things of which he has been accused. Keep golf classy, y’all.
- Whatever you think about his relationship with his parents is really none of your business. People quit talking to family members all the time and for various legitimate reasons. I’m not saying he’s an angel. I’m just saying stay out of it.
- I talked to my mom only minimally for about 10 years. We reconciled later in life, but there were very good reasons for our distance, and none of them had to do with me being a bad person.
- Even with his sordid lifestyle, which has been made very public, Tiger Woods gets a pass, because he’s a great golfer and because of what he’s done for the game. Patrick Reed just proved he’s a great golfer. Like him or not, he’s here to stay.
- What is up with these promposals? They’re like proposals for marriage without a diamond. Someone needs to let these boys know they’re only setting themselves up for a bigger task later. I’m not saying set the bar low, but set the bar low. A simple, “will you go to prom with me,” has done the trick for quite some time now.
- When my husband asked me to marry him, it wasn’t as fancy as a promposal. He told me he loved me, got down on one knee, and asked me to be his wife. Without fanfare, I said yes. Maybe I’m just boring.
- Per usual, the pollen is out of control.
- Per usual, everyone seems to think this is the worst year yet.
- I can’t wait to hear about the heat this summer.
- It’s hotter than Satan’s house cat from May to October in the South. Every single year. Yes, it’s always that hot.
- Thank God we have things like the weather and pollen to fill conversations when there’s nothing else to say.
- This week marks the start of the eighth year of Jenny is Wright. That makes for hundreds of columns filled with practically nothing, but y’all keep coming back. I’m not always right, and that’s cool, but I’m so appreciative of the tens of you who read each week. Cheers!
If you’re reading this and don’t live in Augusta, I’m going to assume that you’re a golf fan. If you’re not a golf fan, you’re probably married to one. It’s not that there aren’t other reasons to come to town. It’s just that no one in their right mind would be here this week, braving the crowds, if they didn’t have any plans to hit the tournament (read: tunamint).
Many Augustans get out of town. They spend weeks, months even, cleaning out closets, fluffing pine straw, and stocking up on new sheets and towels in preparation for renting their house. It’s a lot of work, but it’s all worth it when you get a big, tax-free check from the renters.
Most people who stay do so because it’s a great week to live here. There are complainers (always are!), and everyone tries to avoid the traffic, but it’s basically one big adult spring break. Having beer during the day is more acceptable than usual. We offer near-perfect weather, although the pollen will be out of control. We move our televisions outside, eagerly anticipating afternoon coverage.
We’re glad you’re here. I do have a couple of tips for you, though.
Please, in the name of all holy things, do not wear jeans (or worse, jean shorts) to the golf course. I’m not asking that you get all fancy or anything, but respect the sport. Khaki pants or shorts and a collared shirt for the guys, and dresses, skirts or nice shorts for the women. We like to call it Southern casual. Wear shoes you can walk in. ‘Cause you’re gonna walk a lot.
Speaking of shoes, ladies, forget the fancy heels. It’s completely acceptable for women to wear running shoes with a dress. You’ll see people in golf shoes, too. This used to puzzle me, but spikes handle muddy, smelly grass better than any other footwear.
If it rains, you’ll be glad you listened to me. We all know that girl who insisted on wearing cute shoes to match her outfit. She was the first one to slip and fall in the stinky mud out there. When it happens, I can promise none of your friends will leave the tournament, so you’ll be forced to walk around with what looks like a bad potty accident up the back of your precious Lilly sundress. Bless your heart.
Tiger’s back in the news again. He and I have something in common, you know. 1997 was a big year for us both. My first trip down Magnolia Lane, his first win at Augusta. Speculation says he’s a contender again this year. Like him or not, he keeps things interesting. His fans will be loud no matter what. It’s like a wrestling match. Don’t get me wrong; there’s nothing better than the loud roar that follows a flawless putt. It’s the “Get it in the hole!” or “You da man, Tiger!” as soon as he tees off that toes the line.
Speaking of loud roars, if you want to witness the cause of such excitement, don’t stand near me. I like to call them the Faraway Roars, because they always seem to happen far away from where I am. I have seen a couple of holes in one on 16, but otherwise, I have to wait and see the replay when I get home.
Don’t bring your phones or cameras. They ain’t kidding. Once Wednesday is over, no cameras allowed. Cell phones are never allowed. Really, people. Never. There’re several banks of courtesy phones around the course, and you can pretty much call China for free. “How will I find my people,” you ask? Set a time, pick a place and meet up. It’s like the olden days. You’ve got this.
If you decide to bring a phone anyway, you’ll get caught. Trust me here. As soon as that hot pink monogrammed iPhone with marble pop socket comes out of your pocket, a green jacket official will come out of the azaleas and vaporize you. I’ve seen it happen.
Hopefully, everyone in Augusta will treat you with respect, kindness and Southern hospitality. When done well, there’s nothing better. Please wave back, say thank you, and don’t be afraid of conversation with a stranger. Ask for directions. We want to help and, especially this week, we love showing off our town.
Walton Way is Walton Way, Washington Road is Washington Road, and The Partridge Inn is the Partridge Inn. For some reason, we don’t shorten them to Walton, Washington, or The Partridge. It is what it is.
Otherwise, have a big time. Enjoy our restaurants and bars. Relax in our homes, and know that hours went into making them yours. Eat an egg salad or 10, and remember that a beer held too long will only get warm. Welcome, y’all!
I feel like I’m losing my mind. I’m scattered. I can’t remember people’s names, y’all. I am relying on my ever loyal lists to get by. This time of year is usually relatively calm for our family, but somehow we’ve found ourselves in a storm of rehearsals, practices, school projects and life.
It’s not just me. The Boy searched and searched for a black shirt he needed for school. He couldn’t find it. He searched again. I conceded, realizing we might just need a new black shirt. He’s the worst looker of them all, but he was stumped. I gave myself a pat on the back for finding the shirt before I bought a new one, but that didn’t stop the temporary chaos.
The Girl lost a book. She had the book. It was right where she left it, but she couldn’t remember where she left it. I don’t make it a habit of replacing all lost things, because she needs to keep up with her stuff, but I conceded to that, too. Pat myself on the back for finding that one, too, but I gave her a pass.
My friend Mandi drove to two houses to pick up her daughter, only to realize her daughter was already at home. Hey, we lost a shirt and a book. She lost her kid. Believe you me, I’m not judging.
I was in the grocery store the other day, and right after I avoided talking to someone whose name I couldn’t recall, I dropped an entire of chocolate chip cookies all over the floor. They went everywhere. Normally I might’ve made a bee line to the wine aisle. I waved the white flag instead. Once in the parking lot, I looked for my car for a few minutes, I found it. Went to unlock it, wondering why the button didn’t work on my key thingy. Wasn’t my car.
My mom tells a story like that, one about getting in the wrong car. She got in what looked like her car and wondered what happened to all the mess. Wasn’t her car, either.
Dinner last night sat in a cold oven for nearly 30 minutes before I realized the oven was, well, cold.
None of this really matters, of course. They’re teeny little unimportant blips on the radar. It’s mildly comical to think about. They’re all fixable, too. Maybe that’s where I need to focus. Not on the things I’m losing or forgetting, but the fact that I remember and find them in the end.
I need a little reset is all. Who wants to take me to the beach?
The good news? It’s spring. Things are blooming, and there’s a lovely sense of new life all around our beautiful city. I also just learned it’s International Happy Day. I don’t know what that means, but I’ll take it. I am happy, even when I feel dumb. Besides, as I write, it’s the Spring Equinox. At least the egg on my counter stays balanced, even if the rest of us feel a little off kilter. Cheers to getting it together, like that egg, even for a day.
I write about birthdays often. They’re the most obvious time passage markers. As a mom, the passage of time is a cruel and wonderful thing.
When they’re new, smelling of innocence and perfection, the nights seem long, but the months fly by. We measure time in weeks, then months. The months turn to years, and we mark time with age-appropriate milestones like “first loose tooth” and “riding a two-wheeler.” The lines between milestones and everyday things, like homework, soccer practice and household chores to name a few, start to blur. Life passes with an urgency that won’t subside. If we’re not careful, it’ll all pass by without notice, simply because survival is key.
My girl sits in a strange place. She is still a child, wanting me to braid her hair and snuggle her. She has an innocence I wish would never leave.
Discussing Snapchat with her the other day, a conversation about real life and a common conversation in our house, I warned her once again about social media and why she has restrictions her friends do not. Her wide-eyed awe at the cruelness of the world was remarkable. Still so little.
But she wears mascara to school now. I let her, because it’s so minimal. I remind her that makeup isn’t what makes her pretty. Real beauty comes from treating people with kindness. She nods, smiling that million-dollar smile.
When the mean girls surface, and they’re everywhere, she cries, dumbfounded by their behavior. I tell her to remember this feeling. Knowing how it feels is the best way to save someone else from hurting. She nods, saying she’ll remember.
She watches the news, trying to understand. I tell her, but I hate to let her know. The world is big. She nods, not really understanding, but she gets it somehow.
She wonders about life. What will it be like to drive? When do people get married? How much should she study, and what classes should she take in seventh grade? Why are friendships hard? I nod, reminding her I’m always here to answer.
When I see photos of her at 2, 3, and even 10, I try to remember what it was like when she was simply a little girl. “I do it ALL by myself,” was her catchphrase, and she’s most famous for, “I’m not gonna do it.” Once, she held my leg, screaming like a banshee, while I ignored her and dragged her across the big soccer field at the Y. That stubbornness is showing up in different ways now. She knows what she wants. She still needs guidance, and she has a plan.
I thought the golden years were between the ages of 5 and 10 years old, when they are becoming independent but don’t hate us yet. I might’ve been wrong. This little spot is pretty sweet. I get the best of both worlds. My little girl is ever present, and a young woman is right there behind her. And all the moms nod, knowing exactly what I mean.
- Downtown was exciting last weekend. Were you there?
- The Augusta Players performed to a nearly sold-out Imperial Theatre. The Symphony had another spectacular concert at The Miller. Le Chat had a cabaret. At least two places downtown had lines a hundred people deep. The Greater Augusta Arts Council held its annual, and awesome, Wet Paint Party at Sacred Heart. Augusta University put on its incredibly popular 10K/half marathon. I know there was more. And there’s nothing to do in Augusta.
- Speaking of the Imperial, did you know they just celebrated the 100th anniversary of their first opening night? Happy birthday, Imperial Theatre! 100 looks good on you!
- Did you also know the Imperial is undergoing extensive renovations? Painting, plaster — I can’t wait to see the facelift.
- We’re so fortunate to have two historic theaters in Augusta. Even more, we’re lucky to have a thriving arts community that supports them both.
- This weekend alone, you can go to Le Chat (Schrodinger’s Cat), The Miller (Ed Turner), The Bell (Dixie Dregs), James Brown Arena (Elevate the Stage), Phinizy Swamp (Saturday Hike), The Canal (boat and museum tour), The Country Club (Nelly). You can run a 5K supporting Heart and Sole, if that’s your thing.
- If you want something to do with your kids, The Augusta Jr. Players present Daisy Pulls it Off, March 2 and 3 at Crossbridge Baptist Church. Think Matilda meets Madeline. Yes, my girl is in it. The Boy’s running lights for the show. It was a shameless plug.
- The Boy’s birthday came and went. It’s hard to believe he’s 14. He’s suddenly taller. I’m not even going to discuss his voice.
- The Girl’s birthday is next. My baby will be 12. Girls sure start to get testy around this age. The happiest kid on the planet isn’t always happy with me these days. It’ll pass. In the meantime, I’m taking suggestions for breathing exercises and meditation.
- I wouldn’t go back to middle school if my life depended on it. It’s treacherous.
- The Girl has dealt with a few mean girls, but she’s figuring it all out. As much as I want to wring these girls’ necks, I can’t. All I can do is arm her with the proper tools to handle jerky people.
- Avoid, avoid, avoid at all costs. Sure, it’s not always possible to avoid, but don’t engage if possible. Also, never, ever, ever, ever type anything into a text that you wouldn’t want on the front page of the newspaper which lands on your grandmother’s coffee table every morning.
- Mean girls are always mean girls. That’s a fact. They’re even mean adults.
- Mean people suck. It’s possible to convey a point without being angry or condescending. It’s never necessary to speak to someone as if they are stupid. Assume positive intentions.
- Be nice, y’all. Your fellow humans deserve it.
I hate when I make a Mom Decision that makes my life harder. You know, like the time you said, “if you do that again, we’re leaving,” and they did it again, so you had to leave.
When our two were much smaller, probably 2 and 4 years old, they were fighting, as siblings do from time to time. It was the sort of back and forth that will send any parent into psychosis. We were going to Pendleton King Park for a picnic and to play on the playground. They picked at each other the whole way there. He would touch her. She would scream. He would laugh. She would scream. I’m sure she hit him, too. After reasoning with them as best I could, I told them they had to quit, or we would not have a picnic. She may not have understood, but he did, and he didn’t quit. I was sad, too, because I wanted to eat our picnic. I wanted to push them in the swings and enjoy a little fresh air. I wanted to go to the park. We left the park.
For those who worry about such things, the following story is being told with The Boy’s permission. Details which might cause teenagery embarrassment have been omitted to protect the guilty.
His birthday was last week. He turned 14 (14!). He asked for the kind of watch that pairs with his phone. You know the kind. The expensive kind that’s named after a fruit. For some of you, it might not be a big deal to spend that kind of money on your kids for their birthdays, but we have always stuck to the same dollar amount for birthdays. This is due in part to the fact that Christmas just passed, and we are trying to not raise spoiled idiots.
He paid for a good portion of the watch with money he’d been saving. We covered the rest, as his big birthday gift.
A couple of days before the big day, his birthday, and the day we were to buy the watch, he got in trouble. I won’t tell you what he did, because it doesn’t matter. What matters is that he did something he’s done before, and the consequence is having his phone taken away.
If you know anything about the watches, you know you can’t do anything with them unless you have a phone. Well, he didn’t have a phone.
We bought the watch, as we’d planned, because I’m not a total jerk. It was his birthday, after all. It was a little sad, but I stuck to my guns. His watch remained dark for several days, until this punishment period was up. I almost caved a couple of times, thinking, “come on, Jenny. It’s his birthday. Give him his phone back.” The devil on my shoulder.
I found myself giving me pep talks through moments like these. “It’s for their own good,” I say. I believe myself, but it’s not always easy. I want to make my kids happy. I also want them to be rule-abiding, respectful and kind.
Don’t get wrong. I’m not afraid to admit my enjoyment in the power of parenting. My word is the final word. They can’t argue with me. They try, but they won’t win. If I say wash the dishes or mop the floor, they have to do it. It’s like prison, but with fancy watches and private bathrooms.
At the end of his sentence, he paired his watch and all was well. If you don’t know what I mean by “paired,” imagine using a universal remote and having to sync it with your specific TV. It’s kind like that, but way more complicated.
Parenting isn’t simple, either. We do our best and hope the kids don’t go to prison.
Y’all. I got the flu twice. Let me clarify. It was suspected that I had the flu twice. A few weeks ago, I had all the symptoms, and because it was too late to get meds, I stayed home and tried to keep the germs to myself.
Almost exactly two weeks later, after feeling great for a number of days, it was back. Every symptom, including the achy body that made me want to cry. I joked that the last time I felt such intolerable pain, I got an epidural and a baby. That’s a bit of a stretch, but in the moment, it felt terrible.
For the second round, the flu swab was negative, but the doc I saw didn’t want to take any chances. Home with meds and orders for isolation, just to be safe.
In case you’re wondering, the flu swab is no picnic. Much like a strep test, it involves a long Q-tip like thing. Unlike the strep test, they ram the Q-tip up your nose and spin it around. Mercy.
I was all up in my feelings and had a major pity party about the inconvenience of being sick again. I ranted about the woman I saw in Walgreens who coughed right out into the open air for 20 minutes. Occasionally, when she would cover her mouth, she coughed on her bare hand, which she’d use to touch everything in the pharmacy section before putting it all back.
Resting on the couch, wallowing in my misery, I was thinking about the fact that The Man had jury duty, putting him home later than usual. The kids had a busy week. How would we manage? Who would make my mom’s chicken soup?
Ding! My phone. I had a text. “Please pray for us. My husband’s dad had a heart attack this morning and died. We are on the way to be with his mom now.” Gut punch. Sunday night, this husband, father, grandfather and friend was FaceTiming with his granddaughters. Monday morning, his family was making funeral arrangements.
We say it all the time, and it’s a popular cliche, but a reminder never hurts. Life is short. Moments are fleeting. We are busy. We miss those moments. We can’t be around for everything. Life gets busy.
My oldest turns 14 this week. I have friends with new babies, which admittedly gives me baby fever. I see why people go back and have another after a decade or more has passed. Our family is the perfect size, so we won’t be adding a bundle to the mix, but I’m reminded to pause. I don’t want to ever be too busy to listen or watch. This moment, once it passes, never comes back.
I may sound sappy, and that’s okay. It’s birthday season in our house, and I always get a little weepy. The teenage years come quickly, and you can feel them passing at warp speed.
Hold those babies tight. Make sure your husband knows you love him. Don’t just assume; tell him. Hug your people, people.
And for the love of all things holy, please cover your mouth when you cough.
- I had the flu last week. The flu is no joke.
- I was in so much pain from the achiness, I thought I might die. For real. The last time I felt pain like that, I got an epidural and a baby. Well, it wasn’t that bad, but it was terrible.
- If you think you have the flu, you don’t need to go to the doctor. You don’t need to go to the grocery store. You don’t need to go to the mall. You don’t need to go to the bank. You don’t need to go to the liquor store. Besides, a lot of liquor stores have drive-thrus these days. (Obviously I am not a medial professional, and I cannot be help responsible for issues caused by the above suggestions. But actual medical professionals are asking you to please not come to their offices unless you are in a high-risk category.)
- I know it’s not always easy to miss work, but when you go to work sick, you’re potentially putting people’s lives on the line. Seriously, people. People are dying from the flu and its complications.
- Wash your hands. Don’t lick people. Don’t cough in people’s faces. If you follow the suggestion above, you shouldn’t even be around people. If you are, don’t cough on or lick them.
- I took my kids to the Augusta Symphony’s dress rehearsal at The Miller a couple of weekends ago. It was $10 for me, and my kids got in free. What a lovely way to spend a Saturday. The Miller was about 2/3 full. For a rehearsal, I’d say that’s pretty wonderful.
- The Miller is one of the most beautifully renovated spaces I’ve ever seen.
- The owners of Fat Man’s, father-son team Brad and Havird Usry, are opening a new restaurant downtown. The owners of Metro A Coffeehouse and Whiskey Bar (Kitchen), brother-brother team Kenny and Bobby Morrison are opening a new restaurant downtown as well. And people still say they don’t see progress. Those same people probably can’t find anything to do around here, either.
- I just saw a thing that said “It feels like January 74th.” By the time y’all read this, it’ll be February, but why is January so long? It’s always filled with high expectations, like new beginnings and successful diets.
- How are your diets? Are you still going to the gym?
- I bought an Instant Pot. More on that later, but I can have hard-boiled eggs in five minutes, and frozen chicken is cooked and shredded in 25 minutes. I’m not sure about “baking” in it, but I’m getting more and more gutsy by the day.
- The Augusta Players’ production of “Sister Act” the musical is coming up at the end of this month. If you liked the movie, you’ll love seeing it live! Feb. 23-25 at the Imperial Theater. augustaplayers.org for tickets.
- While you’re there, check out the improvements in progress at The Imperial. We’re so lucky to have two historical theaters in Augusta.
- If you have the flu, please stay home. If you think you have the flu, please stay home.
- Wash your hands, y’all.
I’ve said it a million times. Our kids are theatre kids.
Do you know the difference between theater and theatre? Until about 5 years ago, I didn’t. I thought it was a style thing, like shop and shoppe. As in, Ye Olde Shoppe is way fancier than That Old Shop. Or they at least mean to be. The most basic of definitions will tell you that one is British and the other is not. Some will try to explain that the theater (with the -er) is a place. It’s tangible, and theatre (with the -re) is more of a concept. I still don’t know the actual difference. I like feeling fancy, so theatre it is.
As kids who love being on stage, they get to go on trips with other theatre kids. Imagine thousands of kids, ready to break out in song during all everyday situations. If it sounds terrible, that’s okay. Like mud wrestling, theatre isn’t for everyone. They meet celebrities. Think Ben Platt from “Dear Evan Hansen.” If you don’t know what “Dear Evan Hansen” is, that’s okay. Musical theatre isn’t for everyone, but I’ll bet you’ve heard of “Pitch Perfect.”
The Girl went on one such trip last weekend. She met some famous people again, took some selfies, and attended dance and acting workshops. Part of the trip also includes a sort of competition, too. Each group gets a chance to perform a condensed, 15-minute musical to be judged by a panel of pros.
A few years ago, when this group performed “The Little Mermaid,” one of the judges was Benj Pasek. If you don’t know who that is, that’s also okay. Winning Tony awards isn’t for everyone, but I’ll bet you’ve heard of “The Greatest Showman.” He and his writing partner, Justin Paul, wrote the chart-topping score for “Showman,” along with the Tony-winning score to “Dear Evan Hansen.” Yeah, the one with Ben Platt. After the performances, each group receives feedback, which is mostly positive. The Boy, playing Grimsby, the British butler in “The Little Mermaid,” will never forget Benj Pasek asking him, “What, are you on Downton Abbey with that accent?” He also told my boy he made good acting choices. Sorry — mom brag.
So, yeah. Stuff like that happens on these trips, and it’s exciting. This year, they had some excitement like no other. About 30 seconds in to the adjudicated performance, the music stopped. Silence. Instead of panicking, this group of 30-something kids, ranging in age from 9-18, kept going, not missing a beat. They didn’t stop. They moved the room to a tearful standing ovation and glowing reviews from the judges. Although I adore their leader, that sort of teamwork cannot be taught.
The point? If your kid plays soccer, and you spend hours at the field watching game after game, you get it. If your kid is a gymnast, and you spend hours at the gym, watching them do pass after pass on the spring floor, you get it, too.
We don’t force our kids on the stage. We encourage them, but we initially followed their lead. A thing that sounded “like fun” years ago has led to a full-time, well, hobbyish volunteer job. I work backstage; my husband does, too, and he helps build sets for the shows. Both kids audition every chance they get. Our non-theatre friends don’t always get why we are at the theatre so much. It’s because of the people. It’s for the teamwork, both on and off the stage and the friends who are now like family. Familye?
We spent last week in NYC with our kids. It was nothing short of incredible. The trip was carefully planned, because I tend to overanalyze such things, after too much research on where to stay, when to leave, what to see, and everything else. It was a surprise trip, given to them on Christmas morning.
I lived in Manhattan almost 20 years ago for a brief and fun summer. It was an internship for American Express, down at the World Financial Center. I loved my job, and I loved the pace of the city. They offered me a permanent position in the marketing department. As the story goes, The Man won a bet and came to visit me, and the rest is history. I moved South, got married, had kids, and never looked back. I don’t regret not taking the job, but a part of my heart will always be in that city.
We’ve been fortunate enough to take our kids on a lot of fun trips, to a lot of fun places. They’ve never been to Disney, and I know some of you are freaking out right now, but they’ve never really asked. Neither of us went until we were older. I don’t feel like I was a suffering child without Disney. Our kids seem to be faring okay, as well. I’m sure we’ll get there eventually. Maybe not.
If you’ve been paying attention, you know we have two theater kids. They love performing. They also love watching people perform. We took them to their first Broadway show, and because I’m me, I cried. I didn’t cry because the story was sad; I cried because I was sitting in a theater, in NYC, with my kids. Judge if you must.
It was cold, y’all. Even the people who live in the city said it was brutal. Blizzard-like conditions swept through soon after our plane landed.
The first full day we were there, it snowed all day. I’ve always said snow makes the cold bearable, but I’ve learned that’s only partly true. New York City is a beautiful place. Blanketed in freshly fallen snow, it’s magical. We bundled up and walked up to Central Park. The seals in the zoo have an outdoor habitat, and they were jumping out of the water. People were sledding. We took a million pictures. On our walk home, we passed through Rockefeller Center, still decked in full Christmas regalia. It hadn’t reached the brutal point, yet. Our excitement about being there probably helped.
No one was allowed to leave the hotel room without minimum apparel requirements, which included long johns, two pairs of socks, a hat, gloves, and the coats we bought specifically for the trip. I went four days wearing no less than two pairs of pants.
We took the subway downtown, to catch a quick glimpse of the 9/11 memorial. It was the coldest day, with the wind whipping and “feels like” temps below 0. My adorable husband told us we only had two blocks to walk, which was doable, so we walked from the subway station. I know my way around the city fairly well, and once I spotted the big, modern tower at One World Trade, I remarked that it seemed much farther than two blocks. He showed me the distance on the pretty, colorful little subway map he was using as a reference. He was surprised to learn that a subway map cannot, in fact, be used as a street map. It doesn’t include all the streets. Ahem.
Mostly because it was temporary, we survived. The kids had a blast, and The Boy is determined to live there one day. He asked what I would think, if he just disappeared into the city, never to be seen again. He’d fit right in, but I’m not willing to let him go just yet. The Girl didn’t get to do as much shopping as she’d have liked. A return trip is in order.
In the summer of ’98, my husband and I fell in love in NYC. Twenty years later, in the winter of ’18, our kids fell in love with NYC. Life has a lovely way of coming full circle. I’d prefer that circle not be covered in snow and ice, but I’d do it all again in a New York minute.