Wednesday, Bergen County, NJ
Gods and Cigarettes
Over a dinner of pork chops, we started talking about politics. I had seen this coming. My parents, who had driven out from Missouri, kept their mouths shut; they know that I disagree with them, and among our immediate family, we generally steer clear of the topic to preserve harmony. My aunt started ranting about John Kerry. I kept my mouth shut too, and let her talk. But when she started ranting about sexual preferences, I had to speak up. I held my own and she kept changing her argument. She beat me down anyway.
After the dishes had been cleared, my uncle walked up to the table, where my dad and I were still sitting.
“Here’s the thing,” my uncle said. “It says ‘In God We Trust’ on our money. We sing ‘God Bless America.’ We say ‘One nation under God.’ We have freedom
of religion, not freedom
from religion.”
“Huh?” my dad and I asked together.
“You have to believe in God to be an American,” my uncle said. “People who don’t believe in God do not belong in this country.”
“I strongly disagree with you,” said my dad, a traditional Catholic.
I kept my cool.
I told my dad last year that I do not believe in God, but my uncle didn’t know this. My dad respected my beliefs, even though it disappoints him. My dad stood up to my uncle on the issue.
After the discussion died down, I took my dad into the hallway and hugged him.
“Thank you so much for standing up for me in there,” I said as I hugged him around the neck. Dad patted me on the back and didn’t say much. My respect and love for my parents grows every year, and that moment was a big deal to me.
Ten or fifteen minutes later, I crouched over the wet grass under some trees near the driveway, out of sight of the house. Just me and my Marlboro Light. A car pulled into the driveway and rolled down the window.
“I thought you quit those.” It was my favorite cousin, a middle-aged mother of two teenagers.
“We just had a discussion about politics and God,” I said.
“Oh jeez. Who had the hottest head?”
“Your parents. You didn’t see me out here.”
“No problem. See you inside,” she said and drove up the paved way.
Later, she took me on a drive to let off steam. She and her daughter were dogsitting, and we let the golden retrievers out into a big rainy lawn. I bent down and scratched the fluffy head of the three-month-old puppy.
“To be fair, did my dad have a drink?” she asked about my uncle.
“Yes.”
“Maybe two?”
“Yeah. I had a few glasses of wine myself.”
“Want to say over at my house tonight?”
“No, we’re leaving early in the morning to go to the parade, but thanks.”
I went to bed that night hoping that this tonight wasn’t foreshadowing the rest of the break. Thankfully, that was the only time politics came up over the rest of the weekend.
Thursday, W 8st St and Central Park West
Down to Earth, 18 Stories Up
My dad and I looked out the window. Central Park was a patchwork of fall colors. The street below was lined with balloons waiting to join the parade. We were in my godfather’s luxurious apartment. I always feel a bit uncomfortable here; there are so many antiques that I’m afraid to touch anything.
I spent some time chatting with my godfather’s daughter, an SEC lawyer who lives in the West Village. When she told me where she lived, I said, “There’s a bar near there I really like, Kettle of Fish.”
“Yes, Kettle of Fish!”
“I don’t go there as often as I should. It’s so chill and laid-back. And the bartenders are all really nice. I have no idea why I don’t go there more.”
“Totally,” she said. “I don’t know why I don’t go there more often either.”
Before we left to head back to NJ for Thanksgiving dinner, I asked her for her email address so I could invite her to my birthday party in January. Every time I meet her, which is only every couple of years, I’m always surprised at how down-to-earth she is for having grown up in such a wealthy family. I hope she can make it to my party. I’d like to see her more often than I have in the past.
Thursday, Bergen County, NJ
The Kids’ Table
Thanksgiving dinner was served to a party of 15. I sat down at the kids’ table, which didn’t really have any kids at all. I chatted with my teenage second-cousins. Leah, a high school junior, looks like Uma Thurman, loves dogs, and had a plate full of stuffed artichokes. Krista, a high school senior, had spent the previous year in Germany and I admire her a lot for it. I wish I saw her more often; we get along well. Krista and
Andy, also a senior, were sharing a
tofurkey, which Andy had prepared himself. They gave the tofurkey a thumbs-up, but I didn’t try it myself. I told Andy that I liked his
industrial ear piercing and he told me he liked my
nasal piercing. Jim, a college freshman, has grown a beard, which looks pretty good on him. He’s attending my dad’s alma mater, so the poor kid got cornered by my father a few times to chat about the minutiae that captures my dad’s interest.
Friday, Weehawken, NJ
A Spectacular View
After spending the afternoon at the Metropolitan Museum, my parents and I drove back out to NJ to meet my aunt and uncle for dinner at a restaurant on the Hudson where every table has a breathtaking view of the city skyline.
About halfway through our meal—I had the lobster bisque and a shrimp platter—everyone dropped their forks. Against the night sky, the majestic
Queen Mary 2 set sail. We were so stunned by this unexpected sight, no one ate for several minutes. My mom is interested in taking a cruise next year to celebrate their 30th wedding anniversary. This huge and beautiful ship, lit in red white and blue, might have done the trick to convince my dad that it’s a good idea.
Saturday, SoHo
Heirloom
I thought my parents and I were on a wild goose chase. We walked north on Wooster St., and it was clear the address my uncle had given my dad was wrong. There was an apartment building where we expected an art gallery. Dad had taken my uncle on his word instead of trying to look it up.
“Dad, Wooster doesn’t even cross Delancy!” I said.
We almost reached Houston when my mom said, “There it is!” She recognized the name on a black and white flag.
Just as my uncle had said, this jeweler, who had created pieces for our family for generations, had changed since “the old days.” There was a gallery of paintings in front, and past a set of heavy glass doors were the artful displays of precious stones and metals.
My dad introduced himself to the jeweler, David. He remembered our family. He had made my mother’s engagement ring, which she wanted reset because the prongs holding the diamond had worn thin.
As we stood there, I wiggled a white gold ring off my mother’s right hand. The ring, a small diamond in a heart-shaped setting, was one I had always loved. She offered it to me as a present when I turned 21, but I had refused it because I didn’t think I was mature enough to own something like that yet.
I tried on the ring. It fits almost perfectly. The diamond had been my maternal grandmother’s engagement diamond. She had passed away when my mother was only 13 years old. When mom turned 21, my now-deceased grandfather had brought her to this jeweler to have a new ring made with the diamond. And now, it’s being passed on to me: a ring that my mother wore for almost 40 years, with a diamond that had belonged to our family for about 70.
We left the ring to be cleaned, polished, sized, and have the etchings sharpened up. It’ll be shipped to my parents so they can give it to me on Christmas morning.
It will be one of the best presents that I have ever gotten. And it means a lot to me, too. I never knew this grandmother, and I’m excited to have this connection to her.
Saturday, Herald Square
Two Birthdays
My parents dropped me off on a street corner. It had been a good visit. “I’ll see you in a few weeks,” I said as I kissed them goodbye. I called
Will on my cell phone, and met him in the Duane Reade where he was waiting in a line.
“Happy birthday!” I said.
I wrote a card that was littered with inside jokes. My gift to him was a pile of postcards. On each card was a photograph taken in New York City, mostly featuring funny piles of garbage and toys. I told him they reminded me of him. We had dinner with two friends and had a few beers after.
It’s always good to see Will. He lives in Boston, and he was visiting his family in NY for the holiday. We talk almost every day, so it’s nice when we get chances to see one another in person.
As the 7 train rumbled over Roosevelt Ave around 11pm, I made a call on my cell phone.
“Happy birthday,” I said into the phone.
“_____!”
Angela said, calling out my college nickname. The nickname I like, not the embarrassing one. Will and Angela, who had been fierce adversaries in the game of Taboo in college, shared the same birthday.
Angela and I talked until midnight, when she said goodnight.
And I was finally alone.
Thankful
* I’m thankful for my parents, who are more supportive, loving and amazing every year. I know that I am lucky because not everyone has parents like these.
* I’m thankful for my health and thankful I have a good job.
* I’m thankful for my friends, especially Anne, Biren, the Crosses, Eleanor, Emma, Jessica, John, Lisa, Marcia and Will. I don’t know what I’d do without you.
* I’m very thankful that the
bedbugs are gone.
* I’m thankful that
my grandmother passed away peacefully and without pain.
* I’m thankful for Netflix, Coca-Cola, Marlboro Lights, baseball playoffs, and my two fantabulous kitty cats.
I quit smoking
