The weather was perfect, in the mid-70s, no humidity, light breezes and blue-black skies above the lights of Citi Field.
I was where friends tell friends, “I’ll meet you at the Apple,” a plaza centered around the big red structure that once rose slowly beyond the centerfield fence of Shea when a Met hit a home run. Waiting for Dr. Z., who was running late, fighting traffic, I was the smart one, driving to my sister’s place in Queens, parking the car, and taking the 7 train to the ballpark. Getting onboard, I was already at the ballgame, with the train packed with Blue and Orange fanatics. (more…)
For the past few years I’ve had the privilege of picking up my grandson, Max, from school.
I say privilege because at a recent funeral for an old newspaper colleague, as I was leaving for the train ride home from Boston, my colleague’s parents, whom I had never met, and I spoke about this matter of picking up a grandson from school. The deceased never had kids, let alone grandkids, and his parents drilled home how fortunate I was to pick up a grandson from school. You are an extremely lucky person, the mother said.
I had never thought of the task in that way. (more…)