Like this: Like Loading Comments Leave a Comment Categories Uncategorized. Leave a Reply Cancel reply Enter your comment here Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:. Email required Address never made public. Name required. Create a free website or blog at WordPress. Mosher was also a big fan of Greta Garbo , her recent appearance in Grand Hotel prompting a raft of superlatives from the usually reserved critic. But in her latest outing, As You Desire Me , the enigmatic star seemed to drift a bit closer to earth.
House representative, and ambassador to Spain, Argentina, and Switzerland…. I read and write about history from the perspective that history is not some artifact from the past but a living, breathing condition we inhabit every moment of our lives, or as William Faulkner once observed, "The past is never dead.
It's not even past. I welcome comments, criticisms, corrections and insights as I stumble along through the century. View all posts by David O. You are commenting using your WordPress. You are commenting using your Google account. The therapists are well trained. You will feel rejuvenated after the session. For many years, my goal has been to ensure the complete satisfaction of every customer while offering friendly services…. I went to a salon and told the woman to cut about 5 inches from my hair so it….
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The hot house an enormous glass conservatory now retreaded as the Palm House, a highfalutin site for upscale social events was filled with exotic plants organized according to their various native climes, each section accorded its appropriate weather—dry, humid, extra hot—which gave the human visitor a frisson as he passed from one room to the next.
The desert department was formidable, a venue where the vegetation was often equipped with its own defensive weaponry and cacti masqueraded as stones. This was strictly forbidden—ominous signs were prominently posted to that effect—but she surreptitiously did it anyway and I delighted in her daring.
Now that I think of it, her only criminal tendencies were horticultural. On another visit to the Garden she helped herself to a tiny clipping of an unusual plant, deftly stowed it away in her handbag, and cosseted it at home until she had raised it to a sumptuous adulthood, in every way equal to, even surpassing, what the Garden had achieved.
What was once the hot house is still flanked on either side by long rectangular water lily pools in which large koi ornamental carp swim, rising from a murky depth to an inch below the surface to flaunt their true colors: vermilion; white with irregular vermilion spots, an occasional slate grey.
Floating imperturbably on the surface of the pools were the flat green lily pads, the flowers springing up from them in their incandescent hues: fairytale periwinkle; show-offy fuchsia; pure, calm cream; tender violet; severe white; frivolous pink; insistently cheery yellow.
My mother and I, along with any other members of our excursion, would make a game of choosing her or his favorite—only after prolonged examination, deliberation, and some argument since the rules of our game had it that no single color could be claimed by more than one person. Oh, the irony of conflict in Eden!
Usually our visits concluded with the Japanese Garden, a picturesque evocation of Eastern horticulture oddly situated—and thriving—smack in the heart of Brooklyn. People often held their weddings there. The site was sheltered by an undulating wall of fragile wooden palings, allowing the bridal party and its guests a strange kind of semi-privacy. There were openings at intervals, for folks without marriage on their minds to view the stylized landscape, so one could easily peek at the nuptials, and we certainly did.
The most ravishing bridal pairs were Japanese-Americans, wearing traditional Japanese dress, for whom the landscape seemed created—almost like a set design—no matter how far they were, geographically, from their ancestors. Once, on the subway platform, as a conductor leaned out the window of his stopped train with an air of perpetual resignation, I asked him where his train was going next.
He replied mournfully that he had no idea, that he was waiting for instructions. In hot weather the stations make terrific substitute saunas, but getting naked is forbidden along with a long list of other infractions, no doubt derived from actual passenger behavior.
Have I forgotten to say that the system is filthy and rat-infested? Lovers of minor beauties of bygone days relish the old mosaics set into the walls of the stations. And as for practicality, the subway is still the fastest, cheapest way to get you anywhere in town. Even the mayor claims to use it. New York is a water city. Have you walked over the Brooklyn Bridge? A grandchild and I do it every summer. I read aloud to her as we travel by subway from uptown Manhattan to Brooklyn; then we walk over the bridge back to Manhattan in order to face its skyline as we stroll.
As everyone knows, the architecture of this bridge is magnificent—at once heroic and harmonious—but it is most so when you absorb it as you progress through it. My companion and I stop at a bench at the clearly marked midpoint to rest, consume our homemade picnic lunch, and call her mother and a couple of other parties who might care—to tell them we are sitting exactly-in-the-middle-of-the-Brooklyn-Bridge.
Last summer, as usual, all the familiar icons hove into view as we walked, looking far and wide about us, but we could hardly make them out; shrouded as they were in a dense fog. Custom House, a formidable Beaux-Arts building.
The museum makes a marvelous excursion. Our own outing also got a splendid coda when I realized we were right near the Staten Island Ferry. It had been raining, but she had her hooded slicker on and I had an umbrella.
By the time we boarded the ferry, though, we were in the middle of a lashing storm. And so we did. We were the only passengers who dared confront the storm. I closed my umbrella, which was completely useless against the stinging sheets of rain and fierce winds blowing every which way, kept a very firm grip on the child, who was as slender and light as a fairy, and looked at her drenched cheeks, pink from the slap of the water, and those gray-blue eyes, bright with the glee of serendipitous adventure.
He was twelve years old when he arrived. At home he spoke Yiddish. In New York he got a job driving a laundry truck. A decade later he entered Cornell University and went on to become a physician. The American dream, you might say.
In his late forties, he started learning Russian, planning to use it one day when he visited his birthplace. Space simply does not permit. I asked him why. Corrie, Sydney, Australia.
I lived in NYC for 14 years and then have moved to a number of interesting and wonderful places. Enjoyed this. I came to NYC in the 60s as a Juilliard student and the friends I made back then were from Brooklyn, transplanted to Manhattan; and are still my close friends today.
She is dancing with the Joffrey and likes it but NYC is in her blood. The parts of your essay I liked the best were those about NYC as the city of water. And of course, the ridiculous abundance of cultural offerings cannot be disputed. The idea, however, that New York is somehow more culturally diverse and tolerant than the rest of America is becoming less and less true.
I live in Columbia SC, and as I dropped my child off at day care this morning, I said hello to his classmates who include some of Indian, Chinese, African-American, and Jamaican backgrounds.
I live in a friendly neighborhood that is similarly diverse. In fact, in many mid-size American cities today, I find a greater diversity within the middle class and less economic tension between ethnic groups than I did in the years living in NYC The point is that it is just plain easier to attain middle-class lifestyle, whatever you want to call it, in places other than NYC.
This is a sad fact, but undeniable. But NYC will always continue to feel like home for me. Still, for those in the arts, America needs you in places other than the big urban centers! Make your mark in the Big Apple, but then consider bringing your gifts to other places that need them more and might even appreciate them more noticeably! Fear not, New Yorkers: there is life beyond the Hudson.
Thank you, Tobi, for this wonderful essay on New York City. It reaffirms my belief that this city is not only a great place to live, but a unique and magical place to raise a family. Thank you TT for reminding me with such eloquence of my home town. I grew up in the Village, not East, not West, but Greenwich thanks very much, the highly privileged if chronically broke daughter of painter and sculptor Allen Ullman, goddaughter of Margaret Mead.
The Staten Island Ferry was a frequent special treat; the Metropolitan Museum, overtly free in those days, was where I bonded with my father on Sunday afternoons. My favorite birthday party took place in Central Park, a picnic with my best friends when I was about ten.
But New York will always be the place where I feel most alive—it has an energy uniquely its own, a city of infinite possibilities, of grit and risk.
See you soon!
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