Waiting to Get There. Usually on the A/C/E in Chelsea, New York City.

The sun boiled the city in a pot of July humidity. Meanwhile, I decided it would be the perfect morning to lug one of Grammy’s fur coat uptown to get the pockets and lining fixed. I Yelped like a mofo and meticulously determined the finest establishment to perform the fur surgery.  The furgery, if you will.  I wrapped the coat in a garment bag and slogged up to a place on 30th, in the heart of what’s left of the fur district. Both my dad’s grandfathers were furriers who had shops on 28th street. And my grandfather was a furrier manufacturer, whatever that entails exactly. His place was on 23rd . This is what I told the fur store owner after I managed to get inside his establishment. Apparently I really suck at noticing doorbells and signs saying you have to ring to enter, no matter how large they are. We discussed the coat I’d brought in, made by Louie, my dad’s dad’s dad. For at least the first half of my life...

Central Pennsylvania Photocredit: http://davidottenstein.com/2010/06/ photographing-in-central-pennsylvania/ I carpooled to the Women’s March with Casey and Steven and a friend of theirs I had never met before. Turns out, Rhoda's hometown is the town next to my hometown.  We both grew up in Pennsylvania Dutch Country, I mean the bleeding heart of the place. Rhoda hails from Lancaster— which only tourists pronounce LanCAAAASTER. Like nails on a chalkboard, people. Correct pronunciation is LANcister.  Me— I’m from outside of Lebanon. Please say that LEBnin. Or if you’re really Dutchie, you’d say LEPnin. So when Rhoda told me she married a man from LEBANON, I had to sit back in my seat and bluster a little bit. Here was a gal from LANCISTER totally mispronouncing LEBNIN, her hometown’s sister city for crissake. No, said Rhoda. She married a man from LEBANON. Beirut, to be precise.