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

I was telling Tom about the time from my childhood when my mother ordered me to go play outside immediately. "But Mom," I whined. "I want to finish my drawing." I was in the middle of a Georges Seurat  pointillism phase and had been busily hammering a piece of paper with colored pencils. I recall this very distinctly. Mom shrugged and put her hands in the air like she just didn't care. Next thing I knew I was out on the front porch with my sketchpad and no pencils staring at the door. Click. "That was a very strange thing for an Art major to do to her kid," said Tom. "What'd she suggest you do instead? Go find your brother and dress him up in a leotard?" My brother, dressed in a leotard. Maybe, I mused. Either that or spend a pleasant afternoon brawling with the boys up the street, which is how I spent half my childhood. My mother was completely unconcerned that they had BB guns and all we had were these ghetto guns my Po...

I dread the day when my niece and nephews do not fall for the “smell my feet” game, no matter how cleverly deployed. To be clear, my personal strategy lacks finesse. I find a kid on the floor and exclaim, “Oh look, Jack wants to smell my feet.” Then I count on the existential fact that I’m bigger than he is. Tom, on the other hand, premeditates. When we were down in Richmond, he told Jack and Ella to lay on the carpet, head-to-head, face down. He told them to close their eyes and lift their chins. Then he shimmied between them, his giant feet just under nose-high. ha ha. smell my feet. The crowd went wild. The Dark Game will also be mourned even though playing it can get tiring after about six hours. It’s basically the love child of hide-and-go-seek and your basic game of tag: Just played inside, after dark, with all the lights turned off. The rules are starting to get really complicated. Recently we added a “shake the water bottle full of dice” element, which is the indoor ...

Jack texted me a selfie My nephew Jackson is a fast learner. He was in Grammy's hospice room for 8 seconds before he figures out there's a "Nourishment Center" down the hall featuring a fridge stocked with chemically-preserved snacks his mother has forbidden. In a flash, he's back with an orange jello cup.  Jack walks in Grammy's door and instantly gets a random nose bleed. A real gusher. Blood all over his face, dripping on the floor. He sticks five fingers up his nose. It is not even moderately effective. Nonetheless, the kid maintains a vice grip on the jello. We snap into action with nostril-sized wads of kleenexes. Luckily, there are lots of readily available kleenexes in a hospice facility.  Eventually, the crisis dwindles to a trickle. Jack celebrates by jamming his entire bloody hand into the jello cup and shoveling a blob into his maw. We all sit back on our heels and screech at the same time. Uncle Tom says, "You are a sticky jello...

At 100 years young, Grammy T died on December 24, 2015 after a fall in her home. Earlier, she had been outside gardening and clearing yard clippings with her wheelbarrow.  Grammy and me and my bro walking a 5k - she won the 90+ age group. Grammy was a "Rosie the Riveter" during WWII. Here's her version of events, I'd transcribed it for her big birthday party last spring: I worked at Armstrong’s Cork Company. It turned into an armor factory. I first worked riveting lights onto the wingtips of B-29s. That was shift work. I worked 11-7, 7-3, 3-11. When I was riveting, I had to wear pants because I had to crawl into the airplane wing. That was really when women started wearing pants. There was no uniform. You had to buy your own slacks. Most everyone wore dark blue denim-like clothes. We all wore the same kind of outfit because there really wasn’t much else to buy. There were shortages and maybe there was only one brand of women’s pants. Women had n...

Assuming you empty the spare bedrooms of photo albums, Smithsonian Magazines and crates of canceled checks (1942-2015), my grandma’s house sleeps maybe 7 comfortably. There are 12 of us currently residence plus a 100-pound dog named Sawyer. If Grammy were here, she’d be harrumphing around between us, moving knick knacks out of harm’s way, fussing over hot water usage and rinsing out zip locks. Immediately upon arrival, my mom and her brothers played the age card and claimed the beds in the bedrooms. My cousins commandeered all sofas and the living room floor. By the time I showed up, my options were seriously limited. A hotel was out of the question. “Why do you want to stay in a hotel all by yourself? Your cousins are all staying at the house. I’m staying at the house. Your father is at the house. We’re all at the house. It would be nicer if you were at the house too. I don’t understand why you would leave us and waste the money on a hotel.” — My mother. So ...

My heavens, time flies. Thirty #NaBloPoMo days gone in a snap of the gnarled fingers. Should I live to see November next, alevai , you may see me here on these pages again. If you should desire a reprise, please contact me visa vis the interwebs. Google+ or Twitter mayhaps at StaceyRi. Positive feedback will be taken as a good sign. A friend of mine once said when you're retired, somehow going to the post office can take all day. I would reframe his sentiment: When you're retired, somehow getting around to the good stuff can take longer than a month. I had intended to view a foreign film at MoMA ... some arty classic that inspired Ingmar Bergman or Stanley Kubrick. I had intended to nestle into one of those dim and timeless under-the-museum theaters the entire day, perhaps. Such is the joy of a wizened old dilettante such as myself. photocredit: http://www.centurysafaris.com/ hyenas-of-africa-the-truth-about-the-cackling/ I had intended to dress up as natty as Iris A...

http://previews.123rf.com/ I relish a cup of tea. And when I say "cup of tea" I mean a cup and a saucer. And I mean tea leaves of quality, steeped for exactly the right time at the right temperature and poured from an exquisite teapot. There should be no microwaving during any aspect of this operation. Microwaves are the nemesis of tea. David's Tea is mostly a rainbow colored dessicated chemical sauce. It is not tea. Harney and Sons on Broome Street has potential, but their retail experience is a brutal travesty for an impatient and demanding old woman like myself.  I enjoy prompt service with personal attention. This is in short supply on their corner of SoHo. Hardwood ambiance isn't the only factor, Son of Harney. But your Chai tea is indisputably very good even though it used to be called Indian Spice, a more descriptive and overall better name for the brew. McNaulty's  smells like coffee. I do not like to buy tea in a place that smells like coffe...

Maybe because I'm old, I wonder what will happen to my things when I'm gone. I'm sure my art collection and my limoge and my jewelry will be picked over and split between my heirs. With dollar signs in their eyes, they will ascribe value using the same formula as antique roadshow. Consider these books from my childhood in the mid 20th century: So well loved. So well battered and decrepit. Here's my copy of Winnie the Pooh, inscribed by my dear mother: To me, this book is a treasure. But what is this stained old paper pulp to anyone else beyond the only daughter of my mother? Don't answer that. Here's the inscription in a story book entitled, "Felix the Bald-Headed Lion." My grandfather gave it to me 80 years ago. He's been dead as long as he was alive.  And because I'm the last to remember the giving of the gift, when I go, Felix will likely go too. Maybe to the thrift store, but likely to the recycling center. Because in my infinit...

I asked my niece to name her favorite place, and she said, "my home." I replied by quoting the immortal words of that old rapper  Mos Def : "home is not where you're from, it's where you're at." If you work your turf right, it can sustain you indefinitely— like you're a plant positioned to get just enough sun and water and nutrients. It's your own job to set up the conditions in your warren of rooms just as you need them to thrive. I surround myself with only the things that please me immensely. When you're young, you don't have enough scheckel to pull this off. Nor have you had enough time to find these things or recognize them when you see them. I like sheets on my bed that are crisp and thick. I like taxidermy crows with their beady glass eyes and their corvidae heritage. I like items made of silk and porcelain. I like clean surfaces and gold and silver doubloons.

Thanksgiving Day. I offered a toast to the table at large. I toasted the past and the present. For however long your loved ones are with you, it's never long enough. After that, we sang Swedish drinking songs. Even though we all have gotten old, the snapsvisor have not. Skål allesammans!

Today is a day of travel, which accounts for the late posting. Once one traverses a bridge or tunnel and arrives on the mainland, some of the city's conveniences are sadly missed. Like the wifi in my home and the firm schedule which I maintain. “To travel is to take a journey into yourself.” – Danny Kaye During my journey into myself, I learned I enjoy full access to my collection of antique hats. Sometimes one is simply in the mood for red and fox-trimmed. And other times a feather festooned felt. I adore options and I give thanks for as many options as possible. The old understand the boon of youth lies in its vast options. Every year that passes, the fewer crossroads one finds oneself contemplating, the fewer roads not taken. Be they well traveled or not. Options evaporate and one thin lines remains. Perhaps more journeys are in order.

Today I was butt dialed by an old friend listening to an old time folksy tune in his car. I received a 12 second ragtime voicemail. The friend, not the song, reminded me of smooth jazz. The friend is an aficionado. When I speak of jazz, don't think I mean elevator music or lite.fm piped from somewhere in a dropleaf ceiling. I mean soulful melodies squeezed from bloodsoaked lungs. I mean old leather and girdles and gimlet bleary eyes. Rock music is contrived you must admit: it's a skin-deep facade and brittle manic play acting. I favor the roll to be frank. It's the roll that makes the rock. Socrates said the unexamined life is not worth living. But I'm older than Socrates was when they killed him for speaking so. And I wonder if the microscopically examined life leaves behind ignorance just as boring. All that banging and plucking and ricocheting around on a road to nowhere. I wish I knew how to ride jazz like a magic carpet to find the answers to questions bigg...

Every oldster needs a manservant like Mr. French When you get old, you start to think a lot about household help. I'm lucky enough to have a manservant, blessed be. When you get achy and doddering, you simply can't be trusted with ladders to grab porcelain on high shelves or to crawl around hunting precious gems that bounced out of your heirloom broach. I recall once, many years ago, I found a note tucked through the mail slot in our country house. I enjoyed receiving it so much I hung it upon the refridgerator. In childish scrawl, a young lady offered her assistance with yard work. Her rates ran as follows: If you have a small yard: $3/hour. If you have a medium yard: $4/hour If you have a large yard: $5/hour Such an entrepreneur. Such egalitarian price modeling. The children back then were wise beyond their years.

Oxfords for city foot workouts. I endeavored to walk about a bit this afternoon in the sunshine. I dangled strands of precious gems and a burgundy silken scarf about my neck. Then I tugged on a forest green velvet cape and a felt hat with a hat pin. I exuded a certain seasonally-appropriate spirit. The Christmas decorations were up at Lord and Taylor, I noticed yestereve. To usher in the holidays, Lord and Taylor has constructed a tunnel of twinkling greenery entwined about scaffolding. I wondered if the scaffolding beget the greenery or the greenery beget the scaffolding. Fancy ballet flats for city foot workouts. Considering this important question, I sat on a bench in our narrow foyer and tugged on my sensible shoes. Not too sensible. I refuse to resemble a soft-footed tourist from mainland America. I've learned in my old age that feet have muscles, just like legs and arms. Walking on sidewalks is excellent for foot conditioning. I endeavor to work out my feet in sto...

For a time, I entertained the notion of Harlem. In theory, Harlem has an allure not found downtown. It's talent undiscovered. It's rare gems and underdogs and the romanticized version of neighborhoods I probably wouldn't live in due to walkups and my arthritis. Also there is nothing romantic about the Cross Bronx Expressway. Robert Moses was an ass, I often say, with a flourish of my wrinkled hands. On Friday, we ventured to the United Palace Theater. It's an antique jewelry box of a place. Three quarters of a century ago, in 1979, it stood bleak and weather beaten before a wreaking ball. But a visionary who fancied himself a preacher saved the joint and it has been a beacon of golden flamboyance ever since. Of course I'm an old lady who remembers the olden day dances, like hip hop and b-boy and krumping. Which is why we got crackalackin and journeyed on the A Train the entire way to 175th to take in the Hip Hop Nutcracker. To reminence our youth. There i...

When midnight approaches, my thoughts twist and whirl and blend together into dark matter. So much is possible in the night, you can feel it's there. But you can't prove it. People emerge in the darkness, they creep from their daytime containers. They've dusted off their round rabbit hats and their red pants, puffed their hair or flattened it. I spy green shoes and sparkles and nose rings and eavesdrop talk about tear-drop skirts and wide stripes. The city sings weird and bristly at night. Perhaps when I'm even older than I am now, I will piece together the meaning of it all.

photo credit:  James Jowers in 1967 We sat in our velvet barcelona chairs. I snuggled beneath a fur throw and Tom rested his book on his lap. We gazed out over the corner of 8th Avenue and Greenwich. I felt pleased with the life I'd earned, one with no need to venture out into the dreary, overcast and rain spattered day. The people scurrying to work and the tourists in their damp plastic ponchos drooped in such a forlorn fashion. Maybe because my time is limited, I have begun to appreciate moments. Especially comfortable moments filled with nothing. In their naked glory, such moments can be savored full strength for exactly the gift they are. I said as much to Tom. For a historical angle, I asked him if his grandmother had savored her moments. I intended to run down his family tree, but his grandmother was as far as the conversation went.  Because Tom said that his grandmother never left her home. She was "Agriphobic." Oh yes, I replied. Many people are afrai...

Today I made my way to midtown to break bread with an old friend. We went in for Mexican. I learned after we had been seated that my friend had eaten at this same exact Mexican restaurant three times this week so far. I poised my granny glasses upon the bridge of my nose and looked over them, pinning my friend with an unwinking stare. "Three times?" I said, adjusting the fringe on my burgundy silk scarf. "Three times you lunched right here in midtown east?" "I had the steak tacos each time too," he replied with a quirk of his wisened old face. I took a cool sip of iced tea and my friend went back to arranging his cane alongside the table. When you're young, you might finish each other's sentences. When you're old, you don't bother. Not only don't you bother to vocalize a few words you both know are inevitable, but you don't bother finishing entire conversations when you both know the ending. I didn't bother to say, ...

I have always been good at dawdling. I excel at puttering around. They say that coloring is now considered meditation. Perhaps doing nothing much is also? No. Now that I consider further, trolling about on the interwebs or letting YouTube get its claws into me is the opposite of meditative. It's letting the mind click and whir and blunder from thought to thought like that heinous ricocheting spasmodic electronica from the early 00's. I've heard it said that music isn't really the notes, it's the silence in between. And maybe the same is true about life. It's not the action that matters, but how you go about savoring it. I'm only 82, I still have plenty of time-space to get this figured out.

photo credit: Stringsandbeyond.com Is it untoward to pick up my electric bass guitar again? These days my old axe may or may not be considered an actual antique. I do not often place much stock in what is proper. But I do often consider what my schemes will look like. I picture the scene and decide if it is desirable. And if it is desirable, my mental image becomes a daydream I revel in making so. I don't think I could stand upright and play for long-- bass guitars have an awkward heft to them. I would need to be seated for the duration, like a violin player. Although classier for sure, I wonder if assuming the position of an orchestral musician would reduce the thrill of it all. I sit in my purple office, staring at La Calavera Catrina hanging on my wall. I lean back in my green leather office chair and breath in the dim air. I take up a Monte Blanc fountain pen I've owned since 1990. I scratch out a short list of old lady friends who might be up to join a gentlewoman...