Oooooo….that is tough. I think it’s coming outside on a warm spring day to see my father in his white t-shirt and khaki pants pushing the lawn-mower in our backyard. The National Anthem was playing at the prep school across the street which meant a lacrosse game was about to happen. I just remember the way the world felt–electrified by a magic only children can sense–and I asked my father if I could go play with Matt, the little boy 9 months my senior, who lived in the house behind us. I ran across the backyard, past the swing set and two oak trees, opened the gate of the red fence separating the two neighboring homes and along the path to the side screen door. His mom was making her famous banana bread. She had beautiful, thick red hair. Matt was sitting at the kitchen table eating cereal. He wanted to show me the new He-Man action figures he got and we played with them while the banana bread finished baking. My mother came over with my little brother and then the five of us went to go watch the last half of the lacrosse game. Matt and I got to sit on the stone wall and play with our action figures, as we cheered on the local boys high school. Afterwards, we went back to our house and had a bar-b-que. Our parents sat around the table on the patio and talked while we played on the swing set and hammock. I got the idea to put the speakers of the stereo into the window and Matt helped me while Chris watched. Then we blasted the TOP GUN Soundtrack and ran around the yard until the sun set and we ate hot dogs. Afterwards, Matt, Chris and I played one of our favorite made-up games: Car Light Tag (we’d wait for a car to come down the street and then race to hide in the shadows before its headlights caught us.) We shared a happy childhood together and all have many memories like this one. Ask any one in either family, and we’ll all say the same thing: we are very lucky to know such a special time.
Posts Tagged ‘Memories’
From Midtown Manhattan
Monday, 6:00 PM (EST)
In order to get to Giancarlo, a hilltop neighborhood across the Tiber, I had to first meet Father Angelo at the Augustinium — Paulo ∆∆, St. Pietro, El Vatincano.
I awake early that morning, in time to visit with my fiancé before his drive to Cinecetta City. We breakfast in the sunshine, shaded by an awning, on the terrace of our Penthouse Suite at Hotel d’Inghilterra. Unusually warm for Rome in November, the waiter serves our espresso, coffee, fruit, mango kiwi juice, pastries, cold meat and cheese. In broken English he marvels at the weather and view. I laugh and say, “It truly feels like an Indian Summer, especially this morning with its crisp, blue skies.”
He smiles as I sign the check, asking where we were from, “New York City.”
“Oh,” he brightens, “you are an Obama!”
I answer as best I can, “Si, si….Grazie. Bella, multes belles, grazie. Alora, grazie millie. Prego.”
My love and I chat over coffee, enjoying the morning. By 9 AM, his car arrives and he leaves, kissing my cheek and lips. I find myself alone on the enormous, rooftop terrace. In a great Ancient City, Roma, I take in the view, soak in the light, the sounds, the smells, the breeze, the colors. I write some post cards, drinking coffee and munching melon slices.
The church bells ring out, announce the late morning. The wind carries them across the rooftops. From the Academie di Medici, the Piazza di Spagna, around the Fontina di Trevi, towards the Colosseum and beyond the Centre Venetia, farther past St. Pietro, I listen to many ancient tones and soft bells echoing all over Rome.
Two giant seagulls (who I nicknamed Cassius and Casca) fly over, circling before landing. They caw-cry-caw. I look up and greet them see their giant webbed feet in silhouette, stomping above and across the huge awning. An SMS message arrives, “I am free. Please call. We go Giancarlo. Love, Angelo.” I call him back, eager to see my good friend, and we finalize arrangements to meet in a little over two hours. Enough time to freshen up, find out how to get from the hotel to Father Angelo’s residence on St. Peter’s Square and not be late. I leave within an hour.
Draft in Progress….
© KHC, 2009/2010