vest, hunting hat, and tall boots. I’d never seen an “in the flesh” man dressed like he came out of an ad in “Field & Stream Magazine.” Mr. R. did some shooting out among Pa’s 26 acres. The only problem was that Uncle Jim, one of Pa’s younger brothers, lived down the road. When Mr. R. started shooting near Jim’s house, Jim, who wasn’t one to hold back opinions, quick-walked up into Pa’s field. “You’ve shot up every bird around here,” Jim told Mr. R. “I think that’s about enough.” Mr. R. ended his bird-blasting and high-tailed it back to the city, where Uncle Jim thought he belonged. Our last stop on Ma’s milk-and-butter route was near Mr. R.’s residence. We walked from his house to reach the backdoor of a small, old house. A fenced-in alleyway lay behind the house we approached because city garbagecollecting trucks drove behind that house and others to make pick-ups. I remember one Saturday when we moved through two gates and knocked on the back door of the small house. “Well, hello,” an elderly lady said to Ma. “I see you have the little fellow with you, today.” I often had seen the two little sisters. They wore print dresses and kept their gray hair in buns. Their thin ankles, slightly rounded middles, matchstick arms, and small noses caused me to think of them as birds flitting around inside a little birdhouse. The more talkative sister took a gallon of milk and two cakes of butter from Ma and said, “We have something for the little fellow.” From her kitchen table, she took a small cloth bear she and her sister had made by hand. He was light teal in color and had embroidered black eyes, a black nose, and a smiling red mouth. He had padding (stuffing), but was no more than a half-inch thick. He measured 3.5 inches wide from extended arm to extended arm and 4.5 inches high from bottom of leg to top of his head, not counting his ears. I still have that bear. He’s been with my wife, Carol, and me through the raising of two daughters who played with him. We’ve always called him “Little Bear.” He’s pretty worn, but he sits in a small rocking chair on a box on our kitchen table. One look at that bear, and my mind goes back to many wonderful Saturdays I spent with Ma and Pa as we rode along on Ma’s milk-and-butter route. �� FROM THE FRONT PORCH con't from p. 3 tonight. Hot pretzels from the vendor join pizza by the slice as we find Times Square, the visuals pass from one huge screen to the next. In the city that never sleeps, our family finally met its match. We find Penn Station and are the last to leave on the quiet midnight ride. Our “Goodnights” have become all too familiar “Goodmornings” as they share the same AM initial, but our hearts find rest in the sharing. Raindrops transform the following day into a swirl of umbrellas, rain boots, and ponchos as we make our way to the 9/11 Memorial... in the wrong direction, of course. Today is our day to see this living history as we tell of that day of terrorism. With 6 black umbrellas before me, we begin to walk—our easy two mile destination triples in the pouring rain. From the cold sidewalk, warm coffee and pastries call our names as we enter Carlos’ Bake Shop. Four chocolate cigars, a few canoli, a chocolate chip cookie turn into $48.oo, but these brighten the cold chills of this wet December day. Baked goods at Carlos' Bake Shop. We continue; truly the journey becomes the destination as we follow the Hudson River walk that overlooks the sea. Mosaics charm the concrete barriers; red roses parallel the busy streets of passing yellow cabs; ships rock the gentle waves. Our footsteps as the patter of rain drops lead us to the Memorial. The silver monument reaching up as eagle wings glistens in the gray as we read the names finding some adorned with white roses as heaven’s tears spill over the black granite. Famished, we find a Chinese restaurant, disgusting in the details but satisfying in the sustenance. Passing Chinatown, we reach Lombardi’s Pizzeria, where the first pizzeria in the U.S. opened in 1905, we dine before reaching Little Italy where red checkered-clothed tables for two offer romance with candlelight. We pass the NYPD and thank the night watch for keeping FROM THE FRONT PORCH continued A rose on the 9/11 Memorial, NYC. us safe; they assure the streets are the safest in generations. After walking a marathon, we become city smart and ride the Subway back to Times Square and find Macy’s floors decorated in garlands, ornaments, and cheer. A snowglobe, an ornament marking our trip, and a few other special gifts fill our bags. The Subway from NYC to NJ was not so quiet on this return when more passengers than seats crammed into the departing train. As a newly pregnant mom lost her dinner in the claustrophobic rows, a baby screamed, and others guarded seats with luggage, we traveled through the cars seeking refuge. Our search ended at the close of another door with new friends in the making. Sharing the same rounded corner was Ryan from NJ in Market Research, Jason from Delaware a musician just coming from a party, and a salesman from PA, and our gang of seven from NC. Were they ever fascinated to swap stories as we discussed football, music, the business world, and life in general. As the train lurched and awaited restart, they comforted, “Oh, this happens all of the time.” Ryan shared his fruit snacks stuffed into his coat pockets as one always needs to be prepared during delays. Relishing the corner although crammed, we stayed the course as other passengers emptied seats and found their stations calling. Another stop drew the salesman away; he left with hugs for all and a gift of a $20 for the boys to enjoy milkshakes. As adventurers with unforgettable memories, happy times, and friends remembered with joy, we can’t wait to be off to NYC... in time. Reminding me that no matter the outcome of the elections, we the people of our beautiful land will share our corner of the world with laughter, friendship, and diversity. And before too long, there’s no telling who will be off to NYC. �� FROM THE FRONT PORCH con't. next column MA'S MILK & BUTTER con't from p. 6 "Little Bear" p.34 The Pinehurst Gazette, Inc. No. 124
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