We have three grandchildren in New York City and we try to
visit them as often as we can muster up the energy and coin. Let’s see, we were
there nine days. In that time, we saw a Yankee’s game, celebrated our son’s
birthday, celebrated our granddaughter’s birthday, watched our two grandsons
play collectively ten—count them, ten—lacrosse games, saw our youngest grandson
play two baseball games, watched our granddaughter perform in a school
production of Pirates of Penzance, attended our grandson’s First Communion, ate
innumerable meals in restaurants, and rode in countless cabs, ubers, and car
services. All this, while being entertained by a new bernedoodle puppy that
made the energizer bunny look languid. We even snuck in some private time to
tour Radio City Music Hall on tickets we bought two years ago.
I know I forgot tons. The entire week is a blur. We’re a
couple of retirees who on most days lumber from room to room to get enough
exercise to laze about some more. When my wife yells that we need to go to CVS
tomorrow, I mutter that she ruined my entire day. If it’s CVS and the hardware
store, I get out my iPhone and schedule the chockablock activities in my
calendar app.
We love New York, and we really do love all the activity,
especially when the weather doesn’t mug us. This was not one of those visits.
My son never leaves a Yankee game early, but in the top of the eighth, the
stadium turned into the biggest icebox on the planet. A near capacity crowd was
thinned to a few guys hawking sodas before the Yankees came to bat. We left our
hotel in fine weather to walk to Radio City Music Hall. Halfway there, it
turned blustery, cold, and wet. Us, without an umbrella or decent coats. We
even entered the restaurant after our grandson’s first communion drenched, with teeth
chattering. Last Saturday, the weather for the lacrosse games was perfect. Perfect.
It was a trick. On Sunday we were smart enough to wear layers, but twenty
wouldn’t have been enough. It went down to forty with gusts of hurricane
proportions that made me understand what chilled to the bone really meant. I’ve
posted recently about the springtime snow in Omaha. New York likes to do the
chill bit without the pretty white fluffy stuff.
In the end, it was all good. We hit the Big Apple at the
perfect time to see all three grandchildren strut their stuff, and we got in on
some nifty celebrations. But we were exhausted by our last day.
As we drove
back into the city from some farm that boasted plenty of lacrosse fields, my
daughter called from Omaha. She wanted to know what time we flew in that night. What’s up,
I asked. Our Omaha grandson wanted to know if we could make it back in time for
his Sunday evening baseball game.
