There are moments when I remember our childfree days. Mark and I, elbows propped up on the glossy mahogany bar at Nellie's, swirling a glass of red, rehashing the day, deciding to eat dinner at the bar because, really, we had nowhere else to be and this place suited us just fine. We were on a first-name basis with the owner, a diminutive Italian with a booming voice and an extra-firm handshake. He liked that we sat at the bar instead of a table and he often pulled out my barstool with a grand swoop of his arm. The ever-changing bar staff liked us because we tipped well and the chef's homemade meatloaf made Mark swoon. If you peered through the window of Nellie's on any given weeknight, you'd often find us there, at the bar, sometimes laughing, usually eating, always talking. It was our place and if there is a memory that summarizes our childfree life in the village, it is there, at Nellie’s (and certainly not the paycheck-draining, miniscule 5th floor walk up that waited for us a block down the road, where the air-conditioning stubbornly refused to reach our loft bed).
Today, no bartender knows our name and Nellie's is now a forgettable pizza joint on the corner of Houston and MacDougal. Those days are long gone, and while I sometimes feel a stab of loss - for our freedom, for that damn good meatloaf - I can't imagine ever going back. There are new moments to remember and they're good.
Last Friday, I got home from work and packed Abby and her new bike up for an impromptu picnic in the park. The evening was beautiful and I called Mark to meet us there when he got off the train. Abby and I rode to the wine store and the sandwich shop, and up to the park. We settled on the Long Meadow, an expanse of rolling hills that is said to be the longest stretch of uninterrupted greenery in New York City. The evening was bustling: birthday party revelers swung at a piñata, a pick-up softball game was well underway and plenty of fellow picnickers nestled into the grass alongside us to usher in the weekend. After dinner, Abby picked up her bat and ball. I tossed a few pitches her way and then Mark joined in. In her very best 3-year-old bossy voice, she instructed us: "Dad kicks the ball way up high, mom tosses the ball to me and I swing the bat." And so it went. Kick. Toss. Swing. Kick. Toss. Swing. With the evening sun setting behind us, I knew there was no other place I'd rather be.
Wendy, you are an awesome writer. Love, Dad.
Posted by: Dad | 06/20/2007 at 11:47 AM
Now that is what I've been waiting for. I read the story BEFORE I looked at the new pictures(I knew they weren't going antwhere). Brava!!
Posted by: Grampa Dave | 06/22/2007 at 10:24 AM