Sunday in the Park with Poppa

It's seasonably cold and quite windy today. There's something about the light today that reminds me of Sundays with my father. In the sixties and early seventies Sundays were spent with him, like most kids after divorce. We had adventures in New York City. Out in all kinds of weather, on all sorts of public transport. We went to movies in the worst weather, but on days like this I think of lunch in Central Park.

Poppa was an avid picnicker. He'd pack up a jar of his "Health Salad" (basically shredded carrots in vinegar), some cheese and cole slaw sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, and off we'd go. There is one big rock formation in the southern part of the Park that was our unspoken destination. For a guy in his sixties (he was 53 when I was born) he was very agile, and he'd climb up those rocks in his suit and hat and overcoat like a goat. We'd get to the top and just sit for a minute, surveying the people and the Park like gods on Olympus. I can't remember any sandwiches tasting better than those soggy, falling-apart ones, as the wind whipped my hair around and the sun's warmth came up from the boulders we sat on. 

After lunch we'd head for our day's amusement, or education. We went to every museum, place of worship, library, tourist trap, famous building and neighborhood in NYC. I knew the city and the subways before I knew long division. This would aid in my truancy, but that's another story.

I suddenly feel like packing sandwiches, bundling up, and going outside. Can't eat bread, climb rocks or go to a wondrous place like the Cloisters but the front porch and some cheese and carrots will do. It's mostly the light and wind I crave anyway. I think I will. See you later.