Sometimes a moment lingers and the memory it produces is like a snapshot. 

I hadn’t heard of Etta James until the late 1980’s, even though she started her career decades before. I instantly became a fan. She was just then returning  to the limelight and performing at a small venue in midtown Manhattan. I made sure I was there. The club had two floors. I was upstairs standing against a railing and watching Ms. James perform on a small stage below.

Her sultry sound and familiar tunes, from the beginning, evoked explosive applause. And then she warmed up. From my perspective above, I couldn’t tell if Ms. James was short or tall, but there was no doubt that she had ample flesh on her bones. She became loose and sassy. She gyrated her hips and sashayed her voluptuous form. She was seducing everyone with her grit, her grinds, her teasing, and her extraordinary voice. The audience whooped and hollered. Some of us screamed. Some of us cried. She cast a spell. We were all her fools that night.

Sometimes a moment lingers and the memory it produces is like a snapshot. 

Summer nights brought lightening bugs and incandescent glows. They were easy to catch, even for a child’s hands cupped just so.
I would wait, until the iridescent creature gently resting on my palm performed its light show. Then, opening my hand, it would linger a moment before entering the night.

Last night, something flew into my home. It was small, but larger than a mosquito and resembled not a moth. And there it was, a lightening bug. I cupped it gently in my hands and awaited the show.

Sometimes a moment lingers and the memory it produces is like a snapshot.

Blue skies are not shielding the hot sun’s rays. I ride to the waters in Red Hook seeking cool air. I often go there to admire the Statue of Liberty, the barges, tugboats, water taxis and rusted remnants of its industrial past. Now there are well tended paths and lawns that abut the water’s edge. Modern lounge chairs of wood and metal are placed for those who wish to linger.

I note a box kite not flying very high but the movements are fluid and graceful. It is white and gray, perhaps homemade, a long, wide silk swath of pinkish hue is its tail. The sea breeze keeps it easily afloat. Guiding its flight is a woman lying with her back to the grass. Her straw hat provides shade as she orchestrates the dance. Her movements are subtle, she reins in and reins out the guiding string with the gentle movement of her hands.

It is an impromptu spectacle of anonymous expertise.

Sometimes a moment lingers and the memory it produces is like a snapshot.

Walking home from school as a child, I would pass through a small park with a very steep, short hill. When there was snow on it, people from the surrounding blocks would come to slide down, walk up, and slide down again. Most of us would have smiles, but there were inevitable tears, usually a result of collisions, accidental or otherwise. Minutes or hours were spent there. I do not recall. What stands out in my mind is that most of us did not use sleds; our coats or jackets served us well.

Sometimes a moment lingers and the memory it produces is like a snapshot.

The B and Q train travel between Manhattan and Brooklyn on the Manhattan Bridge. This bridge may not be as pretty nor as popular as the heralded Brooklyn Bridge but the view it offers is just fine.

The Statue of Liberty and skyline are seemingly within reach. The boats below and the sky above vary each hour and day.

A number of years ago I made a promise to myself.  While the train made the crossing, I would stop whatever I was doing to peer out its window.

I’ve kept my promise.  I never tire of the view.

Sometimes a moment lingers and the memory it produces is like a snapshot.

The customary labyrinth of tunnels thrum with a persistent pulse. Throngs wait, many to be transported to their destinations on a wet, not yet winter, cold night.

One after another after another, those with and without permanent dwellings, share the sectioned wooden benches to rest or sleep; some seemingly lean along a wall that does not exist. All find strategic locations for their possessions placed or stored in canvas, leather, plastic, garbage bags, shopping bags often beyond the intended capacity.

Certain postures epitomize homelessness, perhaps insanity and destitution. One need not notice.

There is a corpulent woman, seated, wearing skirts, blouses and sweaters each layer peeking out a hem or collar. She fusses with an oversized cloth saturated with red and pink hues, attempting to gather her coif. Despite the exhaling chill of the cement floor she barely interacts with the sandals lying just beyond the soles of her feet. Her toes are naked except for the display of a sun-soaked orange varnish. Each big toe has a long nail curling like a Chinese emperor’s. Her individuality shouts in defiance of being ignored.

Thank you for taking the time to read my post! Welcome to the tales of a woman solo traveler and thoughts to make today the start of something new. I hope you find information and inspiration in the text and images and join me in my quest for growth, wonderment and self-improvement

Sometimes a moment lingers and the memory it produces is like a snapshot.

On an unassuming street a block from the East River in Williamsburg, Brooklyn stands a cavernous space. The inhabitants never had, or have conquered, a fear of flying. But do not expect talk of airplanes.

The dancers who come here to rehearse swing on trapezes high overhead, jump while atop enormous hamster wheels, and dive off scaffolding three tiers high yelling. “FLY!” The thick padding beneath them does nothing to ease the trepidation of this spectator. Extraordinary strength, prowess, camaraderie, fearlessness and bliss is on display.

What I am witness to, literally takes my breath away.

The Streb Lab For Action Mechanics (SLAM) was founded by Elizabeth Streb and is open to the public.

Thank you for taking the time to read my post! Welcome to the tales of a woman solo traveler and thoughts to make today the start of something new. I hope you find information and inspiration in the text and images and join me in my quest for growth, wonderment and self-improvement.

Sometimes a moment lingers and the memory it produces is like a snapshot.

The B train runs from Brighton Beach to Bedford Park in the Bronx. An apt name for sure.

It is an afternoon of the holiday season and many families are en route to see the celebrated tree at Rockefeller Center. Two women, with six kids in tow, enter the subway car. The oldest is around seven years of age and all are rambunctious. Their exuberant screaming, shouting, laughing, and running about continues despite the mothers’ attempt to quiet them. It is a distracting, cacophonous yet amusing alternative to whac-a-mole.

A little distance away there is a well dressed older woman and her granddaughter of roughly seven too. They are engaged in quiet conversation and by the glances over and shakes of the head, it is clear that the grandmother is displeased with the decorum, or lack thereof, on display. She appears confident that her sentiments are shared by the young girl, who is sitting upright, speaking softly and in every way an emblem of pride for her grandmother. But by the look in the young girl’s eyes one only sees envy and awe at the boundless and unrestrained fun before her.

Sometimes a moment lingers and the memory it produces is like a snapshot.

One evening I am seated at the counter of a diner. Despite the many vacant stools a young girl, after finishing her meal at a nearby table, sits beside me. She is completely uninterested in my presence but equally enthralled with an unexpected spectacle. With the practiced flicks and swishes of his hands the cook adeptly tames and encourages the unnaturally high flames dancing before us. Her brothers alight on the other side of me. While we perch, we are entranced with these pyrotechnics and await the next leap.

Thank you for taking the time to read my post! Welcome to the tales of a woman solo traveler and thoughts to make today the start of something new. I hope you find information and inspiration in the text and images and join me in my quest for growth, wonderment and self-improvement.