Running through the early morning mists wafting above the rolling hills of Wayne County is a beautiful way to start the day. Burnished golds of the fall about me a perfect distraction from my huffing and puffing up the inclines of Gananda Park. I have succumbed to peer pressure and, after Nicole (spotlight operator) and her convincing rhetoric, I too have joined the ranks of the Young Frankenstein troupe who will be running Cincinnati’s 10K Thanksgiving run.
I maintain my training whilst on our quick jaunt into New York City last week. Boy, Ma, Leopard Skin Coat and I strutted into Penn station of a Tuesday morning leaving Dad behind upon the beautiful Proctor’s Theatre boards in Schenectady. On day two I set myself the challenge of crossing the Brooklyn Bridge, joining the army of lithe disciplined New Yorkers overtaking me, speedy cyclists in the opposite lane racing to and from Manhattan. I dodge the tourists committing the bridge and it’s views to digital memory. The autumnal sunshine dancing on the waters of the Hudson, Ms Liberty in my peripheral and beyond, Ellis Island, whence my great greats moored ashore all those years ago. Here I am, sweating to Brooklyn and back for a slice of their dream.
Back at TriBeca HQ I find grandma on ground control patrol trying her best to make sure our son’s incessant mid air flips are executed with safety. Boy delighting in watching his upside down world swirl about him. I continue my blossoming love affair with the city; playgrounds, shops, more shops, more playgrounds - things to keep a three-something and sixty-three something happy. My Leopard Skin Coat and I fitting in perfectly with the uber trendy mamas and papas of downtown. My father arrived mid week, and, after a few minutes on the maze that is Google we tracked down an old friend from 40 or so years ago. Within ten minutes we had found his contact details, sent emails and left messages. A beat later and our day in New Jersey with him is planned.
Next morning I watch, moved by the warm reconciliation of two dear friends who have lost touch over the years. There are hugs, stories, the feeling, as with true bonds, of having been apart for a heartbeat not years. Turns out the man in question has done incredibly well, even been nominated for Man of the Year in England against the mogul Richard Branson. He explains that I am to contact him should I need help of any kind. Not the first time on our travels that kindly folk like this have openly reached out with helping hands. He questions me about our plans, citing the importance of stability for growth. I listen carefully - the man is paid highly by huge corporations for consulting work. When he describes his own life long yearning for a home, being a child of traveling parents, I turn to our boy, mouth covered with ravioli, holding court at the other end of our lunch table and consider.
Next day, surrounded by visiting former cast friends, back in daddy’s Schenectadian dressing room, boy twinkling with delight, reunited with both his dad and once-babysitters, I reflect upon how our journey is nurturing this bright young soul. We will give stability a whirl for the next few weeks - though I would argue the true meaning of the word does not necessarily mean living in one place. Sam is in pre school. Mama will be warbling with the choir.
Time methinks for a run at real life. Not just those photogenic hills.