We stopped in Rubino’s this afternoon looking for something special for Christmas Eve dinner. We usually have a group over, my brother and his family up from New Jersey and our friend, Duane, from Brooklyn and whatever family members we can round up. Rubino’s was mobbed so we just took in the scene and left, but not before pausing before a “Pray for Me. My Wife is Italian” t-shirt.
For the last few days we had lunch at McCann’s Local Meats on South Clinton. It is close to Saint John’s. They have a lot more than meat but meat certainly takes center stage. It could be the best deli in town. We were there in the off hours and the owner was sitting at the counter, a big guy in a blood splattered apron. I told him my grandfather was a butcher and owned a store further down the street, where the Indian grocery store is today. I said I couldn’t get over how much the the tools of the trade have stayed exactly the same, the conical roll of string, the big roll of paper to wrap the meat cuts in, the hooks for the sides of beef, the band saw, the hanging sausages, the white enamel display case that my grandfather stood behind when he handed me a thick slice of liverwurst.
A hospice aide came up to sit with my father for an hour so we took a walk in Highland Park. As beautiful as the clear blue high sixty degree day was I worry about all the flowering fruit trees. Will they blossom again when Spring really comes? We walked through the Poet’s Garden and found a bench from 1916 with “To live in the hearts that know love is not to die.” It’s from the Scottish poet, Thomas Campbell, and it really hit the sweet spot.
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I am worrying about the blooming tree too, one by my mother’s garage. Pink flowers, buds all over the place. Winter is coming, I’m told. But what this will really mean is continuing weird weather all over the place, perhaps El Nino to blame.
When Ben was 3 and it was snowy outside, he looked out the window and said “Shhhh, the flowers are sleeping.” They need to go back to sleep.
Hello or Mark, Amy, Duane, and of course, your dad!
You are peaking, or perhaps you have come to live in your peaking…that photograph, also, has an eerie brilliance