A Walk (or Two) in the Park

Central Park is beautiful in the snow. Saturday, as I strolled through the always-there-but- always surprising oasis in the middle of Manhattan, first with my younger daughter and then with my son, I couldn't remember ever seeing the park in the middle of winter. At least not a winter that has seen about sixty inches of snow in one month.

The news reports are full of stories about how people in the Northeast are struggling with the elements this January, and they certainly are. But Manhattan enjoys the dubious benefit of plenty of traffic and exhaust fumes, so the streets are remarkably passable. Central Park, though, is like an unreal bit of winter reality in the midst of the metropolis, its paths unplowed, slushy and slippery, its sloping walkways treacherous unless you happen to be on skis.

And wherever all the complaining New Yorkers are that we keep seeing on the national news, they were not in Central Park on this rare sunny day in January 2011. That's not to say there weren't plenty of New Yorkers there; the place was packed -- with walkers and runners and young parents pulling their kids along on sleds. The skating rink was filled to capacity, the hot chocolate vendors fighting to keep up with demand. And beneath all the woolly hats and tightly wound scarves, everybody seemed to be smiling.

My two walks in the park this past Saturday, first with one child and then with another, were as idyllic as any walk in a vast, quiet country field on a summer day. We chatted non-stop, occasionally catching each other as we slipped, occasionally pausing to navigate our way around other urban adventurers on the narrow paths, but barely noticing the cold. We talked about our year, a turbulent one for each of us, but in such different ways. I've come home knowing not only how important my kids are to me, but, surprisingly, how important I am to them. Sometimes it's hard to tell.

The weekend was one of generations coming together, the Thanksgiving clan convening to celebrate our oldest member's eightieth birthday. There was no shortage of shtick. Some cousins went to the wrong place after a long drive from Boston (kind of my fault), my fur-clad mother narrowly avoided being pelted by animal activists (she can't hear; I think she thought they were just saying "hello"), and my poor son had to shop for something to wear that night with his mother, two sisters, and his grandmother in tow.

Then, of course, there were thirteen boisterous Jews at a large table in one of New York's fanciest restaurants, taking pictures and clinking glasses and kibbitzing with a wait staff that seemed quite content to participate in our revelry. Not our fault that the guy with the stick up his butt at the next table kept getting bumped as we played musical chairs. He should lose a few pounds.

My mother's eightieth birthday celebration with "The Fam" (as I have dubbed the group on Facebook) was a smashing success, from the moment we stepped off the plane (or, for the others, the subway, or the bus, or the car, or the taxi). It was, truly, a walk in the park.