Category Archives: Uncategorized

“You’re looking good this evening, Mama.”

“It’s morning,” I replied to the man by the food cart in front of Elmhurst Hospital. It was 4:30 a.m. as I walked towards the bus terminal a half mile away this morning. I’m waiting now in Terminal B for a flight to Chicago and on to Wichita. They’ve demolished grungy LGA. A world class airport replaces it. I love it.

Laurence and I watched the planes landing last evening from our view at Plane View Park. We marvel to see how the silent runways of the Pandemic have come alive with planes that fly the friendly skies.

Like we usually do, we walked the two miles to the park, and then took the bus home. After getting off on the corner of Roosevelt and 82nd Street, I told Laurence, “One thing consoles me: A week from now we’ll be back here,” so while I’m excited to be with family, there is no place like home in Elmhurst. (Laurence flies Saturday. We’re celebrating my parents’ 65th anniversary. Laurence and I will have our 41st anniversary celebration Tuesday.) That corner on Roosevelt hops with music, taco vendors, a food stand where a salesperson hawks his avocados, with people, and always, the Mexican women with grocery carts that hold kettles of tamales. The overhead 7 train adds to the cacophony.

I heard on Saturday that we’re moving from the city. Let the rumors rest. We have nowhere to go. Not now.

“Group 9, you’re welcome to board.” God bless. You’re looking good. Berniece

How could I reach out to the young man across from me, the one with studs piercing his nose, lips, cheekbones, and eyebrows? A tattooed skull peeks at me from the ripped jean hole of his knee. The passenger to the left of me reads in the Spanish language on her phone while the one to the right watches a Korean movie. We have this closeness, but we don’t talk or make eye contact. I don’t reach out to say, “Young man, Jesus loves you.”

“Stand clear the closing doors.” Ding dong.

“Due to a track fire, this train will be going over the F line.” The passenger beside me gives a sound of disgust. A few seconds later, there’s another change, and we hear, “Attention passengers, this train will be going over the E line. However, there is a circuit problem, and we may go at slower speeds.” The train proceeds through the East River on the E line. This is ordinary train travel.

Since selling our car in 2004, we traverse the city by train and bus. It’s a relaxing way to travel, though it requires patience. I will stand on a subway platform early tomorrow morning with others from this city’s vast workforce to wait for an F train to carry me to Roosevelt Island. (Note: Israel’s market is moving to the Good Shepherd Church plaza.) A crazy person or two from Friday night’s revelings may be making a fool of themselves on the platform. No worries. Often now we hear the train announcement, “There are officers on the platform if you need them.”

The MTA rolled out the futuristic R211 subway cars on the A line in March. We spied them going downtown when we were going uptown, but we didn’t dare cross the third rail for a ride. We hoped for one of the new trains last night when we left the mission after tract packing, but the D arrived first at 145th, so we ran down the stairs (yes, I can run; yes, I am careful) and took it to 7th Avenue.

Our stop is Elmhurst Avenue on the R or M line. It means four flights of stairs to get out of the station. We walk one block to Layton Street and home.

The day of the token is long gone. Soon the metro card will be phased out. Today it’s “Tap and ride.”

The lives of New Yorkers play out on the train. I lift my eyes from my phone to see a passenger praying, and then I pray for the young man across from me. God sees us all, here on this E train.

Berniece

Do you have a subway train story?

A former unit boy mentioned in a comment on this blog, the Woodside mile between here and the apartment rented by USA Missions from 1988-2001. This morning, I walked that Memory Mile. I remembered how Lonnie would walk there to visit with the Mexicans while they stood waiting for a van to pull up and offer them work. I smiled to remember Ron asking if we have our body armor on, and the mom who asked if it was so that we wore such protection. (We do not!) I passed a school and churches, including the Seventh Day Adventist Church where the young men would come to volunteer at a food pantry. So many memories.

Today, I turned into the u-shaped road beside the Brooklyn Queens Expressway. The forsythia blooms again just as it did in March 2020 when I walked there alone; my husband being too ill to care about going out. The Long Island train glided past, and I happily recalled riding it last evening to meet the NJ tract workers on Long Island for supper.

Today, I walked on past Moore Park. Recently, a city project hung a banner there listing the obituaries of just a few of the 45,000 New Yorkers who lost their lives because of COVID. In the park, men played basketball, board games, and ping pong, Asian women synchronized in fluid exercising. Children played. On a Wednesday evening, the Tibetans circle in native dress to the music of their homeland. This community though having been impacted by death celebrates life.

One day this week, I rode the 7 train along Roosevelt to our stop at 82nd Street. Laurence worked late at the clinic that day, and it being evening, I was hungry. Therefore, I did not resist the tempting taco truck on the corner. I ordered a beefsteak taco: two corn tortillas, meat, cilantro, onion, slivers of lime, and a small container of picante sauce. Muy sabroso! I felt like the luckiest person in the world, standing there with the train rattling overhead, Spanish music playing loudly, people swarming around me on the sidewalk, and that delicious taco (in front of an Asian bubble tea joint!).

I want to use this blog to say thank you for the many prayers for us when Laurence had COVID. I believe it is because of these prayers that today we celebrate life. These prayers give me the faith that one day his healing will be complete.

I give to you the words of the school crossing guard this morning: “Be safe. God bless you today.” Berniece

Tonight we walked a couple miles through Flushing Meadows, site of the 1939 and 1964 World Fair. I remembered the sheep peacefully grazing when we walked past the zoo there in the beginning of the Pandemic, in that time when we weren’t supposed to ride the train or bus so we walked to the park. Tonight, we saw longhorn cattle and we heard the parakeets.

We came to the grove of cherry trees, the early blooming kind. It made a beautiful setting for taking pictures, and I snapped one in my mind to be held there for the cloudy, cool days we’re sure to have this spring.

We sat awhile beside the Unisphere. It’s the picture on this blog post. All the world gathers there, and while it was nothing like a summer Saturday, children played, the ice cream truck sang, a South American food truck offered chicken, tostones, and fries, dogs frisked, and an exercise group jived. The cherry trees by the Unisphere were just beginning to bloom.

We walked on past serious soccer games and past the Whispering Column of Jerash that stands quietly in the trees. Built by the Romans in 120 A.D., I like to imagine the disciples grandchildren leaning on it. (I know that’s far fetched, but this column is old, and hidden, and the Colombian soccer players don’t care a thing about it being there.)

The Night Market opens next month in Flushing Meadows, a foodie lover’s delight. We’ll return to eat reasonably priced ethnic street food with the multitudes who understand the diversity of a world that gathers under the Unisphere.

We did not sit by the lake tonight or stroll through the Meditation Garden like I do when I walk there alone. But as the setting sun glinted off the globe and shone on pink blossoms, we rejoiced in being outdoors.

The walk ended not where it began at 111th Street Station, but rather by the 7-train yards at Shea Stadium where the Mets play.

We did not take the tourists of last week to this park, but we may have been there with you. You’re welcome to join us there. Berniece

The apartment is quiet now. The sheets and towels churn in the basement laundromat. I pulled the privacy curtain from the arched hall entrance, deflated an air bed, and the sofa bed is folded away. Suitcases sit waiting to roll out the door and onto a train. The freezer holds enough leftovers to feed Laurence and me for a while. No one is waiting for our one bathroom! The noise of the past week is silenced. I hear a mourning dove.

Tyson and Kari Boehs with 10-year-old Jacob came a week ago for a coffee fest. They also came because a part of their hearts stayed in the city when they left here after being houseparents. They drove away and my niece Erin came with her coteachers from Faunsdale – nice girls!

Jacob and I rode the Seaglass Carousel. Jacob climbed in the biggest fish but when they told him the big fish doesn’t go very high, he chose a small fish. (Choose small fish!). The two of us sat on a park bench and ate mango and talked. We joined his parents at the top of One World just as a full moon rose over NYC, an awesome sight!

Our Liberian Brother Benn brought the girls to the city. 9/11 truly is behind us but there are still so many reminders when I get to lower Manhattan. I pointed out where I’d worked, the Burger King that became police headquarters, where I’d go for coffee, and finally, the Winter Garden to the girls as we toured down there. We walked many steps with going to Frances Tavern, Federal Hall, Trinity Church, Manhattan Library, Grand Central, Bryant Park, and then a train back here from Times Square.

The girls also went to Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty yesterday. Today, they are at the 9/11 Memorial Museum. We have not been there nor will we go.

Did I write that 9/11 is behind us? Some things change our lives forever. The Pandemic did. This week two young men from the Mifflinburg congregation passed on to a much more beautiful place than this earthly realm. The family and friends left behind will never look at life the same. All week while touring and entertaining guests, I remembered these deaths. (And I prayed for you who have so often prayed for me. You know who you are.)

Three years ago in March, Laurence stood in the foyer one day after work, and told me he has COVID. Today, he says, “I am getting better.”

Let’s pray for each other. Thanks for reading.

Berniece

Summer, winter, fall, and spring evenings are meant for walking. These places of our city wanderings do not stand out on the tourist map. Often, we take a bus to walk the wooded trails of Forest Park, or around the perimeter of Juniper Valley, or through the gardens and by the bay of the Jamaica Wildlife Refuge. We leave the chaotic city behind to stand on a deck at sunset and watch an osprey pair feed its young. In the distance, a ferry docks at Rockaway. Peace washes over us, and we feel humbled and blessed to live here.

Last evening, we walked past the old buildings and alongside the Civil War fortress at Fort Totten. Sometimes we’ve stopped at the top of a hill there to watch the sun set behind the Whitestone Bridge. I know of no prettier sight then when the sky above the bay is awash in oranges, the bridge lights come on, a lighthouse blinks, and the “lower lights are burning.”

Without a doubt, the walk we’ve taken more than any other is to a strip of lawn with cherry trees across from the runways of LaGuardia Airport. During certain weather patterns, it feels like you could reach up and touch the planes coming in for a landing. We take a bus back to Roosevelt and 82nd Street instead of walking the two miles back.

It isn’t Brooklyn Bridge or Central Park where we might take you for a walk, but rather, South Hunter’s Point, a beautiful park along the East River in Queens. We like to climb to the top of the hill to sit on a bench that overlooks the river, bridges, and the Manhattan skyline. (We don’t enjoy hanging out in Manhattan, but we are awed by the memorable view of its skyline.) My nephew Jonathan fell in love with the view from that park. I remember Greg and Trish’s girls tumbling on the grass there with Bee, and eating street food while perched there with Lee and Michelle and their lively kids. It’s the one place we took the women of the writing group and their spouses when they passed through on their way to a writing retreat. But mostly, Laurence and I go there alone.

So many walks stream through my mind. They can wait. Keep walking. Berniece

p.s. I’m not posting this on my status. You can pass it on. The comments keep me writing. Thank you for being interested.

Sunshine and shadows form shapes on brown roof tiles and the red of the fire escape outside our bedroom window. Plants flourish on the windowsill and the Valentine’s Day azalea blooms beautifully on the nightstand. Laurence and I often hang out in this room with its small armchair, rocker, and desk.

This is the room where my sisters – Sundaymar, Leanna, Anne, Samantha, Jamie, etc. – came and sat with me (like Job’s friends only they weren’t quiet and they didn’t lecture me) when I broke my leg. Precious memories!

Little Berniece and I have spent many happy hours together in this room. I am reminded of this by the mementos that adorn a dresser. Bee moved to Pennsylvania. I miss her pulling out the colored pencils, taking a sheet of paper from the printer, and skillfully drawing a picture while sprawled on the floor of this room. Surely, she’ll be back.

Today, I plan to clean this room and the rest of the 755 square feet of this apartment. Usually, I’d pack a lunch and get ready for work at market tomorrow, but Israel asked if I’d want to take off since it’s supposed to be cold, and it likely won’t be busy.

I’m looking forward to a Saturday with Laurence. We talk of taking the train somewhere and hiking. Laurence asked at breakfast if it will be too cold to go to the ocean. Above the bookshelf in our room is a wooden sign that reads, “THE VOICE OF THE SEA SPEAKS TO THE SOUL.” Also, on this shelf sits a lunchbox from Grant, Nebraska, schooldays, a mallet from Penner heirs in Littlefield, Texas, and a dairy bottle from Triangle Dairy in Grandview, Idaho, where Laurence worked when we were first married.

A dove landed briefly just now on the fire escape. I’ve never forgotten the pair that perched there on a 9/11, reminding me of the peace of God in turbulent times. May God bless you with peace today. Berniece

The smell of home-baked bread and of Red Velvet Crinkle Cookies fills our apartment. The bread is for Sunday dinner at the mission, and the cookies for lunch at sewing on Monday at the Poughkeepsie Mission.

Laurence will be home from his job at Elmhurst Hospital for lunch at 1 p.m. We’ll eat at the small table in the kitchen. There have been times when we ate at the table by those windows that I told you about in the last blog. There’s more light and more of a view (the houses across the street) from the living area, but it’s more convenient to eat in the kitchen where we can stay seated and still reach the cabinet, the microwave, and the utensil drawer – “Honey, will you get me a fork?”

Former unit boys called it a submarine kitchen because the room is so tiny. I remember how Martha (Renno) Bousiquot’s dad – a big man – stood in the kitchen door and laughed at its smallness when they came to visit before Maxeau and Martha married. I’m sure it didn’t make Martha anymore desirous of living in the city to see how she’d be cooking in a kitchen with one little countertop.

Laurence gets the coffeemaker ready, so it automatically starts in the morning. It sits on a stand that has a shelf for mugs and another with a basket where I have recipes. I found the stand waiting to be picked up by the garbage truck, and a former unit boy carried it home for me. It is made with wooden pegs instead of nails, so I know it is very old. I wish I knew its story.

Most evenings, Laurence makes tea in the kitchen to serve to us from a small English teapot. It may have been a gift from Aunt Irene when I taught school at Grant over 40 years ago.

That reminds me of how a lady asked if she could squish beside me on the bus ride home from Trader Joe’s. I said she could though I felt a little grumpy about it. I told her, “We used to sit like this all the time before the pandemic.”

She replied, “I’m afraid. We don’t go to the movies anymore. Now we enjoy the little things. In the evening, I have hot tea and a snack with my family.”

Enjoy the little things! Berniece

I’m new to blogging and feel pretty dense about it. I do not plan to continue to post on my status, so sign up if you’re interested. The comments thrill me.

Every morning, as Laurence leaves for work, I wave from our living room window. We’ve lived in this six-story building for over 25 years, so the neighbors have observed this little habit of ours as they wait with schoolchildren on the sidewalk or maybe for a ride to the airport, or when they’re going out to walk the dog, or have a smoke. . .

Once when Coca visited, she stood by that window and said with a wistful voice, “Here’s where you stand to wave your husband. “

Coca lived by herself in apartment 1E. Jose, another neighbor, told me that her ashes are in her apartment. He’ll spread them in Central Park as she requested. She lived alone. She died alone. So sad.

I cleaned the apartment today – such an ordinary thing. I like to sing while I vacuum. The neighbors can hear me, just like we hear them, but during the day many of them are at work.

We’re thankful we live in a quiet building. (Nevermind that the Chinese lady above us likes to move furniture at night.) The apartment across from us is for sale. I look from my kitchen window into that one and see prospective buyers checking it out. I would like to tell them that it’s a good building, and they won’t be sorry if they buy it.

Laurence is home from his job at Elmhurst Hospital. Soon we will eat supper in our tiny kitchen with a table for two. I have bread rising to bake and take to Benn and Sundaymar’s when we go after I work at market tomorrow.

Until next time. Berniece