In October of 2000, my parents came up to Whitman for the very last parents’ weekend of my college career. On Saturday, instead of exploring the borough of Walla Walla (we’d exhausted that possibility during the previous three years) we drove out of town, pointing the car towards Dayton, WA. Dayton is a small town these days, but has a long and storied history (even for a west coast town). It was one of Lewis and Clark’s stops on their way back east in 1806. It’s real claim to fame was the Weinhard Brewery that the nephew of the Portland Weinhards’ founded there in the 1880’s. The money from that brewery caused a building boom for the last twenty years of the 19th century that left the town with a beautiful main street and a more grandiose spread of architecture that you would anticipate from a town smacked down in the middle of rural eastern Washington.

It’s an agriculturally flanked 35 minute drive from Walla Walla and that day was clear, skies were blue and the air temperature hovered right around 59 degrees. I don’t remember which car we took, or who did the driving, which is strange, because that’s the sort of thing that typically makes an impression in my memory. What I do remember is taking slow, arching corners lazily, without any sort of urgency, and watching as lone farm houses approached and retreated.

We drove into the main street and parked at a meter whose entire two hour window could be bought with a single quarter. Being that my parents and I are the people we are, the first place we stopped was the local Salvation Army (we just can’t help it). My dad went to look for old waffle irons (there weren’t any) while my mom checked out the 15 cent stuffed animals to see if any were worth taking home for the dog to destroy. I wandered to the back and was taken by an old blue bike. It was adult sized, but with all the features you’d expect to find on a kid’s bike, including molded plastic hand grips. It had only one speed and I wanted it to be mine. It was lacking a price, so I went to find a store employee. The guy I found was in his late 60’s and had a sense of humor. When I told him I was interested in the bike, he made a face and asked, “what do you want that thing for?” I didn’t have a good reason to off back other than the fact that I hadn’t had a bike since I was 11 and I thought it was time. He could see that my heart was set on it and asked how much I wanted to pay. Still a novice bargainer (this was before my summer in Indonesia) I offered $15. He countered with $8.50 and I said sold. My parents got a kick out the reverse bargaining and offered to pay.

We rolled out to the street, popped the bike into the car and went looking for lunch. It was mid afternoon and we had missed lunch at the Weinhard cafe, and so we reluctantly headed into the dark paneled bar just up and across from the thriftstore. An establishment for locals, we got a few looks pointed at us from the patrons to remind us we were strangers, but the staff were welcoming and helpful. Despite it’s sketchy beginnings, it turned out to be one of the best meals I’ve ever had. To this day I remember everything we ordered. My mom got a baked potato with sauteed veggies and melted cheese, my dad got a thick, mountainous burger and I got a bowl of beef stew that was deeply rich, with chunks of tomatoes and a hint of red wine.

That baked potato combo has become a staple in my family, although these days my mom replaced the melted cheddar with nonfat cottage cheese (she’s always fighting the cholesterol battle). I ate it for dinner last night as well a lunch today. It’s an deep tangle of carmelized onions, red peppers, mushrooms and broccoli, tumbled over a steaming potato and it will forever remind me of fall, in Dayton, in a dive bar, having lunch with my parents.

Tonight I spent some time with two ancient sewing baskets. I took advantage of my quiet Sunday evening to finally (it only took me six months) fix the hem on what had been a favorite pair of black pants, repair a tiny hole in a thriftstore sweater and make shorter a pair of brown pants whose cuffs ended four inches beyond my feet. I sat on the couch with a pile of clothing in my lap and the two sewing baskets between my feet. I don’t know where they came from, they have been in my apartment since I can remember. I can see in my mind my mother pulling them off the top shelf of the closet in the den when we would come to visit in the summers, to fix shorts, ripped while playing dodgeball at daycamp.

My grandmother did not sew, but my grandfather often replaced buttons and mended holes in his own clothes. I assume that these baskets came with him when he moved into the apartment in the early 70’s, along with his electric shoe polisher and old wooden tool box. I imagine that they belonged to his first wife, a woman who died 25 years before I was born, and I feel a certain kinship with her, as I rummage around the bottom of the basket, looking for just the right color grey thread. I appreciate the hooks and eyes that she bought in the late forties on sale for 35 cents and the carefully arranged needles, pushed through black felt.

After I finish the last pair of pants, I gently replace the needles and spools of thread, and put the baskets away, for another day.

I’m tired and my feet hurt from dancin’, but it’s been a good day.

(In reverse order)

I danced my tush off on the 33rd floor of the Lowes Hotel.

I attended the wedding of friends who are deeply in love.

I hung with the Philly bloggers for an hour at the November meetup at Fergie’s.

I decorated the bedroom of the newlywed couple, for their wedding night.

I went to the Italian Market with friends to get the decoration materials.

I rode my bike.

Yep, good day. Getting into bed will make it complete! Good night.

Yes, it’s that time again, when I hit shuffle on the Pod and tell you all what the first ten songs to tumble to the top of the list are. I’m a little groggy at the moment due to a head of novacaine and a recently filled cavity, so please excuse the rambling. And, without any further stalling or avoidance, my list…

1. Inaudible Melodies, Jack Johnson (Brushfire Fairytales)
2. Forever, Sam Cooke with the Soul Stirrers (Sam Cooke with Soul Stirrers)
3. New Deep, John Mayer (Heavier Things)
4. X-Ray Eyes, Guster (Goldfly)
5. Something Like a Hero, Charlotte Martin (Test-Drive Songs)
6. Easy Way Out, Elliott Smith (Figure 8)
7. Neighborhood #4 (7 Kettles), Arcade Fire (Funeral)
8. The Other Side of Town, John Prine (Fair & Square)
9. Hazey Jane II, Nick Drake (Way to Blue)
10. Cecilia, Simon & Garfunkel (Simon & Garfunkel Greatest Hits)

Best music memory prompted by a song on this list: When I was 19, just after I had finished my freshman year of college, John Prine played a show at Oaks Park, the local low-tech amusement park in Portland. I bought two tickets and took my dad for father’s day. It was gorgeous day, one where it had rained most of the day, but stopped in the late afternoon, giving the grass almost enough time to dry out and leaving the air smelling clean. Oaks Park is in far SE Portland, and sits right on the river, so not only do you get to watch the show, but you get to watch the river and the life it supports as well. My dad and I got to the concert, and had just finished eating the sandwiches my mom had made for us, when up pops a friend of my dad’s. A friend who happens to own the local chain of independent music stores (Music Millenium for you Portlanders). They were sponsoring the concert in honor of the 35th anniversary of the store and had a VIP tent, into which he invited us to spend the rest of the concert. I didn’t get to meet John Prine (that may have been more thrill than I could have taken) but it was just a special night, doing something with my dad that we both enjoyed, outside, under a tent, among friends.

Six Degrees of Separation: I’ve got a couple (very) distant connections with two groups on this list. A cousin of some friends is in Arcade Fire and I met him one night when I dropped in to meet Shay to go to an aerobics class. It was right before they became biggish, and so I hadn’t really heard of them, except to know they were playing the Unitarian Church. A little brush with hipster greatness. The other connection isn’t nearly as interesting. My ex-boyfriend went to college with the members of Guster. He isn’t a fan.

Enough of my stories. If you are looking for more Random Fridays, check out Luna, Howard, Ben and Andrea.

Until she met my father, my mother had never touched blonde hair. She said that for the first months they were together, my dad’s fair skin and straight hair were completely alien to her. It was a continuing marvel to her that hair could grow like that, silky and ruler-straight. She grew up in a family of people who all had olive toned skin, dark, coarse, curly hair and deep, rich brown eyes (there was one uncle who had blue eyes, thanks to a recessive gene planted by a pillaging Cossack generations before, but he was an anomaly). Before my father, the men she dated and almost married had been Jewish like her, their colors, hues and textures familiar, comfortable.

She told me this last night, as we chatted, me on my bed in Philadelphia, she on her couch in Portland, the 3000 miles between us inconsequential. This revelation was prompted by my admission that when it comes to dating, I have two types of guys to whom I’m attracted, and they are represented by the visible ethnicities of my parents. I am typically drawn to guys who are Jewish or look like they could be, with the dark, curly hair and ready-to-tan skin of my mom or guys who have the blonde hair/blue eyed combo that my dad embodies.

Once I got over being stunned that she had never gotten up close to hair like mine until she was 22, I realized that in some ways, I am just like her. I am drawn to that which is familiar in the initial unknown, and so I look for guys who have physical indicators that superficially tells me that we might have something in common. I guess I’m just lucky to have a more diverse parentage than she did, my comfort area is broader. But that doesn’t mean that I won’t still end up with someone who initially is unlike me. I am grateful that I live in more diverse times and that I have the opportunity to find someone whose content works best with my own regardless of the outside packaging.

My expected crowd for my Walmart movie showing did not materialize, but instead of feeling sad, I’m grateful. I got to spend the time before the movie getting to know Marius and Marta. They are a couple who live in my building who moved to Philadelphia 6 years ago from Argentina. They arrived promptly at 8 pm, saying that they’ve learned since moving here that in the United States, you must be on time. As we waited fruitlessly for the rest of the expected crew, we spent time learning about each others lives. They used to live in a large apartment in the center of Buenos Aires, with a terrace covered with trees and plants. They didn’t describe it to me, but I imagine it with tile and wood floors, many books and furniture made from teak. They moved to Philly because both of their children live in the area. They spend their days entertaining their granddaughters and tutoring their students how to improve their Spanish.

Marta noticed my christmas cactus, its healthy sprawling leaves and asked my secret, as hers is puny and frail. I admitted I had no tricks, other than moving it away from the window in the winter and letting the soil dry out before adding more water. She said she’d give that a try.

They told me how frustrated they become when they can’t express themselves in English the way they can in Spanish. How they don’t like to speak up in building meetings, because they don’t if they’ll be able to find the right words. Marius told me about a day when he was standing at 19th and Walnut waiting to cross the street. A car came careening around the corner, just as he was crossing. He let out a stream of enraged words and realized seconds later that they had come out in Spanish, expressing nothing to the driver of the BMW who had almost flattened him. I tried to assure him that tone and volume can convey just as much meaning as the words themselves, and he did agree.

As they described their lives in Buenos Aires, with movie theaters that are always full, restaurants that are always open and a night life that makes New York look like sleepy village, I could see them there. I could see them young and elegant, strolling through open air markets or gracefully dancing to the music of horns and guitars.

As they were leaving, Marta made certain that I wrote down their apartment and phone number, so that I could call or stop by. In case I need a cup of flour or sugar, she said. It was a deeply pleasing to spend time talking to them, and despite our differences in age, language and culture, I now count them as friends.

There was a woman sitting on a bench in the trolley stop this morning, with a Little Mermaid sleeping bag spread neatly out underneath her. She was in stocking feet, and as I walked by she stretched and yawned, like she had just had a restful night on the bench. Oblivious to all the people around her, she delicately pulled on her shoes and started to clean up her area. She threw away her garbage, pulled on her back pack and rolled up Ariel and Sebastian. I watched her as I waited for the trolley for a full 20 minutes, with an ever growing crowd of increasingly irritated people, before I realized that the blue light was flashing, indicating that the trolleys weren’t running. I left the station, but didn’t try to draw anyone else’s attention to the blue light and it’s meaning. It’s Philadelphia, people don’t take to kindly to strangers trying to tell them something, even if it could be helpful.

Yesterday I went to use the bathroom at about 2 o’clock and caught a look at myself in the mirror. Somehow the clothes that had looked so cute in my bedroom 7 hours before were not working anymore. My hair had parted itself down the middle and I had a smear of blue ink on my cheek. There was no hope for salvage, I needed to go home and start over.

I got an email yesterday from a guy named Mike who works at the 5 Spot in Old City. It seems his copy of Walmart: The High Cost of Low Price hadn’t arrived in time for their scheduled screening. He wanted to know if he could borrow mine. So, at 6:30 pm last night I was standing in front of my building, DVD in hand, waiting to pass it off to Mike, as he swung by in a cab. It was one of those moments that grassroots movements tend to inspire, a little extra trust and confidence in your fellow human.

Why is it that ordering a hot sausage from a food truck, a perfectly respectable (if slightly unhealthy) menu item, always leaves me feeling a little dirty?

Twenty years ago today, my mom filled on round pan with cake batter. When baked all the way through, she took the single layer out of the big white gas stove (with the built-in griddle in the center), cut it down the middle, frosted the half moon of cake and presented it to me with three candles, to celebrate my half birthday. I was young enough to get a huge kick out of it, but old enough to understand the importance. It made me feel special, celebrated and loved in a way that you don’t get every day, and often need more than once a year.

A couple of years ago I was home in Portland towards the end of June. My friend Akhri’s birthday is December 24th, and so it always gets rushed and pushed aside as Christmas comes barreling through. She was going through some rough times, and needed a little extra celebration. We invited her over for dinner and made the signature half cake that appears at most half birthday parties in my family. After dinner was finished, we told her we had a little surprise for her and brought out the cake. Her eyes filled with surprise, appreciation, and happiness.

The power of the half cake should not be abused and the half birthday should not be celebrated every year, so that the specialness and surprise of it can be reserved for those times when it is needed. Today is my half birthday, and there has been no celebration other than a very large plate of beets (they are a festive color, I should have put a candle in them). I am stunned that six months have passed since I celebrated my 26th birthday in Jen’s kitchen, with many friends, food from the Jamaican Jerk Hut and a chocolate cake from an Italian bakery in South Philly. I am not sad that there has been no half cake, life has been pretty good these days (despite lingering dissatisfaction with my job), and so I do not need to invoke the power of the half birthday. But its nice to know that its out there, when I need it.

My grandparents’ liquor cabinet has smelled the same as long as I can remember. It is a combination of the candy covered chocolate mints they used to put out for guests, bourbon and old wood. Whenever we would come to visit, as soon as the adults weren’t looking, my sister would make a bee-line for the cabinet, to surreptitiously dip into the supply of candy. The bar itself is a Danish Modern piece that runs the length of the wall to which it is bolted. Wood colored with a black laminate top, my grandmother thought it was so very sleek and modern when she bought it in 1966. A world away from the heavy, dark antiques she had grown up with (just the stuff I love).

When I inherited the apartment, the contents of the bar came with it. My grandparents entertained frequently, and were also the recipients of many a gift bottles of booze, so there’s quite an assortment. One memorable night, soon after I became the sole resident of apartment 2024, my friend Seth and I sat ourselves down to do a little unscientific inventory of the bar. We tasted or smelled everything, threw out all the Kosher wine, some congealed liquors and a bottle of homemade Manhattan mix, labeled in my grandfather’s shaky handwriting.

The contents have come and gone a bit in the last three and a half years. My dad took all the Chivas back to Portland with him about a year ago, knowing I would never appreciate it the way he could. A bottle of Haitian rum was added recently, a potluck offering, direct from Haiti. The whiskey has gone untouched.  There’s even a little alcohol annex in the coat closet, where the bottles that are too tall for the cabinet, have gone to live.

Yesterday, leaned down to slide open the door in order to put a wine glass away, and the entire door came off in my hand. I stood, blinking in shock, that this unit of furniture, a fixture for my entire lifetime was falling to pieces in my hands. I sat down on the floor to examine the damage, and realized that the frame was falling off. It seems four decades of bottles and glasses had become too much for the nails and screws holding it together. It’s not beyond my ability to fix it, but I’m somehow inordinately saddened by its decline, almost as if its one more piece of my grandparents that is slipping away from me.

Last night I dreamt I was sitting on the floor of a thrift store, in front of a bookshelf. I was looking at children’s books, when I pulled out a manila pocket folder that was tucked in between the tattered editions of Dr. Seuss. I turned the folder upside down, and out poured someone’s elementary school class pictures. As I flipped through them, I realized they were my class pictures. I specifically remember seeing the picture from 4th grade, my happiest year of elementary school.

Initially I didn’t understand what was happening, why my things were in this thrift store. In a flash I understood that I had inadvertently given them away. I thought about how upset my mom would be if she knew how close I had come to losing them. I pulled another folder off the shelf, and found the books I had made in early elementary school, submissions to an LA school district contest in the mid 80’s. I felt enormous relief at finding these objects, grateful I had discovered them before someone else bought them or they were thrown out.

I can see some themes here, of growing up, leaving childhood behind and rediscovering those parts of myself from my early years that are worth keeping. I’m continually fascinated by what my subconscious, when given room to roam during my sleeping hours, will come up with.