‘I Sat and Sketched Matisse’s Sculpture of a Woman Named Jeannette’

https://www.nytimes.com/2019/10/06/nyregion/metropolitan-diary.html

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Dear Diary:

Fifty-one years ago, I cut my high school classes and took the commuter train from Peekskill to Manhattan by myself for the first time.

I was wearing my favorite mini-dress and floppy hat, and I had a large tasseled leather bag and a sketchbook. I went to the Museum of Modern Art, where I sat and sketched Matisse’s sculpture of a woman named Jeannette. I felt uneasy and confident at the same time.

From there, I headed to Greenwich Village. I walked around Washington Square Park listening to the guitar players on the sidewalks. I was entranced by the flower children wading in the fountain. I wandered past head shops that smelled of patchouli and sandalwood. I bought a handmade silver ring with a narrow green stone for my index finger.

I moved away from New York not long after that, but my son lives in Brooklyn now. When I visited him last year, I asked him to take me to Washington Square Park. And I gave him the silver ring I bought back then.

— Kerry Workman

Dear Diary:

As I walked home on Seventh Avenue one morning, my pink sneaker laces became untied. Having a bad back and an injured foot, I was unable to retie them.

A young man wearing earbuds and a hoodie came up beside me.

“Your laces are untied, he said.

“I know,“ I answered. “I can’t bend to retie them. Bad back.”

He took a knee and proceeded to tie my laces into a neat bow.

“Oh, my,” I said. “You are so kind.”

“Just didn’t want you to fall,” he said before going on his way.

— Linda Tsakonas

Dear Diary:

I was in Greenpoint walking to the G train from my guitar lesson. I had my ax slung over my back in a gig bag.

I passed a group of burly construction workers in dust masks. They were going into a hardware store.

The biggest, burliest one in the group pulled down his mask.

“Whaddya got?” he bellowed.

“Sorry?” I said

“Whaddya got?”

“Oh, Epiphone electric, hollow body archtop”

“Six?”

“Yeah.”

“You in a band?”

“Hah, no such luck.”

“It’ll happen!”

And with that, he disappeared into the store with his co-workers.

— Steve Stankiewicz

Dear Diary:

Scrumptious, lovely, dreamed of,Boiled, fried or steamed, love,Those tender, little pockets made of dough.New York noshers chew ’em,And you mustn’t misconstrue ’em,Since a dumpling’s like a person, did you know —

Everybody’s a dumpling,Doodle-ee-oop-boop-boop.Everybody’s a dumpling,In luck or in the soup.

Who isn’t crispy on the outside,And vulnerable within?Like an innie or an outie,You can never have a doubtee,’Cause what it’s all aboutie,If you’re a gourmet or a glutton,You have got a belly button,And you’ve gotta gobble up —

Dumplings are yum, delicious,Dumplings are made with skill.I could easily O.D. on dumplingsAnd I think one day I will.

You can have ’em sweet or savory,In the army or the navery,Plain or with some gravery.

Because:Dumplings are universal,Use chopsticks, a spear or fork,Filled up with cheese or veggies,Or chicken or beef or pork.

You never know the inside,Until you take a bite.No matter what the culture is,They always come out right.

They’re a secret wrapped in flour,They’re a treasure for the tongue.Eat ’em by the hour,If you’re old or if you’re young.

Ricotta’s stuffed in ravioli,In empanadas, guacamole,And the English like a pasty,And pelmeni’s Russian, tasty,And the Cantonese a wow,With jiaozi or har gow,In Japan they like gyoza And in India samosa —

Everybody’s a dumpling,I’m a kreplach, you’re shumai.Everybody’s a dumpling,You and I.

— Lou Craft

Dear Diary:

A longtime resident of SoHo, I often walked to Zito’s bakery on Bleecker Street to buy baguettes.

One day, as I stood in the long line, I noticed a large brown dog on the sidewalk. He seemed to be alone. He was staring up the street.

Then, I saw him walk off in the direction he had been looking. I worried about him, all alone on the street. I got the baker’s attention.

“There was a big brown dog outside on the sidewalk,” I said. “He seemed to be alone, and now he’s walked off up the street.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” the baker said. “That’s our dog and he knows the neighborhood well. He has walked off to meet my brother who went on an errand up the street. The dog’s going to meet him.”

I was relieved, bought my baguettes and was about to leave when a man standing behind me spoke to me quietly.

“That was a very kind thing you did,” he said.

For some reason, I was stunned by the unexpected compliment. I walked out the door, unable to speak. I fumbled for my sunglasses to cover up the tears running down my cheeks.

I have no idea why I cried. Thirty years later, I still don’t know why.

— Carole Wendt

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Illustrations by Agnes Lee