Birthday bouquet
Dear Diary:
It was my father-in-law’s birthday, and I received the strawberry cheesecake. My husband is busy preparing a special birthday dinner. There’s one thing missing: flowers.
I went looking for a bodega in the corner, picked up two fun-looking pre-made bouquets, and decided to get some more flowers for display.
I picked a bunch of sunflowers and pondered which green branch to buy to go with them.
“You don’t have enough flowers?” someone behind me said.
Surprised, I turned around to see an elderly man there on the sidewalk.
“I was looking for some floral arrangements,” I explained. “What do you mean?”
“You have to have 35 branches in just that one bouquet,” he said. “Why do you need more?”
I asked him what he would be happy with if he was 94 years old.
“I would be happy with three flowers,” he said. “That’s valuable thinking, you know, and anyway, what am I going to do with so many flowers?”
He walked away, his intellect hanging in the air and leaving me feeling silly.
The test of his advice came at dinner. Is he right that less is more?
Reader, happy birthday boy.
– Rebecca Mattoni
Greenpoint Deli
Dear Diary:
On the corner of Driggs Avenue and Humboldt Street in Greenpoint is a Polish fast food joint. The man who worked there knew me even before I knew me, but I can’t tell you his name.
My family shopped at the fast food joint for fresh Polish meat, bread, pickles, horseradish and other accompaniments from home.
When I was a kid and still living in Queens, I used to join any parent going to the deli, purely for selfish reasons.
Like the hands of a clock, the snack man would hand my parents change with one hand and give me a Polish treat, or Krowki or edible gum, with the other.
“And this for the little one,” he would say, opening his fist and opening his palm to reveal the precious confection.
My father still goes to the snack bar whenever my family has a craving, despite crossing the Horace Harding Highway to Long Island nearly two decades ago. Last July, while visiting, I joined him on one of his trips. Now that I’m fully grown, I haven’t been to that intersection in years.
From behind a counter stocked with pickles, cheese, kielbasa and rye bread, the fast food man handed my father his change. With another hand, he reached for a shelf above the register.
Putting it down, he flipped it over and opened his fist to reveal three yellow Krowki.
“And this,” he said, “is for the little child.”
– Ania Zolyniak
Blinkers
Dear Diary:
I am a bus operator for New York City, recently drove an M72. Sometimes I use hazard lights when stopping.
One day, an elderly woman, probably about 70 years old, got on the bus at 67th and fifth place, just before the bus turned west to cross the overpass.
“I love the way you flash the lights,” she said. “My late husband used to make them blink as they drove away to say goodbye.”
Her fare was not claimed that day.
– Timothy Brandoff
The Ride Home
Dear Diary:
I’m in the middle of my weekly trip from Gowanus to Washington Heights on A. Sometimes I call an Uber to avoid the 90-minute train ride home. But on this date, I cannot justify the cost.
On 42nd Street, a petite woman got on the subway and sat next to me. She has the Playbill for “A Strange Loop.”
I watched the show recently, and this woman seemed to be as fascinated by it as I was. I asked her what she thought of the show, and thoughts flooded.
Before we had a chance to introduce ourselves, the conductor announced that we had to find a new train: This A will only run to West 145.
“Where are you going?” I ask
“Dyckman Street,” she said.
“Oh me too!”
Turns out we live on the same side, on the same street, and only two blocks apart.
“Want a car up the street?” I ask. “It’s on me.”
We climbed the stairs out of the subway and waited for the driver to arrive.
– Katherine Lenhart
Like Katniss
Dear Diary:
A few years ago, I took my 15-year-old daughter to dinner at Little Owl in the West Village.
This is when “The Hunger Games” books are huge. At the time, my daughter had her hair done like Katniss, with an “arena braid”.
The place was crowded so we ate at the bar. The bartender loved my daughter’s hair, and they chatted for a long time. She apologized and disappeared for a while.
When she reappeared, her hair was done just like it was when she was a girl.
– Tom Parsons
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Illustration by Agnes Lee
