So you’re probably wondering how that 572-square-feet apartment thing is working . . .

You might think that living in 572-square-feet would be difficult. In reality, it’s refreshing.

For the past 25+ years, we lived in 2,200-square-feet, which when the girls were at home, was ideal. But we’ve been paddling around in half that space for the last eight years, and at the time, you don’t even think how inefficient that is. The thing, though, is that you still have to clean that space, heat that space, and – in Florida – cool that space.

A recent article from Bloomberg news reports that the next wave of urban apartment dwellers will be Baby Boomers -- those born from 1946 to 1964 – and that they’ll/we’ll be competing with Millennials for the space, pushing up rents and spurring construction of more multifamily housing. We can attest to that fact – the bulk of the people in our apartment building are Millennials, some with small children, others young professionals, most have dogs. To add to the fun, they are also really friendly.

I sometimes stop and think when did it happen that we began thinking more is good? As a child in Kentucky, our five-member family lived in less than 1,500-square-feet, but I never really thought of our home as small. We all had our own rooms; we had a good-sized kitchen with a nice dining room table, and we had a family room with a fireplace (where everyone stayed), and a living room (that no one used except to go from the aforementioned family room to the bathroom and bedrooms). Our earlier house on Frederica Street was even smaller.

As a boy, Larry’s two-bedroom apartment in the Bronx also housed five people – one bedroom for the three boys, the other for his Mom and sister. Like my family, they didn’t know any other way, and felt they had plenty of room to live their lives.

After this short time in New York, I’ve decided less is definitely more.  We hope to sometime get to the point where we might have a second bedroom – and I’d certainly like a little larger kitchen with more storage, but honestly, I’ve adjusted to the small-“ish” kitchen – and the ease of keeping a 572-square-feet apartment clean and tidy.

You learn how to make do. The bed becomes a place to dry clothes that need to be laid flat. The shower curtain rod holds clothes that need to hang dry. You take breaks to dry dishes so you can wash more. The desk and hutch hold the silverware, dish towels, wine glasses, in addition to Larry’s computer and office supplies. In the kitchen, you do “a little dance” to maneuver around each other: washing and drying dishes (while also pouring white wine from the fridge), putting away ingredients from earlier cooking, and preparing coffee for the morning.

I never – ever – thought about actually living in such a small space, but honestly, after the past six weeks, I can’t imagine what I’d do now with 2,000+-square-feet. Our 572-square-feet apartment is sweet, cozy, warm and welcoming – and for now, I can’t imagine it any other way.

Have I told you lately that I love the subway . . .

New Yorkers love to hate the subway. I don’t get it. For $2.75 you can get anywhere within the entire NYC metropolitan area – 304 square miles. Manhattan. Brooklyn. Queens. ‘da Bronx. Transfers from one line to another are free. What’s not to like?

West 72nd Street Station

I love the subway. It’s a miracle in my book. Take my morning commute: it’s a three-minute walk to the West 72^nd Street line near our apartment – six stops later (roughly nine minutes), I’m dropped off two minutes from my Barnard College office at West 116^th Street. 14 minutes door to door – sweet. It took me more time to get from our house at the intersection of N.W. 43^rd Street/N.W. 53^rd Avenue to the Millhopper Publix.

Is it crowded and hot in the summer and crowded and cold in the winter?  Absolutely – but when you walk down those steps to your station, the next train is usually only 3-4 minutes away – rain, sleet or snow (well maybe not when it snowed 24 inches the day after Christmas in 2010 or when Hurricane Sandy hit the city in 2012 – but you get my point) and you DO see the most interesting people every day. The subway also ushers in a bit of humanity to New York City – it’s common to see people give up their seats to an elderly or disabled person, or a pregnant woman.

The "el"

The subway is an engineering marvel. Its beginnings hail back to the late 1800s, and follow the opening of the els - trains that ran on tracks nearly three stories above city avenues.  These elevated trains dramatically changed the way New Yorkers viewed their city and lived their lives. The els ushered in an urban life that still defines NYC today – being able to live, work, and shop in different parts of the city and to interact with people from different neighborhoods and backgrounds. 

After the success of the els, New York City’s residents demanded an enhanced rapid transit system and city authorities decided to build a subway that would meet two objectives: it would quickly and efficiently move people about in crowded Manhattan and also move them out of crowded Manhattan.  Subway lines would extend out even further into vast tracts of undeveloped land, where new neighborhoods could be created, helping to turn a cramped island city into a sprawling metropolitan area.

A subway station in 1906

One of the early chief engineers for the new subway system was William Barclay Parsons, an 1882 graduate of Columbia University’s School of Mines (today’s engineering school – Jenni’s alma mater). Opened in 1904, the subway's electric cars took passengers from City Hall to Brooklyn, the Bronx, and the newly renamed and relocated Columbia University in Morningside Heights, its present location on the Upper West Side of Manhattan.

Today, the New York City subway system is one of the busiest and most extensive in the world, serving nearly five million passengers every day with 26 train lines operating on over 800 miles of track. 

Me? I’m loving it. I’m extremely happy to be one of those five million passengers and you won’t hear me complaining. After 30+ years of daily driving on Gainesville’s crazy roads, I’m just happy to let someone else take the wheel! 

First month . . . and counting.

This time a month ago we were in the throes of final packing, sweating through our tee shirts and dodging daily Gainesville thunderstorms. 

I’d just been offered – and accepted – the New York City job of my dreams from Barnard College. Larry had made the decision to move at the same time after bidding farewell to his Florida radio listeners for the final time – he was getting daily invitations to meet friends and listeners for coffee, lunch or drinks (no one seemed as concerned I was leaving). Missy was roaming the house, confused as furniture was removed, boxes were accumulating in the living room and her crate was shipped to the next door neighbor’s garage.

It is hard to believe it’s only been a month since we left Gainesville for the biggest adventure of our lives. So what are the six most interesting observations from this first month?

1. First, we can leave the apartment and within four blocks find:

•  Fresh oysters (shucked on the spot at Citarella’s – tonight’s dinner, yes I got 18 - six of each) that included Bluepoint from Long Island, Wellfleet from Massachusetts and Malpeque from Prince Edward Island (the Bluepoint were the best);
•  Chocolate-chocolate chip, and oatmeal raisin cookies from Levain Bakery, one of the best bakeries in the city;
• A farmer’s market where we can find tomatoes, squash, corn and strawberries that were literally picked the day before; six different types of micro-greens; honey and jams from the Berkshires; fresh duck from the Hudson Valley; and sorghum from Schoharie County, NY;
•   The  Beacon Theatre that this fall will host Cyndi Lauper, Steely Dan, Don Henley, John Lennon tribute show, Joe Walsh and Alabama (still debating how many of these we can afford);
• Three (!) wine shops; and
• Corner vegetable/fruit stands where I can snag five bananas for $1 or a red pepper for 50 cents.

2. We had dinner last weekend with Monica and Jon – our only NYC “couple” friends - at ‘Cesca, a great, local Italian restaurant – and we're planning to visit them this fall in Connecticut and get tickets together to see the aforementioned Cyndi Lauper.

3. Earlier this week, I saw a snapshot of today’s America:

On my morning subway ride to Barnard I saw the perfect trifecta of commuters on the 1-train (I wanted to take a photo with my iPhone, but I’m not that brave yet so you’ll have to see it through my eyes). Seated to the left was a mid-30-something man on his iPad, crouched over the tablet with his elbows on his knees, likely scrolling through the schedule of his upcoming day; in the middle, a young Asian woman – eyes closed, earbuds in, probably listening to her favorite playlist on the trip north; and on the right, an older woman, thinly built with attractive short, grey hair, reading the New York Times’ Section A.

4. Interesting shopping at Fairway's: 

• Butter that’s wrapped in four tablespoon segments instead of eight; 
• Fruits packaged in ½ pints;
• Standing in line on a Sunday afternoon waiting to get deli meat while a young, professional man orders seven different prepared foods (poached salmon, pork tenderloin, beef stroganoff, etc.) – likely his meals for the week; and 
• Searching high and low for such items as oven fried chicken coating mix and white wine vinegar; and finding my way through full-contact karate as I try to find a place in the check-out line.

5. Super impressed with my colleagues at Barnard: 

Welcoming, so interested in my thoughts and opinions on how to handle the construction communications, funny and creative, and amazed at our crazy decision to move to NYC at this point in our lives.

6. How absolutely wonderful it is to walk a mere seven minutes to the Hudson River – and take in all the interesting people: 

• The Lesbian and Gay Big Apple Corps playing today on Pier 1; 
• The tiny woman trying to handle a huge German Shepherd who is barking incessantly even though he was muzzled (not a good idea); 
• All the folks – young and old – renting the free kayaks (want to try that at some point);
• All the people who stop to meet Missy and admire how pretty she is; and 
• The woman jogging while pushing a baby stroller with her phone in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

Is it magical? Yes. Does it seem real? Sometime, yes. Sometimes, no. Do we miss our friends? Yes, but we’re focused on making new memories. Are we crazy? Perhaps, but it’s been our dream. Stay tuned.

My Aunt Mary Jo and the Halbrooks boys

As a child, one of my favorite places was Christmas at Pop and Honey’s house. As an adult, one of my father’s most hated places was Christmas at Pop and Honey’s house. You see, my grandparents’ house at Christmas was everything our house never was: loud, raucous, and noisy. And the main source of that chaos was the Halbrooks boys.

My brothers were nine and ten years older than me and by the time I have vivid memories of the holidays, they were mostly on their own. As a result, our house was always quiet. It was just me and my parents – and my Dad was averse to noise. He even had to go outside to the barn when I practiced the piano. I often wondered if it was because the coal mine where he worked was so loud – the mammoth shovel he operated, the huge trucks that transported the coal. I never got upset with him – it was just the way it was in our house.

There are three Halbrooks boys: Doug, a year older than me; John, a couple of years younger; and Bobby, the baby as we called him. They grew up in Montgomery, Ala. and still live in the state; all three are huge Auburn fans, and as boys their favorite thing was trying to kill each other.  After seeing WWE wrestling years later, I finally had something to compare to Christmas with the oversized Halbrooks boys. I LOVED every minute of it.

My grandparents’ wood-frame house would literally shake at its foundations as Doug, John and Bobby tackled each other, placed neck holds, and threw each other to the floor. More often than not, their Dad – a Baptist preacher – would join in as well.  I watched in fascination as they’d throw each other around the living room or on that rare occasion when they’d be in Kentucky for the annual Auburn/Alabama football game and they’d spend three hours yelling and throwing things at the television.

The boys lost their Mom yesterday – my Aunt Mary Jo. She was the baby of my Mom's family – born in 1933 during the heart of the depression, toddling along after her siblings: George, Celia and my Mom.  She went to nursing school in Louisville where she met Ralph Halbrooks – and after marrying, they moved to Alabama where he worked for the Alabama Baptist Convention.

Mary Jo was the last of my Mom’s siblings and their spouses. Just this past year, we also lost Uncle George’s wife, Naomi. It’s a sad and empty feeling to think this generation on my Mom’s side is gone. I remember Aunt Mary Jo – of course – after she had lived for many years in Alabama and, oh my, was she Southern.  She could draw out any short word into multiple syllables. She was a follower of Dr. Spock and didn’t believe much in paddling (maybe not an altogether good thing with three rambunctious boys) – and frankly, she never saw much of anything that Doug, John and Bobby did wrong. For her, the noise was a normal, everyday occurrence.

At Christmas, my grandparents would have a huge cedar tree that they’d cut down on their farm up in the country. It would be decorated with these wonderful bubbling lights that I always wanted (I found some after Larry and I married, but they were a cheap, plastic knock-off of Honey’s beautiful glass lights), antique frosted ornaments, and strands and strands of silver ice cycles. There would be piles and piles of presents – not expensive gifts mind you, because none of our family had a lot of money – but everyone would have something under the tree. We’d all tear into the gifts at once – and then we’d go around and see what others received. That was usually the point at which my Daddy was ready to go.  I’d beg and beg to be able to stay – and most of the time, Mommy would agree to come back and get me later in the evening.

That’s when the next phase of fun would begin. After everything was cleared, a game of full-contact Rook would ensue around Honey’s kitchen table. Popcorn would be popped, Cokes opened, root beer floats made. These hours-long games of Rook would go into the wee hours of the morning – and you can’t imagine how hugely competitive these guys were. Aunts, uncles, cousins, everyone would wait to get into the games – only when you’d get tired, would you hand over your seat to someone waiting. The family played Rook like the aforementioned wrestling – I preferred to watch.

I last saw Aunt Mary Jo last July when she made Doug, John and Bobby drive her to Kentucky for Mommy’s funeral. Even though she wasn’t in great health either, she wanted to be there for her big sister, Doooorrriss. It was special to see her and the boys, share a breakfast at Cracker Barrel, and reminisce about those Christmas vacations at Pop and Honey’s. Larry and the girls finally got to meet them and remarked after the funeral how much they’d enjoyed talking with them and how interested they were in the girls’ public service work.

It’s a sad day today. While I’ll remember in my mind how Aunt Mary Jo looked last July as she gazed at my Mom’s picture on the alter in the sanctuary of the Beaver Dam Baptist Church, I’ll mostly hear her wonderfully old-South voice whispering in my ear . . .calling me “Quenta Aaaannn.”