Now that's a view

I stayed at my old apartment last week to take care of Roxy while Jane was away on a trip.  Sitting on the couch watching TV (still remembering how to change the channels on the confusing remote) and clanging pots and pans around the kitchen (and knowing where to put them all back), I suddenly realized how at home I still feel there.  I walked over to my old bed - still there anytime I want to return, so Jane says! - and looked out at the view of the city, and I felt the familiar chills of excitement run up my spine.

I remembered the first time I saw that view - Jane and I had been emailing back and forth for about a week to make plans for me to see her (make that meet her) while I visited New York with Jackie and Ansley. In one of the emails Jane included a picture of a sunset view from her apartment window, and when I opened the message and comprehended the picture as the iconic buildings of midtown Manhattan, a lump swelled in my throat and tears welled in my eyes.  Sitting in front of my computer screen in my office in Birmingham, I choked back the emotions the picture stirred - it was my absolute dream!, yet the Birmingham life was my reality.  The desire to be in New York burned as deeply as the piercing oranges of the setting sun in the picture, and I knew then and there that I HAD to get to New York.  

That same lump of emotion appeared again in my throat today - two years later - as I thought about how that dream to live in New York...and have that view...became a reality.   And the lump grew sweeter with thoughts of how Jane opened her home and heart to me so I could experience New York.  What a lasting view of friendship that picture will always give me.  

I still have that email Jane sent me on February 1, 2007 - see the picture below, and my emotions-tempered-down reply: 

"WOW!!!  That picture made tears well up in my eyes!  That is my New York dream!  You are so lucky to live there." ~ Rebecca to Jane, February 2, 2007

A Memory Handful

I love when an unexpected sight stops me in my tracks, the image depicting a fond memory brought to mind. This type of reminiscing does not include rummaging through a drawer and finding a photo or memento to remind you of an occasion. This is about seeing something completely unrelated to the memory, but it being so depictive of the event that your memory is sparked and brought vibrantly to life. One of the remarkable things about walking the streets of New York City is the sights and sounds here could not be further out of context from every memory I possess from life in Alabama, yet a simple image can spark a memory and bring the two worlds together.

The anticipation for the halftime show of the Alabama-Auburn football game my first year as a Crimsonette was tremendous. Our part in the 12-minute show consisted of a twirling feature, a high-spirited dance number, a two baton routine, and a graceful dance, not to mention three costume changes of only about 30 seconds each. Throw in the added stressors of traveling to Birmingham for the game, the thought of the whole state of Alabama in the stadium watching, not learning a three-minute dance routine until midnight on the Thursday before the performance, and never having practiced the costume changes until Saturday morning - it's needless to say we were 18 girls wrought with nerves.

We had a million details to remember and a million opportunities for things to go wrong - and go wrong they did: missed musical cues, wardrobe malfuncitons, dropped batons. During the dance routine we'd learned just 36 hours before, I didn't know whether I was jumping or leaping or spinning, and a look at the Crimsonette next to me showed she had no idea either. We escaped to the tiny makeshift sideline dressing room, a commotion of girls ripping off our peppy skirt and sweater costumes from the spirited dance and grabbing on the long sheer red skirts and gloves for the next number.

Trying to regain composure from the hysterics of the costume change, I waltzed into my position on the field while frantically yet discreetly struggling to get my right hand in its glove. My thumb must have gone into the pinky of the glove causing my fingers to miss half of the finger holes, because when the music began and I circled my arms above my head with ballerina-like charm, I saw the empty finger slots protruding in every direction from my unfortunately twisted glove. Feeling as though the eyes of the entire stadium were focused on the gnarled hand at the end of my graceful arm, I balled the sprouting fingers into my fist so I could continue to dance for the duration of the song with the least bit of humiliation.

The image of that gnarled red glove has always stuck in my mind, always reminding me of one of the more shameful performances of the Crimsonettes, but making me laugh nonetheless.

So you can see how this unexpected sight not only literally stopped me in my tracks but also brought about a wave of sweet Tuscaloosa memories while standing on the corner of the busy New York City street.

Memory Lane

An unsuccessful trip to a wedding dress shop near Muscle Shoals prompted a drive through our old neighborhood. An area my family so loved for the five years we lived there in the mid-1980s, the memories of the house and friends there are plentiful. As we drove along the street and slowed in front of our house, I was surprised at the forgotten memories triggered by seeing it in real time; assurance that the images of the house sometimes swirling in my mind are not just figments of a made-up charming childhood.

Studying this picture now - back in my New York City apartment - it's not the memories of the house and yard that fill my thoughts: I'm bewildered to realize the size of the second-floor, street-facing, corner bedroom with two walk-in closets I enjoyed in Muscle Shoals is at least three times the size of this small New York City bedroom I sit in now.

What do all the NYC kids do with no room for Barbie house creations, dress-up clothes spilling out of the closet, doll cribs for each baby, palettes in front of the TV for cartoon watching, games of "house" with the wooden stove, table and chairs, or a window for daydreaming into the trees and sky?

Faithful, Loyal, Firm and True

Alabama, listen, mother,
To our vows of love,
To thyself and to each other,
Faithful friends we’ll prove.

Faithful, loyal, firm and true
Heart bound to heart will beat
Year by year, the ages through,
Until in Heaven we meet.

College days are swiftly fleeting,
Soon we’ll leave their halls,
Ne’er to join another meeting
‘Neath their hallowed walls.

Faithful, loyal, firm and true
Heart bound to heart will beat
Year by year, the ages through,
Until in Heaven we meet.

So, farewell, dear Alma Mater.
May thy name, we pray,
Be rev’renced ever, pure and stainless
As it is today.

I learned the words to the University of Alabama’s Alma Mater during my Sophomore year of college. Our Crimsonette coach insisted on it; she didn’t want us to just stand smiling on the football field at Bryant Denny Stadium when the Million Dollar Band played it.

“As students of the University, and one day graduates, it’s your duty to know the alma mater, and you should sing it proudly,” she told us.

I already knew the words of the chorus, but I thought having to memorize the rest of the stanzas was beyond hokey and a waste of time. In fact, the whole idea of Homecoming really irked me: the spotlight shifted off the current Crimsonettes and us getting to twirl and put on a show, and instead was focused on the Alumni Band, who, in my opinion, could barely muster a crowd-rousing “Yea Alabama”, much less march in a straight line across the football field. The Alumni Band performance was a waste of a perfectly good pregame show that I could be front and center on the football field.

But on a late September afternoon during my second year at Alabama, the Crimsonettes sat around our tree at the band field, and we practiced the words of the Alma Mater. I not only heard the full song for the first time that day, but I fully understood the words for the first time, too.

It was the second stanza that really took hold of my chest and squeezed tightly: “College days are swiftly fleeting, soon we’ll leave their halls,” I sang, as I looked at the sweet and pretty faces of these girls who had fast become my best friends.

My voice trailed off as I realized the truth in the words; maybe the reason these days felt so magical to me was because they were fleeting, and swiftly. Walking across the Quad to class, studying in the library until I fell asleep slumped on the table, sweating and laughing and twirling at band practice every day for four months straight, eating and talking with my boyfriend and our friends at every lunch and dinner during the week at Burke dining hall, living down the hall from my sister and friends in Harris Hall…it had never occurred to me that all of this would come to an end one day.

Now, several years after graduating and leaving the college days behind, the memories of my Alma Mater are kept pure and stainless in my heart. And on this Homecoming, as I exuberantly march with the Alumni Band in a perfectly un-straight line to a wobbly but loving rendition of “Yea Alabama”, I just can’t keep the hot tears from brimming over and spilling shamelessly down my cheeks.

Squeals, Screams and New Kid Dreams

The concert we had waited months - if not 18 years - for was all we hoped it would be: the New Kids on the Block could still put on a show, our old heartthrobs singing all our favorites and dancing the same steps we remembered from years ago.   But somewhere during our shrill screaming, our singing and dancing, our jumping up and down, and our hugging and laughing, we got something we didn't even know we had hoped for: a very memorable evening together for two sisters who don't get to see each other enough. 

10 years later

Throughout the night, I heard several incredulous utterances, all asking the same question, "Are we really at our TEN-year reunion?"  The answer was always a disbelieving shake of the head.   As the lead singer of the band yelled, "Let's hear it for the Hoover High School class of 1998!  We're gonna play some music from your decade," there was no denying...it was 10 years later, 10 years since the last time we were all in a room together, 10 years since the popular kids crowded the middle of the dance floor, the nerdy kids huddled at a side table, the jocks acted like they owned the place, and I just tried to flutter from one group to the next, and keep my excited laughter from echoing too loudly.

While others tried to forget, I actually tried to keep reminding myself of the fact, hoping to feel the full gamut of emotions that should be associated with such a milestone.  I thought of all the significant things that have happened in my life over the last 10 years - the dear friends I have met, the excitement of twirling at Alabama, the two college degrees, the love and the heartache, the first job and the next, the marriage of my little sister, the loss of my grandmothers, the trips to new places in the world, the leap to New York City.  I smiled at the accomplishments and the downfalls, at the good and the bad, the happy and the sad, for the life that happened in 10 years.  

Just as I swelled with satisfaction of how much I had grown and changed over 10 years, I heard my name announced as the winner of the "Least Changed" award.  "What?!" I shrieked, "I've changed!  I'm different!"  As I inwardly sulked with outrage, friends pointed out the award was not least changed in life, but least changed in appearance.  "Rebecca, it's called the 'Marilyn Monroe Award'...this is a good thing, it means you still have the body of an 18 year old!"  Oh.  Well far be it from me to turn down an award then! 

I tried to think of the 18 year old me, what she would think seeing me now.  Not the outward appearance, but what she would think of who I am now - what did she think she'd be like at this 10 year mark.  I glanced down at my Senior picture printed on my name tag, and I swear she winked at me (or maybe it was just that fourth glass of wine).  But I knew what the wink meant:  "We're doing just fine...no matter where we go, or what we see or learn or do, we are the least changed, and that's a beautiful thing." 

Please tell me I don't still have the mushroom hair!

With Vashty, Jasmine and Jay...fellow HHS classmates now in NYC.

With Joshua, my very oldest friend at the reunion...we've been warring since the 5th grade over who is tallest.

Twirling

I considered the multipurpose court adjacent to a small playground directly across the street from my apartment to be a positive "amenity" of living in my apartment building, since the list of actual amenities was non-existent.  During the first month of living here, I had big plans of taking my batons across the street and twirling - it would be just like my driveway at home!  I wanted to wait until the weather warmed up a bit, and then I would be twirling like old times.

But when mid-May arrived and the outside temps were perfect twirling weather, I got cold feet as I gathered my batons to head outside.  I didn't want an audience with the passersby on the street, the firemen peering from their station, or - worse yet - the homeless men claiming a bench for a front row seat!  Faced with the reality that twirling here would not be like twirling in the driveway at home, my new hobby quickly lost appeal, and I propped my batons back in the corner of my room.

But I decided Monday was the day I was going to twirl.  It was the perfect way to celebrate the unofficial end to summer...and it didn't hurt that the majority of New Yorkers were still tucked in bed, off the streets and enjoying the Labor Day holiday.  Early in the morning I scurried out of the building and crossed the street.  I tentatively opened the wrought-iron gate and peeked around to make sure the coast was clear of any homeless people who might have camped there overnight.  Discovering my only audience was a girl with her dog, and a few firemen across the way, I began to stretch my legs and get acquainted with the trees and buildings around my new twirling spot.  I started slowly, tossing the baton in the air a few times, then adding a few turns.  As several tosses fell to the ground out of my grasp, I felt a twinge of embarrassment (did anyone see me drop?!) and a heap of remorse (how could I have let myself get so rusty!) 

But soon the old rhythm was back, and I was tossing higher, spinning faster and putting on a show the likes of which New York had never seen.  Toss illusion - still got it!  Toss cartwheel - wha-laa!  Split leap back catch - perfect!  Remembering sections of old tryout routines, I marveled as I fairly easily smoothed through the maneuvers, and if I didn't perform a trick just so, I reverted to my habit of doing it 10 times in a row (with a smile on my face!) to make sure I had it down pat.  I practiced my favorite two and three baton tricks (busting only a few blood vessels in my palms along the way).  Feeling so exhilarated with the movements and the memories, I broke into a high march and twirled as I hummed Yea Alabama. "Get me my majorette boots and a sequin uniform!" I thought. "I could put those current Crimsonettes to shame!"

Alas, maybe I could still teach the Crimsonettes a thing or two, and granted, probably still even fit into my uniform.  BUT the only person feeling any shame is yours truly...since it's three days after my rock star performance, and I'm still hobbling around, each muscle in my back and legs screeching with every move I make!  

Buenvenidos a Miami

The last time I was in Miami was eight years ago, when the Million Dollar Band traveled to cheer on the Alabama Crimson Tide in the Orange Bowl. We traveled by buses. All night. Thanks to the trombone players the Crimsonettes shared a bus with, a horrific war movie played on the bus TVs in the wee hours of the morning, the bazooka gunshots and screams keeping me awake for most of the night. As the rest of the bus came to life a few hours later, one of the "blonder" Crimsonettes repeatedly sang the then-popular Will Smith song "Benvenidos a Miami". She had no idea of the Spanish words she sang, so the song sounded more like "Benbeneedose yameyame". Over and over she sang - even after I corrected her.

In the years since the trip, I've not been able to shake from my memory the annoying sound of her singing that song when I hear "Miami". But when plans were made to make an end of summer trip to Miami, I found myself happily sing-songing "Benbeneedose yameyame" in excited anticipation of the sun and fun that awaited.

Relieved to not have an excruciating overnight bus ride or grueling band practice in the South Beach heat on the itinerary, I packed my flip flops and bikini and headed south for a weekend of relaxing.

My view from under the umbrella...when I wasn't snoozing!

The back of the beautiful Delano Hotel.

Pina Colada time!

Even the palm trees have an artistic flair in the Art Deco district.

A cute front porch by The Front Porch restaurant on Ocean Drive.

Some things never change

When my Crimsonette coach of five years came to New York last week for a dance clinic, I was excited to attend a few of the classes with her and catch up. In the five years since I twirled at Alabama, she has become a friend, and we have much more candid conversations and laughs than when I was a student and she was my mentor.

But as I lined up with all the other dancers (who were at least 10 years younger than me and, let's face it, actual dancers), my palms began to sweat. It wasn't that I cared what these hotshot kids thought of me and my creaky arms and legs - it was Marion. Was she watching me? What did she think of that jump? Are my arms moving at the correct angles? Am I staying on beat? I quickly realized the safety I had sought in the back corner to shield me from the gaze of the other dancers had put me right in Marion's line of sight. I felt like I was 19 again - wiping my palms on my shorts for a better grip, trying to kick higher, twirl faster and catch her attention with every toss of my baton. As my heart raced, I laughed that some things never change, but at least now I wasn't scared to grab Marion from the sidelines and make her dance beside me.

That was then: with Marion after Crimsonette tryouts when I made Captain in April 2000.

Lightning Bug Flashes

In a city so bright with the lights of sky scrapers and flashing billboards, it's more than refreshing - a little startling, actually - to see a flicker of something much smaller and simpler, but glowing with memories from southern summer nights.

Drawn to the swarm of lightning bugs hovering over a patch of grass in Madison Square Park, my body stood there in the middle of the city, but my mind was living 20 years ago. A rush of memories of night time hide-and-go-seek with the neighbors while our parents gathered in the street to chat; whispers and "truth or dare" on our trampoline; running around bare foot in the dampening grass - so many memories and feelings, all come back so easily. Makes me wonder if the flashes of all the lightning bugs I've smiled into the dark at through the years were actually taking pictures for me, so looking into the flash again I can remember those daring, dark nights of youth.

I found the Golden Egg!

Normally I keep my face smashed into my pillow much later than 6:45 AM, but God must have sent me a nudge to wake up early this Easter morning and be amazed by the view out my window. It was actually more of a jolt than a nudge, because I popped right out of bed and onto the cold balcony to take a picture of the glowing golden moon! I imagine my jolt awake was similar to the one Mama delivered to Julie when she was a little girl at her play school Easter egg hunt. It makes me laugh every time I think about the jolting push - the image of poor little Julie falling to the ground and the determined and excited look that must have been on my mother's face. Mama, sorry to "out" you after all these years, but the world needs to know the shenanigans you're capable of pulling!

You see, Mama spotted the glorious, prize-winning golden egg laying unseen underneath a bush. Frantic to have Julie find it before the other little rugrats hunted into the area, Mama took Julie by the shoulder and pushed, er-urged her in the direction of the egg.

Doubled over with laughter at my thoughts of Julie with a mouthful of dirt and yelling up to Mama "Why did you push me?!", the story always ends there for me. I don't know if Julie did see the egg and claim victory, or if the fall brought her tears, causing a commotion and allowing time for another kid to run in there and grab the egg. If she did get the egg, what was the prize? And, Mama, was the prize worth compromising the safety of your eldest child?

Since the incident lives on as one of our favorite Easter memories, I'd say "you betcha" the push was worth it!

The moon was glowing so big and bright, followed by a brilliantly colorful sunrise. I was awake in time to enjoy it for about 10 minutes before the moon dropped behind the buildings and the sky faded to blue:




The sky was lighter than it's showing in this picture.

The sunrise over the East River.

Thanks for the Easter box filled with goodies, Mama and Daddy!

Not since the 5th grade...

Bangs. Never thought I'd have them again, but lately I couldn't help but long for straight, blunt bangs every time I saw a stylish girl walking on the street with her forehead fringe fluffing in the wind. I was so craving the look that I even convinced myself that my naturally wavy and frizzy hair could handle it - that's what straightening products and flat irons are for, right?!

So Saturday afternoon I strolled into the salon, confidently sat down in the chair and enthusiastically stated: "I want bangs!" There! That was easy! But the more the stylist snipped my hair, the less confident I felt about my decision, prompting her to promise she would ask before she cut. I accepted the plan, content that I could regulate the severity of the shortness, and I told her not to worry, I wouldn't get mad at her.

As she held the piece of hair that would be the first lock of bangs, she looked at me in the mirror and tilted her head with an inquisitive look, seeking my approval to cut. The fear in her eyes must have been a reflection of the anxiety in mine, "Okay, " I said resolutely, "just cut it." We both yelped as the long hair fell to the floor. "Keep going!" I urged her. "Cut!" As I watched more long pieces fall and more short hairs frame my face, I felt the girl in the mirror transforming into the stylish girls on the street.

For the next few days I enjoyed my fun new bangs and the exclamations of friends and coworkers when they saw my new look. It was startling to catch a sideways glimpse of myself in a store window and remember, "Oh yeah! I have bangs now!"

But everything changed with Wednesday's weather - rain and 75% humidity. Not since the 5th grade have I had to deal with an out of control mess poofed on my forehead. Every piece of hair was curling in a different direction, and none of them would fit under a head band, pull back in a ponytail or lay flat no matter how hard I coaxed, yanked or pleaded. It was like they were taunting me with bottled up bang rambunctiousness suppressed for the last 17 years.

I managed to get through the day with my dignity still in tact (nevermind the ducking around corners to avoid seeing people and vowing Lauren - who sits four feet from me all day every day - to never mention this frizz again). And as for the bangs, they've been warned that if they ever, EVER! act that way in public again, I know where my Dad keeps his Flowbie, and it'll be off with their heads!

"Where did you get that pretty red hair?"

This question is the stimulus for my earliest memories - always asked in the same way, always responded to with the same answer, and always eliciting the same wild laughter response. The way I remember it usually happening is one adult stepping forward from a group of my parent's friends, leaning down to look into my timid little face, and asking in a sing-song way, "Where did you get that pretty red hair?" I'm sure the first time the question was posed my eyes widen and I stepped back into my parents legs and turned to them with a scared look of "what in the world do they want to know?!" I can't imagine if it was my mom or dad who first thought to whisper the answer into my ear, or why they thought it would be funny or if they had any idea it would have such an impact on my young life, but they told me what to say and I repeated it back to the waiting crowd.

"From the milkman."

I became accustomed to being asked this question any time I met someone new, and by those who asked me every time they saw me, just to get a good laugh. I never knew why everyone laughed so or what it meant, but I delivered my line just like I was taught - learning to love a captive audience, I guess!

So, for us ginger-haired folk who have endured a life of red-headed step child comments and "rather be dead than red on the head" jokes, NBC's Today Show called all flaming heads to Rockefeller Plaze to celebrate the beauty of red hair. You can watch a clip from the Today Show website http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/21134540/vp/23673523#23673523.

I don't believe the report that in 100 years red hair will be extinct, but I do know I love being distinctive - and my normal "look for the red hair in the crowd" was impossible this morning!


Hi from the Today Show!


A view of the "red head pit".


Red Alert! That's right - you don't want to deal with that many red head tempers at once!

My view during the segment filming. Thanks, Lester, for standing right in front of me!

Meredith Viera before giving me a hug and a kiss on the cheek!

Al asking me why he can't get his picture made too. So why you lookin' down, Al?!

Smells like Christmas

My summertime fruit stand has been replaced with wintertime Christmas trees. As colorful and refreshing of a treat the fruit stand was during the hot summer months, the pine smells and lights are a cold weather delight. As I near the corner, I slow my walking pace and peep my head out of my high-wrapped scarf and low-pulled hat. I breathe deeply and let the wonderful pine smell fill my nose. Instantly I'm in a warm living room, in front of the fireplace and looking at a beautifully decorated Christmas tree. As visions of sugar plums begin to dance in my head, a car horn blows and pulls me back to reality. I duck my head from the wind and hurry on to the apartment - baby, it's cold outside!

Lighting THE Tree

The past few years I've watched the Rockefeller Center tree lighting ceremony on NBC's televised broadcast, sitting in front of the TV in Birmingham and wishing I could be there in person! The tree, the lights, the people, the buildings, the city, the Rockettes! It just seemed so magical.

Weelllll...I wouldn't exactly describe the experience of being there in person as magical. Better descriptors are crowded, cold, tiring, no view, frozen feet. I didn't want another viewing misfortune like arriving late to the Thanksgiving parade, so I made sure to pick a spot by 6 PM for the 9 PM lighting. Several attempts to convince people to come with me were unsuccessful - I couldn't imagine why no one wanted to get out in the crowd. :)


My vantage point of the tree was actually pretty good! But after three hours of seeing this and only this, it became a bit monotonous.

I spent the first hour entertaining myself by chatting with Ansley on the phone, trying to inch forward in the crowd as much as possible, making sure my camera was working, and getting acquainted with neighbors in the crowd. We lost a few people as they learned the actual countdown and lighting wouldn't happen for another three hours - I made myself stay strong and stay put!

The second hour started the show performance - but we couldn't see any of it. I heard Al Roker announce the fabulous Rockettes, the one and only Celine Dion, the superstar Carrie Underwood...but for all I know it was voices through a radio. Why am I out here freezing?

Then I realized it actually wasn't that cold - amazing what body heat can do! I noticed, however, that my back was decidedly colder than my front. I turned around for the first time and saw there was a break in the crowd right behind me. There was a sea of short people who didn't want to stand right behind me to block their view! The wind was whipping right through the crowd and landing on me! In a continued effort to keep myself entertained, I tried to see what it must be like for the shorter people in the world. I bent my knees to get more on the level of the general height of the crowd. As I crouched, the tree suddenly disappeared, and I felt a little suffocated by the hair and shoulders now at eye level. If I - who at my normal tall height - could see so much more than everyone else but still felt I didn't have a very good view, what in the world were all these shorties thinking about the situation?! I started making a mental list of all the good and bad points of being tall, and the only bad I could think of just then was the fact of no one wanting to stand behind you in a crowd when it's cold.

By hour three, we were all a little loopy. The couple in front of me was planning their escape from Rockefeller Center as soon as the tree lights flashed:

Girl: "We can walk to 6th Ave, hop in a cab, get to Port Authority by 9:15 and catch the 9:25 bus to New Jersey."

Boy: "Well, where am I going to use the bathroom?"

Girl: "Can't you hold it?"

Boy: "No! And I'm starving. When can we get something to eat?"

Girl: "If we stop we won't make the 9:25!"

Boy: "I hope you're happy you got your way. I've never been so miserable."

Girl: Huff!

Okay, I need to find another conversation to peep into...

A group to my left had formed a waving "committee" of 12 to 15 people who would wave and wave and wave at the people in the lower level windows near us. It was quite an effort to get the window viewers' attention and make them realize that yes the group was waving at them. When finally a window person waved back, it was a little victory for us all - everyone shouting a "yea!" of glee, and then mumbled how we wish we could be so lucky to be inside!

I also spent the last hour making little bets with myself - how much time had passed since the last time I checked the clock, how long I could make the one granola bar I brought with me last so I didn't starve to death. I thought for a second about sharing it with the hungry guy in front of me, but out there it was survival of the fittest...there was no room for being nice.

Before I knew it, Al was counting down. All that waiting and preparing my camera, and then I wasn't ready! I was looking down at my camera on "3, 2" and popped up just in time for "1!" and lights!


10,800 seconds of waiting...and only 10 really mattered!

The crowd began streaming away from the tree quickly, giving me only about four minutes to make pictures and enjoy the lights. As I walked away, I realized I hadn't moved my feet in at least an hour. Had I moved at all, I would have known everything below my knees was frozen solid! I couldn't feel anything as I stumbled through the streets feeling like I should tell the policeman I'm not drunk, just crazy with cold.

The lighting of the tree and rushed picture taking that insued made me lose track of the couple in front of me. No telling if they were able to execute their planned escape route, but I can bet you they'll be sitting in the comforts of home next year.

I, on the other hand, will be back for the magic - with thicker socks and more snacks!