Here With the Medium?

Trying to adjust to the rhythms of this place, I must forgo biking on the trail when the snow falls, but, as I rediscovered last time, I returned to a driveway full of ice, shoveling the driveway is a fine form of exercise.  This morning then I headed to repeat the work I did yesterday and shovel away all the snow that had accumulated over my earlier work, while it was all still powdery.  This time though there were six inches of accumulation and it was much slower going.  

My mom had invited us all up to meet her at a spa in Reinbeck.  I couldn’t locate any place called “The Willows” that wasn’t in New Jersey, or Long Island so I just typed in the street address and we headed up the New York State Throughway to the next exit in Kingston.  Damn, the river looked lovely crossing it there with all the snow on the ground and the sky clear and blue.  We were only seven minutes or so late when we pulled into the parking lot for the Beekman Arms. 

I followed a party of Brazilian women into the lobby, asked for my mom’s party and was met with a blank stare.  “No one by that name, I’m afraid.  Wait, are you here with the medium?”  I didn’t know how to answer that question.  Was this garbled syntax in reference to size or did she mean a psychic?  “You know the psychic” she said, offering me a steel-rail.  “Oh.  No. No.  We’re not here for the medium, thought perhaps she can be of use in finding my mother.  I called her and could hear my step dad groan my name:  “No, we're up at the Willows.”  She gave me directions with street names that may as well have said: “take a right on X street and proceed to Y boulevard.”  The young hostess here in low ceilinged, eighteenth century lobby had never heard of “The Willows.”  “I’m not really from around here.”

Well, “Willow, by Charlie Palmer” is actually located at the Mirbeau Inn & Spa.  The Mrs. was reacted a bit like Columbus crew must have when he said: “I think it’s just a little further this way.”  But we were able to get there fast enough and once I got over the fact that half the dining room was in white robes, we settled into a wonderful feast.  My daughter started in mistakenly to my steak tartare toast and was suitably disgusted by thought off all she’d been enjoying up until then.  It was regal.  So was were the Eggs Florentine.  Of in the distance was the unmistakable sound of a live, hollow-bodied guitar and went over to see not one but two local cats of my vintage sounding away like Jim Hall and Joe Pass.  It was just a lovely morning.

Monday, 01/20/20