I like Garvin. Garvin McCloskey is there at the restaurant he runs in a New Paltz farmhouse that predates the War for Independence, making people feel welcome with his big Galway brogue walking from table to table, making conversation. We sat outside beneath a what felt like a standing circle of centuries old black locus trees. And the food was rich but not memorable. Sliders with ribs and stuffed mushrooms and a big ribeye, it was the end of a fasting period, and I ate heartily but didn’t savor. I thought it was my problem, and then, during a “Game of Thrones” binge we all discussed having had the runs.
This morning we had plans to visit the Storm King Art Center with my brother and his family. As tradition would have it, we visited the Hard Roll Deli first. The Latina on the phone referred to me and I believe every adult male who calls as “honey.” No eggplant parm today. No. No meatball wedge either. No hot sandwiches. That’s all right. Is a quarter pound of coleslaw the right size? “You know. It’s about an inch thick.” This didn’t help. She wasn’t sure what an “inch” was. Later when I picked it up, they were playing merengue and a big young white guy by the meat slicer talked about wanting to play Son House instead. They had some big pickles behind the counter, and I got two of those as well.
The Art Center isn’t letting just anyone in. We’d booked tickets a few weeks in advance and sure enough, we drove through and were guided off to a tent that checked our reservation number before letting us into the general parking area. My sister-in-law gave me a big hug. She felt strong. My little brother said “yo” and it turns out he’s found a great new gig which I was happy about and my five-year-old nephew has so much remarkable energy it is nearly exhausting to watch him modulate it. He gave me a hug and then ran off into the field towards an impossible sculpture a few hundred yards out and then promptly turned around and ran back to us, and then, after sharing a few ideas he ran about some more.
He suggested a trail into some white pines on the hill, and we darted up. He figured we’d then run right back down but the rest of us, having mounted the hill were set on proceeding ahead. My younger daughter who is sixteen and no longer five, had a hoodie on. It was approaching ninety-degrees. “Do you have anything under that?” “No.” I offered to give her my aquamarine short sleeved shirt and it wasn’t a hard sell. I was left with a grey tee-shirt.
The main attraction were the remarkable sculptures. Casual about considering one and then moving on to the next, I found myself particularly drawn to the myriad old trees that were just as interesting to me at least as any of the sculptures. There was a stand of pitch pines. Unexpected. Two centuries old European Beech that swung down to the ground and created a wonderful hideout. I plucked a walnut from a walnut tree and encouraged my nephew to save it for back home. Though we only saw a fraction of the collection I think we all seemed to agree that our favorite was Alyson Shotz “Mirror Fence,” which proved a fine marker to run the length of, over and over.
Saturday, 6/19/21
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