I. Introductions.

 Most events in life should really be dealt with following the generally applicable phrase “you need to calm down”. People, as if there is not enough to think about in real life, make, almost as a rule, mole hills into mountains. Heck, there are hardly any mole hills left. Take, for instance, my move home from my adult self proclaimed sabbatical to NYC. 

When I was 28, I left my job and my dead end relationship, my apartment in the upcoming Reston Town Center, and moved to NYC. A dream I had in my heart for as long as I could remember. My Grammy worked on 5th Avenue. My Grandpa helped to create the light posts on the Avenue of the Americas. My great Uncle shed blood, sweat and tears building the Holland Tunnel. NY was in my blood. As the “southerner” of the family, God save the souls of those who had the audacity to be born south of the Mason Dixon line, I always felt a sense of lacking. Even my siblings had dared not venture south as they so selectively departed the birth canal to enter the world as Yankees. 

But not me. And, truth be told, I liked the south. Peach pies, that classic draw, cowboy boots and really who has time for saying “you all” when one could so clearly say “y'all”. My mother, in addition to having the audacity to birth a southern child, so horribly moved her elderly mother from the northern security of her quaint New Jersey Cape Cod on Gibson Street to our home, in the south, to see out her remaining days on earth before she would go home to the ultimate north, filled with the likes of Frank Sinatra and all good Yanks, in Heaven. While living in VA, my Grammy would be often, if not always, heard saying, as if it was a part of her legal name, “My name is Frances Virginia Harold. I'm from the North (pronounced No-ah-th) you know.” Oh-kay. 

 I wanted to be a cop in South Carolina. Always did. I believed in the law and protecting the innocent. I happened to be pretty tough (we’re from the North, you know). I was once told by an Aunt “you’ve got grit, but you can still dress up beautifully for dinner.” Dirt didn’t frighten me, and I was never one to back down from confrontation when needed. I am a lady, don’t get me wrong, but I certainly will not be remembered for shying away from a good opportunity at vigilantism in defense of the weak. Having said that, I am a proud patriot, I bleed red, white and blue and I believe in the laws and protections so fearlessly enacted by our forefathers. 

As a teenager, I would tell my Grammy, “I am going to be a cop in South Carolina” and she would say in her gentle, yet firm tone which never allowed for rebuttal or argument, “You will make a wonderful teacher.” She proudly declared whenever asked what laid ahead in her granddaughter’s future after college, that I would be a teacher in NY, just like she had been. She was even going to give me her teacher's bell. Imagine a small cowbell marked with the beautifully uniform cursive of Grammys generation indicating the bell belonged to Ms. Harold. I don’t even know if they teach cursive in school anymore, they did when I was growing up. Grammys generation can always be identified by their cursive. They had no leeway for creative freedom on their penmanship, the nuns made sure of that. 

So, how did I ever end up here? Funny story, and you already paid for the internet (or someone did, lest you are an internet thief?), and I hope you are one of those readers who can’t put down a story no matter what, and are therefore a captive audience. I, on the other hand, can gladly put down a book or a story that does not have my attention or that does not make me feel fulfilled and relaxed. I tend to read ahead, even the end of the book, to see how it ends because I can’t have a hobby that leaves me disappointed. Life is too short. So, back to this story, let's begin at the beginning.