Moths in the Versace

In thirty years of being a corporate executive, you buy a lot of suits.  Buying suits, dress shirts, ties, "sensible" shoes and then dry cleaning and shining them are part of the costs of doing business in Manhattan's midtown.  In Soho, Dumbo or Chelsea, black jeans and black T's are the uniform, in the Village (East or West), torn jeans or camo is fine and there are your neighborhoods where leather is preferred.  But in midtown, it's suits. Lightweight suits for summer, wool suits for winter, khaki suits for traveling to the branches, "bankers" suits for board meetings, pinstripes for lawyer meetings, tuxedos for formal occasions (the boss's daughter's wedding) and a white dinner jacket (charity fund-raiser, worn once): this is the wardrobe of an upwardly mobile corporate executive, which I was.

Of course, every suit needs a few shirts to go with it and every shirt must have several matching ties. In a year of fifty weeks (two weeks vacation), you would need at least a dozen suits to cover the seasons, occasions and traveling required. I say at least a dozen- some sharp-dressed men would have many, many more.  If your weight varies, then suits for the skinny times and suits for the heavier times.  European travel requires even more suits, since fashion there is so different and appearing at an important function with a poor choice of suit is difficult to overcome.  (It's "one strike" against you, but there's no baseball in Europe.)  Over thirty years, that's a lot of suits.

Further, suits vary by status - as one is promoted, one must refresh the wardrobe to reflect the new paycheck, and one must not dress above or below one's rank. You can pay $200 for a suit or $2000 for a suit.  A dress shirt can be $20 at Daffy's or $200 at Barney's.  A tie can be $10 with pictures of golf hole flags on it, or $100 imported from Italy.  When you get that promotion from manager to Director, you can't wear the Daffy shirt and Hole Flag tie anymore.  Early on my career, I celebrated a promotion by buying three suits for $1000 - my promotion netted me $6000. For another promotion, on a business trip to Hong Kong, I ordered custom made suits and shirts, measured, fitted and finalized over a ten day visit. The order was three suits, six shirts, two extra pair of slacks and a navy blue blazer.  I bought five leather belts in the bazaar for $1 each (yes, $1.  Saw the same ones back in the US at $19.99 each.)  Now I could address a Board of Directors.

I developed a hobby of shopping for ties wherever I was shipped for a meeting.  I would wear the "San Francisco" tie I bought on Market Street when staff from San Francisco visited headquarters in midtown, likewise Houston, Chicago, Boston, Atlanta, LA, Cleveland, Detroit, Miami, etc. I visited the largest mall in America,  near Minneapolis, and bought one tie.  At a sample sale at the Merchandise Mart in Dallas, I bought ten imported silk ties for $49.  Some years, I made 40 business trips - and on each, a new tie came home with me, along with whatever other souvenirs I bought for the family.  Over a thirty year career, that's a spectrum of ties.

Living in the GNC, I don't have much use for Armani suits, Missioni ties or Micheal Kors shirts. When I went to Manhattan last week for a beautiful dinner at a fancy restaurant and a Broadway show, I wore jeans and a nice denim shirt I ironed myself.  For a moment, I considered wearing a suit and dismissed the idea as silly.

When you stop by for a visit, if you're interested, I can show you my suits in the storage space over the garage.  They're still in the cardboard wardrobe boxes the movers used to bring them to the GNC from the Concrete Jungle five years ago. We'll laugh at the moth holes in the $1000 Versace suit.

Proud of My Trash

There I was, at the town dump (or if you prefer, "transfer station") bringing the empty wine bottles from a long weekend of house guests to the recycling area.  I had about two cases of assorted varietals, purchased and consumed to pair with the menus I had planned and executed.  The wines were slightly above the ordinary, every day table wine I buy for myself - some were offered as house gifts by the visiting cityfolk, some were purchased at the Wine & Brew festival at Hunter Mountain in the GNC, but most were from local wine merchants in Kingston and Saugerties. Of the two cases, only two bottles would I call "special", that is, more than $30 a bottle - a French Chardonnay, to go with the chicken dish.

According to the protocol of the dump (it's "dump" to us locals), I was sorting the clear glass from the green glass on the table provided for the purpose, before tossing the bottles into the dumpster and hearing the satisfying crash of a wine bottle at the end of its useful life.  "Wine is Life" it is said by the clever guy who designs T-shirts. An empty wine bottle is a souvenir of a meal enjoyed with friends.

There he was, near the sorting table, hovering, dressed in ragged, smelly, dirty clothes.  He had broken fingernails, unkempt hair and to put it kindly, poor personal hygiene in all respects.  He seemed fascinated by the labels on the bottles as I put them on the table.  After two or three had made it into the dumpster, he began his commentary:

"Ah, a good year and a good vintage - you know your wines", he said as a Cab went into the dumpster.  "Ah, an excellent choice, particularly with duck, a strong taste that cuts through the fat on the palette" as a Pinot made the trip. "Ah, the aroma of this one - I remember it well - hints of pomegranate and citrus."  "Ah, how I loved this one - California, but a vineyard situated north to south rather than east to west as most are in the Simi Valley.  Very crisp, clean finish. No, no - I don't care for these Chilean Malbecs, vastly overrated."

I kept tossing, but at a slower pace, so he would have time to read the labels. His commentary on every bottle had been accurate so far, though I quibbled about the Malbecs.  "Perhaps" I said, "but it was only $15 for the bottle."  He waved my opinion away into the air of the GNC as if I were a sommnelier in training. He waited  for the next case of empties to reach the table.  He continued his critique with knowledge of extraordinary scope and depth until the last bottle, a sweet dessert wine from the local Windham winery.  "Haven't tasted this one," he said and he looked inside the bottle for dregs.  (None, I rinse the bottles to keep the mice out of them.)

The transfer station attendant punches a card for the fee.  I approached with my card and asked who was the man with the French accent and encyclopedia-like knowledge of wine.  "Dunno," said the attendant.  "He shows up occasionally and doesn't stay for long.  Most of the time, the wine doesn't interest him."

For the first time in my life, I was proud of my trash!

Planted

The change of seasons is here and with it I noticed a change in the social scene - summer friends are gone and ski friends have not arrived.  Irene had a scattering effect too - friends have relocated (temporarily or longer), abandoned the mountaintop altogether, or died.  The GNC don't care, though - we adjust, not the mountains.

After eight years here, I understand now why the "real" locals consider so many good-intentioned full-timers "transient".  Folks arrive with the intention of becoming permanent residents, but they when they discover the full meaning of mountaintop living in the GNC, they have second thoughts.  After a season or two, they're down in the valley or back to the city or "out West".

Not me.  I'm staying.  I've survived extreme temperatures, 7-foot snowstorms, 20 consecutive days of rain, Irene and the weeks after her, power outages long, short and numerous, mosquitoes as big as tacos, spider bites, several varieties of poison weeds, backed-up septic tanks, dog fights, tax hikes, mud slides, road closures, noisy neighbors, no television, mail delivery, dry cleaner or Starbucks, nosy bears, clogged culverts, pump failures and maybe the worst of all, road kill skunk in the driveway.  If that doesn't chase you back to a junior-4 in a high-rise, nothing can.

Last night: clear skies, bright stars, full moon, slight breeze moving clean air, cool temps, fresh water running nearby, nature's sounds of silence, 600,000 acres of forever-wild forest for a back yard and no skunk.  If that doesn't plant you here, nothing can.

In Memoriam

Like many families who lived in Manhattan on September 11, 2001, after the smoke cleared, the dust settled, the odor wafted away and  the body parts were retrieved, counted and buried, my family made an emergency plan. Our plan was to rendez-vous at our house in Hunter in the GNC.  If we were separated by circumstance, on opposite sides of the Hudson, or away on business, or on a school trip when the next attack came (which we were sure it would), no questions asked - head to Hunter. We had "go bags" ready, sufficient cash in everyone's secret hiding place and keys to the house hidden under a rock near the front door.  Anyway you can, get to Hunter.

As you know by know, our son went off to college and we eventually moved to Hunter full-time to pursue my writing career and a less stressful lifestyle.  Now, its September 11 plus ten years and I am heading off the mountaintop to NYC to attend memorial services in honor of the friends, colleagues and strangers who died that day.  September 11 was nothing like Lady Irene, but in its aftermath, we did have stranded strangers come stay with us, since transportation home was impossible, there were emergency vehicles everywhere and the devastation was omni-present.

Now,  September 11 has come to Hunter.  A memorial structure has been erected in Dolan's Lake Park, made of steel girders from the World Trade Center.  I saw those girders ten years ago, burnt, twisted and splintered, and here they are again. Certainly I understand why the monument was created, and I will attend the dedication ceremony of the monument next week, but I will do so with bittersweet emotions.   It would have been nice to leave those girders at GZ.

Irene, Meet Lee. Lee, Meet Irene.

Wednesday: still raining here in the GNC, more than ten days after Irene.

Stories continue to emerge of catastrophe, personal hardship and depression. At the post office, a stranger said to me, out of nowhere, "These are the only clothes I have."  She tugged at her T-shirt, many sizes too big, but her shoes looked new, donated.

Everywhere I go I see homes pushed off the foundations, sunken into trenches, washed into the stream (stream by nostalgic name only), broken into chunks, smashed against uprooted trees.  This caused the rushing water to change course, into other homes that had been protected. The people whose homes these were are now themselves without foundation, sunken, nostalgic, broken and uprooted.  They must change course, too, and it is still raining.  I went from the post office to the grocery store. "I haven't seen this much destruction since the war," said a friend. He meant World War II, in Dresden, where he was raised.

Yesterday, I ventured off the mountaintop, to Kingston, for supplies. People, cars and businesses were  going about their normal activities of daily living.  I didn't run into any roadblocks, detours, emergency vehicles or National Guard personnel.  I thought of going to a movie to move my mind off the mayhem, but it was still raining and I didn't want to risk another road washing away before I could get back to the mountaintop.

Normal Activities of Daily Living.  What a nice idea. I think I will try it myself today.