Of Pizza, Ice Cream, and Cold Weather

 

2012

Traditions, sadly, can die.

I found myself thinking about one today.

I decided it was warm enough to go up into the attic today and do some cleaning. I find the process to be cathartic, if not painful. Mostly physical pain but also mentally exhausting.

Attics carry monsters. Memory monsters. Oh, some memories are great. I came across binders of baseball cards that I had forgotten about and a 1978 World Series program that was given to me and no doubt has my scratch on the scorecard inside. I kept score of the series-clincher in Game 6.

But the monsters also mean reminders of previous lives and portions of my life that I'd prefer to forget.

I was content to throw some of that out.

Now, to be clear, I have also given plenty to Sean to do what he wishes with it.

In this case, it found a garbage bag.

But I cleaned and scrubbed old mugs and dishes and silverware and drinking glasses. I pretty much opened and closed every drawer and cabinet in the kitchen.

Again, cathartic.

Again, exhausting.

Among the finds was an old stop sign. Not a real one but a wooden one that used to have a pole attached to it. The sign -- which has the word "go" in green on the opposite side, could stand up and be a toy for a kid who loves roads.

It, obviously, was mine.

My great nephew Carson has developed a fascination in his very young life with stop signs.

So it's my great honor to offer it to him, and I texted his grandmother to do that very thing.

That's my sister and that's where the tradition comes back to the conversation.

You know, the original topic here.

She, Carson, and two of her kids were having dinner at Post Corner Pizza in Darien.

No, I'm not here to talk about Darien's championship win yesterday in football over Fairfield Prep, though I do congratulate the Blue Wave. Yesterday doesn't avenge the sting of their 2019 loss to Newtown on the last play of the game but gives them a new feeling. They're the champs and they've won quite a bit over the last decade.

Instead, Laura and I were both reminded of our December tradition of meeting at Post Corner Pizza for dinner before driving to the Setti's Christmas village in Norwalk. The collection of lights, small houses, and wooden characters created a cornucopia -- a plethora! -- of the Christmas feels.

Of which I now have none. I suppose that's a post for another night.

To that end, my mother went for a stent eight years ago today and wound up with open-heart surgery. So began that story. 

Again, for another time.

Anyway -- and I'm a lousy storyteller -- we'd do Post Corner for pizza and salad, then go visit the Setti's house (we didn't know them but did they welcome all of us every year), then finish up with -- yes, in December -- ice cream at Stew Leonard's.

It was glorious. It was us.

We'd freeze and warm-up and freeze and eat ice cream and finally thaw out as we each drove home.

Indeed, the year of Mom's open-heart surgery, we didn't think we'd do any of this because of what happened and when it happened.

Funny thing, though. We still made the visit to the Christmas village happen spontaneously.

Mom was in rehab in Fairfield following the surgery and we spent Christmas Eve with her. Curiously, it wound up being a really nice evening of pizza and laughs. OK, Mom didn't exactly enjoy it but something about it was relaxing.

Somewhere along the line, we decided after saying goodnight to Mom that we'd go to the Setti's house.

So, we did. Snow began to fall hard which created both a festive atmosphere and a dangerous ride home.

Sean and I were working our way towards Mahopac through New Canaan and Pound Ridge. At one point, with the roads slick, we started slowly down a hill when I felt the car sliding.

We were losing control.

In the moment, I tried to stay calm. I said nothing. I didn't flinch. Internally, I was flipping out.

I got the car back under control and we continued on when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

It was Sean, 11 at the time.

"You seem a little tense," he said, giving my shoulder a quick massage.

Smart kid.

The Setti's shut the Christmas village down a year later.

Traditions come and go.

Time moves on.

The memories linger.

Like old mugs in an attic.