The first weekend of this month we spent in Knoxville, Tennessee. The occasion was the wedding of our friends’ son, whom I’ve know since his birth. The wedding and reception occurred in the L&N Station, an old railway station that has long since been converted for social use. My Boston-born husband, Steve, had never been to a wedding where the aunts made the cookies, and the out-of-town guests helped with the decorations. I was born and raised in North Dakota. I relate well to the concept that it doesn’t take $20,000 of daddy’s money to get the job done. It was a lovely wedding. And married they are. (Oh, and the cookies were supreme.)
Last weekend we visited our oldest son in NYC. It was a totally different experience—except for the fact that Steve’s conjunctivitis was still raging, having moved to his good eye and leaving him with fuzzy vision. We visited the Museum of Natural History, the kids, and many fine—and somewhat expensive—restaurants.
I lived in NYC for a couple of years, 1969 and 1970, leaving because I was much too young, too poor, and too naïve to be happy in that environment. Now, much older and wiser, I appreciate the culture, the food, and the eclectic bustle of activity. The ethnic blend. The walking. The subways—well maybe not the subways. People are still as rude and unapproachable as they were years ago, maybe more so. I look forward to going again.
A new group of nursing students started their nursing education at Broward College this week. My class is composed of well over 125 fresh and smiling faces.
I teach the first two theory and clinical classes, introduce the concepts that form the foundation of their practice for years to come, and begin the indoctrination into the culture of nursing. It’s exciting and rewarding. But it is the fresh and smiling faces that draw me back term after term.