Penultimate attempt to reconnect with my adult sons

It snowed some today, but I made it easily enough to the Italian Store in Westover to have lunch at noon on the birthday of my 30-something oldest son hoping that he would finally drop by (he lives locally), to try to re-establish familial relations with his father after over a decade of radio silence from him towards all Lambertons stemming from his induced feelings of hurt over the nuclear divorce his, in my opinion, covert-narcistic mother launched against me in 2001.  He loves his mother so, and he so had his adolescent will overborne during the divorce by his mother's coterie of "professionals" from their perch hanging out at the courthouse seeking paid work.  I'm so sorry for him, and the family-wrecking litigation launched secretly by his mother only finally ended when she was assessed $50K in sanctions and costs years later by the court for filing a "harassment petition" and an "unjustified" appeal.  I guess he is still, in an excellent example of Trumpian rejecters of reality and facts, pissed as hell.

He didn't show of course, but it was a snowbound adventure that was entirely familiar to me.  At the Italian Store in Westover, I swapped stories of snowy traffic rescues of inept or reckless drivers with two Virginia State Troopers who were taking a brief break from trying to manage the chaos outside on the nearby slick interstate (I was a Colorado State Trooper for many years).  The norms of human decency were on exhibit in the store, first responders taking a much-needed short break in their duty to safeguard the community, employees who labored to get there despite the weather so they could serve the community, servers who produced the best product for their clients who had made it there, and in my most poignant vignette, watching as a homeless person sitting at a table outside in the cold was served a complementary cup of hot coca or coffee by a store employee.

I hung out for long minutes by the pizza station hoping to see, or be greeted by, a family member (I have three estranged sons) but after awhile I went to the hoagie station and ordered a 12-inch Italian sub that was way too large to eat alone.  It was filled with meats and cold cuts, delicious and too much to eat.  I sat by the door enjoying it, where I could watch persons entering and leaving to see if I recognized anyone, but nobody familiar came by.

So I left, ruing in a bittersweet way the life I could have had but for this somewhat pretty, in my opinion covert-narcissist who I got swept up with as a young man, when she was playing me against her then-current fiancee.  I love my three estranged sons, but they are immutably aligned to her because she so worked them psychologically (she had them 79% of the time) during the years-long divorce she spawned.  My youngest son will turn 30 soon, and I will thereupon not further assiduously work to make myself available for these boys (now men) henceforth, a victory for the mother-knows-best bias of Western courts which culminates often in PAS (research Parental Alienation Syndrome, it should curdle your hairs).

     

Joe & Pat's.

Thin crust.  You don't even have to say pizza after it.

The best pizza in the world is thin crust pizza, and the best is made at Joe & Pat's on Staten Island at 1758 Victory Boulevard.  Its sign out front doesn't even say "pizza".

A half vodka and half arugula pizza pie is a thing of beauty and that's what I ordered when I visited the restaurant on Staten Island last weekend.  I had the vodka sauce side.

All too quickly it was done.  When we left the place was humming with business, a lot of it for people dashing in for carryout.

Life As A Pizza

Last year I finally fulfilled my lifelong desire to visit the remote battlefield of the Little Big Horn, known when I was a child as Custer's Last Stand, where about 212 troopers perished to the last man on June 25, 1876 in Montana when five 7th Cavalry troops under General Custer attacked a huge Indian encampment of up to 10,000 Sioux and Cheyenne, of whom perhaps 3,000 were warriors who came swarming out of their village like angry bees when provoked and annihilated the soldiers in about 90 minutes. A few miles away Major Reno with the other seven troops of the regiment barely held on in a hedgehog defense atop a hill for two days before he was rescued by General Terry arriving with reinforcements. (Left: Pizza for two last winter at the Lost Dog Cafe in Westover on my youngest son's birthday. No, he didn't show up.)

It was the stuff of American lore, Remember the Maine, Send More Japs, I have not yet begun to fight, Nuts!, The Shot Heard Round the World, the Alamo. The reality, a hillside leading down to a meandering stream. impinged upon the heroic nature of the historic record, especially since it took me thirty-eight hours to drive there and back, alone, from my sister's house in St. Paul, but the memory in my mind's eye of the swirling fight, imprinted there by books, pictures and reflection, lives on. (Right: Homemade broccoli and tomato pizza last summer.)

That was my big trip last year, I thought, spending three hours wandering from the Custer site to the Reno site and back again in what is basically wasteland ranch land. Now at almost sixty, having seen almost every important thing I have wanted to see in America, I am free to cut the bonds of North America and go abroad.

But on my FB page lately I have been posting a photo each day of various izza pies I have had in the last year. The most spectacular picture shows an eighteen-inch supreme pizza pie I ordered for dinner, alone, the first night of trial in Dallas last month. (Left: An "everything" pizza in Dallas last month.)

My stay in Dallas to attend a seven-day trial was a typically intense litigation experience. Looking at the snapshot made me realize that that was my big trip last year, a work-detail of three months duration, off and on.

Looking at other pizza pie pictures taken last year showed me that the pies sort of defined my year that just passed, sort of life by pizza analogy. So I decided to post the photographs here also, for what they're worth. (Right: Neapolitan pizza at Orso's right here in Falls Church. Yes, that's an egg on top.)