The New York Times - USA (2020-11-15)

THE NEW YORK TIMES, SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 15, 2020 MB 5

Eavesdropping

DEAR DIARY:
It was fall 1969, and I was a
college student in Manhattan.
One afternoon, I met a friend for
lunch at a busy dairy restaurant
on Broadway.
The place was full of business-
men from the garment district.
The tables were close together,
and the patrons were packed in
like sardines.
As my friend and I enjoyed our
lunch, it was hard not to eaves-
drop on the two men at the next
table. They were talking about a
client, discussing intimate busi-
ness information and throwing
around numbers.
After a while, I couldn’t help
myself. I turned to them.
“Excuse me,” I said, “but
you’re talking about my father.”

JUDI POLONER

Up on the Roof

DEAR DIARY:

The homework assignment for
my digital photography class
involved making a cyanotype, a

19th-century developing process

that produces prints using sun

and water as a fixative.

To complete the assignment, I

carried a cake pan, a pane of

glass, a white collar, a green wire

and a package of blue papers to

the roof of my building.

Two women I had never met

were on the roof when I got

there. Thinking that they would

find the obscure procedure I was

undertaking bizarre, I told them

that I was making something

called a cyanotype.

They quickly cut me off.

“So are we,” they said.

KATHLEEN BRADY

Animated

DEAR DIARY:

It was the early 1980s, and I was

an aspiring cartoonist from Ore-

gon. I had traveled to New York

for a conference where I would

be able to show my work and

meet people in the industry.

I could barely afford the air-

fare, but a high school friend who

was a conductor with New York

City Opera let me sleep on the

daybed at his rehearsal studio.

There was a cocktail party on

the conference’s opening night,

and I walked there to save

money. But at the evening’s end,

I felt uncomfortable about walk-

ing home alone.

Someone pointed toward an

older woman in a trench coat

who was tidying up.

“Ask Selby,” this person said.

“She lives near where you’re

staying.”

As we settled into seats on the

bus, I asked what Selby did for

the cartoonist guild. I assumed

she was a secretary.

“I’m vice president,” she re-

plied.

My eyes widened.

“Then you must be a cartoon-

ist!” I said.

“I was an animator with

Warner Bros. for years,” she

said. “But you might know me

better by my husband’s work,

‘Pogo.’ ”

I realized that I was sitting

next to Selby Kelly, an acclaimed

animator who had kept Walt

Kelly’s comic strip alive after he

died.

As we rode though Manhattan,

she told me about how they had

met and about their lives and

careers.

When we arrived at her stop,

she turned to me.

“Don’t lose me, Jan,” she said.

I almost did, but years later we

were reunited at a cartoonist

party in California. I had finally

“made it,” and Selby had retired

to Calistoga.

I still have the original “Pogo”

she gave me hanging on my

studio wall.

JAN ELIOT

Run in the Rain

DEAR DIARY:

It was a cold, rainy evening in

Brooklyn in October 2017, and I

was training for the Philadelphia

Marathon.

I was running up Ocean Park-

way in Kensington on my way to

run a loop of Prospect Park. I

didn’t mind the rain, but it was

early into my run and I was

already pretty wet.

I was stopped at a crosswalk

at Ocean Parkway and Church

Avenue when a woman with an

umbrella stopped next to me.

She looked at me and then put

the umbrella over my head.

“You look like you need this

more than me right now,” she

said.

KNOX MARTIN

Neighborhood Stroll

DEAR DIARY:

I invited a neighbor to join me on

my daily walk around my Brook-

lyn neighborhood. I thought it

would be a nice change to share

my peaceful ritual of getting

some vitamin D and fresh air

with somebody else.

As we started out, she began

to get irritated about the number

of dogs she was seeing that were

off leash. She didn’t like that.

“I’m getting a dog,” she an-

nounced, visibly unnerved.

“Really?” I said.

We passed some trash piled on

the sidewalk.

“I don’t know why you walk

this way,” she said. “I’d never

walk this way. It’s so gross.”

It was my least favorite street,

but I was feeling protective.

“Well, it’s not always garbage

day,” I replied.

Moments later, she said that

something had bitten her finger.

“My finger is swelling!” she

said. “Can you see it? It has a

pulse! What should I do?”

I asked if she needed ice or

water, or if she wanted to just go

home.

“No,” she said. “I’m fine.”

As we continued walking,

though, she began to wonder

aloud about the possibility of

anaphylactic shock.

After a few more blocks, she

said she needed to use the bath-

room and headed off.

My phone pinged before I got

back to my building. It was a text

message from her.

“Thanks for the walk, babe,”

the message said. “I loved it!

When can we go again?”

AMY SHAPIRO

Observations for this column may
be sent to Metropolitan Diary at
[email protected] or to The New
York Times, 620 Eighth Avenue, New
York, N.Y. 10018. Please include your
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adapted in all media.

Metropolitan Diary

ILLUSTRATIONS BY AGNES LEE

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