I’ve always appreciated city living, but after this weekend, I appreciate it a little bit more. I spent the weekend on Long Island with my parents and experienced the first Nor’Easter I have in a long time.

It was a weekend I wasn’t traveling and thought it would be a good idea to head out to the land of suburbia. I drove out Saturday looking forward to some overdue rest and relaxation, but that idea quickly disappeared on the Meadowbrook Parkway. The drive from the city was routine enough, with a lot of rain and extra strong winds, but that was to be expected from the weather report.

However, around Exit 16, traffic stopped abruptly, and I saw a tree topple over. I didn’t see any major damage to the cars nearby, but as traffic merged to go around it, another tree fell onto the highway. I couldn’t wait to get home and out of the car.

The next morning the neighborhood had an astounding number of trees down. Many of them blocked the entire street, and residents had to feel lucky the trees didn’t topple the opposite way and into the homes instead of the street. After seeing all the damage from the rain and wind, I realized I could not even begin to imagine what the recent natural disasters in Chile, Haiti and Turkey were like. I know I won’t take New York City living for granted again. Even when there is natural damage, apartment buildings rarely get affected and the residents are not responsible for the clean up. We can also get around town without a car and keep all of our basic needs at an arm’s reach. Our tax dollars may be out in use for the clean-up, and I’m happy to see them put to good use!

– Alex Young, vice president and associate publisher

I love to give credit when credit is due, and credit is due to the weathermen and women in New York City. Their predictions for the weather this past weekend were absolutely right — they predicted snow and snow it did! I was fortunate enough to be in upstate New York for the first snowfall, where four to five inches accumulated into a winter wonderland.  I was with great company, surrounded by incredible food and wine, which only made the snowfall that much better.

I was born on Long Island, but I am a winter girl at heart. I love being in the snow and visiting the mountains whenever I can. This weekend, I was reminded of the time I spent in Vermont, as a student at the University of Vermont. Everyone there loved to be outdoors in the summer or the winter. Skiing and hiking the local mountains, Stowe, Sugarbush or Jay Peak, were popular activities. I know anybody reading this who knows me now can’t picture me with anything but my stilettos and BlackBerry, but it’s amazing what you learn about people, or yourself, when given a chance in a new environment.

For all those beach lovers out there (especially those dwelling in a city), as winter gets underway across North America, take a step outside your typical comfort zone and breathe in some fresh mountain air! I’m full of great suggestions for weekend getaways if you need any ideas. And if you have some ideas for excursions, send them my way!

– Alex Young, vice president and associate publisher

I’ve always believed time is a necessary concept, but a strange one at best. Time is determinate depending on whether we are stressed or relaxed. If we are on deadline: stress; but on the first day of vacation we often say we have plenty of time.

The first time I realized that time was all relative was in high school. I was on tour with the Long Island Youth Orchestra and giving a concert in Western Samoa. We were staying with local families in their homes, and before we left the group, the conductor urgently stressed that we be on time for rehearsal the next day, “be on New York time.” I didn’t know what that meant until the next day when our host “dad” got us ready and drove us around the beautiful island on the way to rehearsal. Being semi-conscientious kids, not wanting to be scolded upon arriving late, we urged our host to cut the gorgeous detour short and go to rehearsal. He said, “Don’t worry, relax; you’re on island time now!”

I’ve also been awed at our own bodies when it comes to the concept of time and how we know when it’s time to do certain things in the morning, like get up, for example, without an alarm clock. This morning, however, it was the reverse; my body knew it was definitely NOT time to get up. Now, I’m sure all of you have stories similar to mine this morning.

I had to get up for a 7 a.m. flight and set my alarm for 4:45 a.m. When my alarm went off I got up, begrudgingly, brushed my teeth and did the whole morning routine feeling even more tired than I knew I should have. I went about my business and looked at a clock in a different room. It said 3:00 a.m. I looked again; yep, still 3 a.m. Somehow when I set my alarm I must have changed the clock settings as well. My body knew it was not yet time to get up, even at that hour. Happily, I went back to bed, but had to laugh at myself for making a silly mistake, but I was even more happy that I didn’t show up at the airport two hours early!

– Alex Young, vice president and associate publisher 

I’ve been staying with my daughter in Chicago for the last week and a half as she recovers from foot surgery. Very early Friday morning I was treated to a rip-roaring, good old-fashioned Midwest thunderstorm, and as I lay in my bed, counting between the flashes and the peals of thunder (and usually not getting above three or four in my count), I thought about when I first learned that trick (start counting when you see the lightning; stop when you hear the thunder; every four counts equals a mile between you and the strike). Thunderstorms are pretty few and far between in Portland, Ore., where I grew up (and they never boasted the duration or volume of the sort I experienced the other morning), but my dad taught me at an early age how to calculate how far a storm was from us.

The more I think about it, it’s possible that I was actually introduced to that magical formula not in the midst of a rare spring storm but rather through one of Daddy’s “Tommy, Bobby and Christopher” stories. Father of seven, busy attorney and a man of his generation (one which was far less “hands-on” in parenting than my own or succeeding ones), nevertheless I believe Dad relished those evenings when his schedule allowed him to tell us his tales of three little boys and their black Labrador dog who lived “on a great big farm down by the river.” Julie and I shared a bedroom, and we would debate whose turn it was to have Daddy stretch out on her bed (squished cozily against the wall to make room for him) while he spun another adventure of life on that idyllic farm.

Dad was born in 1916 and grew up in Patchogue, New York, on Long Island . . . not on a farm, but certainly he was familiar with the outdoors and the truck farms in the area (and one of his pleasures as an adult was tending our large vegetable garden after long days in the office). I’ll never know how much of the three brothers’ escapades mirrored his own adventures as a young boy; I simply know how much I enjoyed the way I could picture them, their parents and friends, the farm and surrounding woods in the words he wove together for our benefit.

One story we never tired of outlined the preparations Tommy, Bobby and Christopher’s family made as a severe thunderstorm barreled toward the farm. It began with some of the weather signs the boys’ father observed foretelling the coming cataclysm, continued with how each kind of animal was secured and sheltered, and reached a climax as the family hunkered down in their home, watching for the bolts of lightning and counting until the thunder rumbled as the storm advanced. The story concluded with a rainbow and a survey of the farm for damage (one big old tree on a hill always took a direct hit). That story never failed to satisfy, and though there were several others, I’m sure we requested it more than any other.

My girls have heard that story several times (along with others that I could recall with somewhat fewer of the original details), and I know my siblings have passed on Daddy’s stories to their own kids as well. I suspect in time there will be grandchildren who will grow round-eyed, as we did, when they hear how the wind rushes around the farmhouse and the windows shake in their frames as the thunder grows louder and closer with every new flash of lightning. It’s a legacy I cherish far more than my blue eyes or Irish heritage — or even my love of gardening — and one I hope many generations to come will enjoy as well.

Happy Father’s Day to all you dads out there!

–Patty Vanikiotis, proofreader

I was 18. At 18, I’d seen more of the world than most people see in a lifetime. I had visited a large portion of Europe, Asia, the South Pacific and even some parts of North America most Americans don’t even know exist, like Iqualuit in the Northwest Territories of Canada. But nothing could prepare me for my visit to Normandy.

I was traveling with the Long Island Youth Orchestra. The orchestra is 85 students touring the world as a classical ensemble for five weeks each summer. We performed for all types of occasions, from performances for royalty and diplomats to charity concerts. I toured for five summers. Growing up, it was the time of my life. I have memories — both as a musician and a tourist — to last a lifetime. The visit to Normandy is one such memory.

Traveling with 85 students, with an average age of 17, people were always laughing, having a good time and getting into trouble, like any good teenager. We made many sightseeing trips in between concerts. When our two coach buses dropped us at the Normandy American Cemetery and Memorial, located above Omaha Beach, the demeanor of the group instantly changed to a solemn attitude. This was the same beach where world leaders commemorated the 65th anniversary of D Day last week. People around the world remembered the spot where the Allied forces stormed the beaches of Normandy, resulting in approximately 10,000 deaths in a single day.

We had the opportunity to walk around the cemetery, which is a mesmerizing vision of uniform white graves with white crosses and the occasional Star of David. The air held mixed emotions — an eerie aura in a peaceful environment. The memorial grounds were beautifully preserved. The vision in my memory still gives me chills today and brings a tear to my eye. Many of those buried were about my age at the time and gave their life for people they never met. This thought had entered my mind before, when I was studying WWII in school, but it didn’t hold any reality until that very moment.

Many of us, including myself, had family that had participated in D Day. Some had relatives who never made it home from that very beach. Those members of the group simply stopped in their tracks and broke down in tears. My grandfather, fortunately, made it back to Long Island to tell his story, but many brave men did not make it home to their loved ones.

When I see footage from D Day, I have a hard time visualizing that was the same place I stood many years after the invasion. Many thoughts and memories were hard for me to grasp as an 18-year-old standing on those beaches. I still have a hard time understanding some of the memories, but they will remain with me for a lifetime. I hope the generations ahead of us and after us will continue to remember the memories as well.

-Alex Young, vice president and associate publisher