Saturday, June 19, 2010
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Riding Trains
Riding the trains
Leaving Washington D.C.—barbed wire and graffiti outside, small red bricks, “glassful equals joyful” on the billboard, “Capital Self-storage” mixed with Burger King signs—“No blood for oil” splashed across a building and now I see trees before a dark tunnel and more trees. It’s almost summertime. We’ve ridden trains from the beginning of the trip—the subway of my childhood in NYC—the stops I know so well—turn right to 14th Street with the smells of cotton candy, and popcorn—Then the train to Philadelphia. I hardly every rode that train as a child—and then up to Swarthmore to visit friends and do readings of m memoir, Burned. When I was 16 I rode the train to Swarthmore by myself to an interview for college. So different than now where parents take children by the hand to visit schools.
In Philadelphia we waited in the large area with hundreds of others—for the track to appear and then the madhouse rush, a rush my husband hates but reminds me of the crowds of my childhood, people going to and fro—a purposeful group of humanity. From Philadelphia we rode the train to Washington D.C. where I slept and read—luxurious stolen moments after the crunch of grading papers. And now we’re going to New Haven, Ct. leaving the Capitol—leaving the museums where we saw Calder mobiles turning in circles, metal sculptures, the horrors of the holocaust and the brave lists of people who stood up and helped—the train is now moving into the trees by small houses out of the city and its searing heat.
At 12 years old I rode by myself on Amtrak to visit a camp friend, Christina Anderson(Pooky we called her then). She lived outside of Boston and I was tired on the train and wanted to sleep but was terrified I’d miss my stop. I was going to go skiing for the first time. I remember my legs crossing on the small slope, my fingers almost slipping on the rope lift. Pooky had been skiing since she was young and exercised a lot of patience with me as I navigated skis, poles and lifts. When I took the train home, the last stop was Grand Central. I don’t remember if my parents met me. I probably took the subway home since I was on them since 10 years old. So much independence then.
Now we’re on our way to Conn. A few remnants of graffiti are left but mostly all I see are trees and telephone lines now—some scattered clouds—almost empty station platforms early morning on Monday. Only workers in orange shirts gather around a large truck—my neighbors on the train sleep across from me. It’s great to give over everything to others—the conductors, the train, the tracks. To sleep, to write, to dream.
Leaving Washington D.C.—barbed wire and graffiti outside, small red bricks, “glassful equals joyful” on the billboard, “Capital Self-storage” mixed with Burger King signs—“No blood for oil” splashed across a building and now I see trees before a dark tunnel and more trees. It’s almost summertime. We’ve ridden trains from the beginning of the trip—the subway of my childhood in NYC—the stops I know so well—turn right to 14th Street with the smells of cotton candy, and popcorn—Then the train to Philadelphia. I hardly every rode that train as a child—and then up to Swarthmore to visit friends and do readings of m memoir, Burned. When I was 16 I rode the train to Swarthmore by myself to an interview for college. So different than now where parents take children by the hand to visit schools.
In Philadelphia we waited in the large area with hundreds of others—for the track to appear and then the madhouse rush, a rush my husband hates but reminds me of the crowds of my childhood, people going to and fro—a purposeful group of humanity. From Philadelphia we rode the train to Washington D.C. where I slept and read—luxurious stolen moments after the crunch of grading papers. And now we’re going to New Haven, Ct. leaving the Capitol—leaving the museums where we saw Calder mobiles turning in circles, metal sculptures, the horrors of the holocaust and the brave lists of people who stood up and helped—the train is now moving into the trees by small houses out of the city and its searing heat.
At 12 years old I rode by myself on Amtrak to visit a camp friend, Christina Anderson(Pooky we called her then). She lived outside of Boston and I was tired on the train and wanted to sleep but was terrified I’d miss my stop. I was going to go skiing for the first time. I remember my legs crossing on the small slope, my fingers almost slipping on the rope lift. Pooky had been skiing since she was young and exercised a lot of patience with me as I navigated skis, poles and lifts. When I took the train home, the last stop was Grand Central. I don’t remember if my parents met me. I probably took the subway home since I was on them since 10 years old. So much independence then.
Now we’re on our way to Conn. A few remnants of graffiti are left but mostly all I see are trees and telephone lines now—some scattered clouds—almost empty station platforms early morning on Monday. Only workers in orange shirts gather around a large truck—my neighbors on the train sleep across from me. It’s great to give over everything to others—the conductors, the train, the tracks. To sleep, to write, to dream.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
The Big Button
I was giving a reading in the afternoon at the Penn Bookstore and wandered the campus with my husband. Years before he took Sarah(then four) to go to my step-daughter’s graduation from Penn while I stayed home with Laura. It was a big adventure for Sarah—seeing her sister graduate, traveling to Buffalo where my husband was raised and being in the midst of a thunder and lightening storm, quite scary to a San Francisco child. Laura and I had some quiet moments as I strolled her(then two years old) down Clement Street and stopped for ice cream. Sarah and Jim called often and Sarah usually said, “Put Laura on” and they babbled in some kind of sibling language I could hardly decipher.
Now they are 23 and 25 and I’m sitting on the Big Button where I only imagined my four year old so far from home so many years ago. A young woman runner suddenly stops in front of Jim and me. “Can I take your picture?” she says—such a generous offer for a runner who has stopped mid-day. It turns out she is about to take her medical boards and has felt out of touch with California(her home) and out of synch with life as it can be at its very best: taking a moment to give to strangers-to make contact with the world in a different way. The Big Button—obviously a place where young and old have sat for years in front of the Penn library, now becomes a new place again—an old memory of a place I never saw and now a magnet for something new. We watch Sam, our new friend, jog away—who later emails me-- interested in reading my book Burned and happy that she stopped for those few precious moments. The button with its magic has changed her day as well.
Now they are 23 and 25 and I’m sitting on the Big Button where I only imagined my four year old so far from home so many years ago. A young woman runner suddenly stops in front of Jim and me. “Can I take your picture?” she says—such a generous offer for a runner who has stopped mid-day. It turns out she is about to take her medical boards and has felt out of touch with California(her home) and out of synch with life as it can be at its very best: taking a moment to give to strangers-to make contact with the world in a different way. The Big Button—obviously a place where young and old have sat for years in front of the Penn library, now becomes a new place again—an old memory of a place I never saw and now a magnet for something new. We watch Sam, our new friend, jog away—who later emails me-- interested in reading my book Burned and happy that she stopped for those few precious moments. The button with its magic has changed her day as well.
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