I have witnessed the erosion of my remembered landscape with every trip back home from my journeys here and there across the country. My old bedroom is occupied by paying tenants now and the sacred trees that enveloped our home have been removed by one ambition followed by another. First it was the Southern lot that our backdoor neighbors wanted clear for RV parking and a fence obstructing what was once one of the main thoroughfares of my childhood. I cried watching the slaughter of trees and memories that these strangers had no knowledge of or regard for. Would they have ceased if they had known the magnificent tricycle races that had sped down that tree lined lane? Or maybe if they had experienced the miracle of climbing the impossibly thin branches to the heights of the lone Holly Tree. Did they even notice its beauty as it fell in graceful death to their blades?
The final vestige was lost by the time I came home to call it home again. The Eastern trail – our beloved Tradey Track – was lost to the brambles of neglect some time ago, but the forest remained until this year when a neighbor who should have known better decided to clear the place for his second house (across the street from his perfectly good first house). My first memories were formed running this trail with my two best friends as we transformed from frolicking squirrels to flying unicorns and saw mythical monsters and beasts in the fantasy world that was our woods. As we grew, the place retained its magic, even as all else suffered from the disillusionment of age. Playing pretend was lost to us, but the amber light filtering through the leaves held us all the same.
There was an ancient tower of a tree in the exact center of this world. Its heart was rotting but the outer wood clung with vicious tenacity to the strength of its youth. It wrought its mutilation into beauty as it provided shelter in its cavernous trunk to the small creatures of the woods and an escalier of winding scarred bark steps to reach its hammock of barren branches. How many afternoons did I spend dreaming in the cradle of its arms listening to the creak of its rheumatic sighing in the wind. Somehow, I never feared this friend collapsing with me on its branches and somehow it never did. I believed in forever those golden afternoons in the trees even as I slipped into the isolation that became my adolescence.
I wonder if this man will be haunted as I am by the forgotten voices of children held in the soil and roots of the land he has taken for his own. Or are those memories lost in the charred remains of the forest that sheltered and cherished the wonderment of children who still knew how to recognize mystery?
Friday, October 15, 2010
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Stranger...
It says something that I have lost track of exactly how many months I have neglected this blog...you know, the one I was promising to update three times every week. So now I come skulking back, feeling entirely too contrite in what is meant to be my space. So what else is new?
I have been working for the last three or four months in the blaze of East Texas summer and the constant drenching sweat of manual labor under the sun. In the course of this work, I have met people virtually every day that I wanted to write about and then every night I have hunkered into sleep promising that tomorrow I will give all these characters their words. So many moments lost, but let us call this tomorrow shall we?
This week, we have been doing finish work on a monstrosity of a house for a retired couple. No grandkids that I know of and just the one surviving son. Which brings me to my story. Several weeks ago, we were working on the remodel of this couple's former home before they sell it, and I (being the nosy electrician that I am) was perusing the family photos still on their walls and was taken by the surprise of recognizing their daughter. In fact, I had danced with their daughter for nearly a decade, but had never known her last name and therefore had made no connection to these people who only had last names as far as I was concerned. But there she was. Pictures of her in every ballet costume I remembered and suddenly I could smell the leather of ballet slippers and hear the canned music that was, to me, so beautiful to dance to. For an hour, as I passed the pictures on each fetching trip for the master electricians, I struggled to remember her name and failed. It was a color? Something like a flower? Maybe Heather? It was all wrong. Finally a friend of her family arrived and my mother asked her in the course of conversation about this known, unknown daughter. The first thing we discovered was that her name was Brooke. The second thing we were told was that she was dead. Almost a decade ago. In a car crash. The finality of it brought an inwash of details -- the girl's easy smile, her heartbreaking grace on the dance floor -- that I had forgotten in trying to remember the obvious detail of her name. Seeking only to place her in a small part of my history, I had just learned to mourn her. Making this an even more awkward sensation was the fact that her death was so far in the past that even mentioning condolences could be offensive. But how sorry I was to find such tragedy in my half-remembered childhood memories.
Now, I could tell you many things about Brooke's parents, having made it a sort of study this last week as we have been working for them. I could tell you that they are of the particular brand of wealth that despises finality because they can afford to make options a way of life. I could tell you that they consider this 10,000 square foot "home" a rural cottage ("It's the garage that makes it look big"...and yes, that is a quote). I could spend an entire post telling you about the full day we spent digging a 500 foot ditch and pulling as many feet of beligerently heavy wire just so that they could turn a light on and off on the barn from the house. But I think more telling than any of this is the fact that I spent the majority of my childhood with their daughter and yet I must wonder if they even know who I am. It would be different if my appearance had changed significantly over the years (and I often wish that it had as going to Wal-Mart in this small town is a constant minefield of ancient acquaintances and family friends). It would also be excusable if ballet had not been such an intensive activity for those of us in Ms. Gobel's advanced class, but, as it was, it was a dominant feature of all of our lives. So, I labor on their shell of a house each day simply wondering if my face reminds them of something they should know and if they have any inkling of the freshly sad memories I have of their dead daughter.
It is a symptom of an overiding theme I have found in this town, but never seen so well put. In essence, it is the reality that there are people of consequence and then there are all the others that maintain those people of consequence.
I danced with a passion far outstripping my potential and calling the attention of the fiery Ms. Gobel in the best of ways. My frame was too large to ever break into the upper echelon of the dancing world, but in the microcosm of Nacogdoches, I became better than I was meant to be under the angry French woman's tutelage. Ms. Gobel began to point to me in class demonstrations as how things should be done, and I remember feeling such anticipation for the greater recognition she was preparing me for. But every recital, I would find myself once again in the unflattering background as I watched less dedicated and less talented girls dance the leads. It wasn't until my last year that I finally had acquired enough disillusionment to see the inexorable connection between the wealth of the parents and the role awarded to the girls. It was of little importance to any of them I'm sure, but the thinking probably went along the lines of: "Well, if I must sit through two hours of watching all this prancing around, then I want my daughter to be in front. Here's a donation Ms. Gobel." And every year, I was simply devastated to watch from the wings as the gangly daughters of doctors and lawyers destroyed roles that they could care less about. There was no suspense in their desires because to want, for them, was to have.
And I return nearly ten years later to find the same place that I left. My degrees and experience do nothing to open the locks that only wealth has the key for here. My smile is interpreted as fawning and my speech is seen as artifice ("Oh my, what big words!"). Certainly this is not an inviolable rule, but it is so pervasive as to warrant damnation. It is also so common as to encourage my current role of subversive in their midst. You see, while they are blinded by the status that is so easy for them to ignore, I am free to observe and record and amass my own wealth of characters and stories. It may be a distant and unlikely revenge, but oh how sweet to imagine any one of them picking up a novel and finding the unflattering portrayal of themselves within. Of course, I would be too idealistic if I allowed myself the daydream without admitting that I am sure they would be as blind to themselves in a story as they are to themselves in reality. It is not so easy for perception to change.
I have been working for the last three or four months in the blaze of East Texas summer and the constant drenching sweat of manual labor under the sun. In the course of this work, I have met people virtually every day that I wanted to write about and then every night I have hunkered into sleep promising that tomorrow I will give all these characters their words. So many moments lost, but let us call this tomorrow shall we?
This week, we have been doing finish work on a monstrosity of a house for a retired couple. No grandkids that I know of and just the one surviving son. Which brings me to my story. Several weeks ago, we were working on the remodel of this couple's former home before they sell it, and I (being the nosy electrician that I am) was perusing the family photos still on their walls and was taken by the surprise of recognizing their daughter. In fact, I had danced with their daughter for nearly a decade, but had never known her last name and therefore had made no connection to these people who only had last names as far as I was concerned. But there she was. Pictures of her in every ballet costume I remembered and suddenly I could smell the leather of ballet slippers and hear the canned music that was, to me, so beautiful to dance to. For an hour, as I passed the pictures on each fetching trip for the master electricians, I struggled to remember her name and failed. It was a color? Something like a flower? Maybe Heather? It was all wrong. Finally a friend of her family arrived and my mother asked her in the course of conversation about this known, unknown daughter. The first thing we discovered was that her name was Brooke. The second thing we were told was that she was dead. Almost a decade ago. In a car crash. The finality of it brought an inwash of details -- the girl's easy smile, her heartbreaking grace on the dance floor -- that I had forgotten in trying to remember the obvious detail of her name. Seeking only to place her in a small part of my history, I had just learned to mourn her. Making this an even more awkward sensation was the fact that her death was so far in the past that even mentioning condolences could be offensive. But how sorry I was to find such tragedy in my half-remembered childhood memories.
Now, I could tell you many things about Brooke's parents, having made it a sort of study this last week as we have been working for them. I could tell you that they are of the particular brand of wealth that despises finality because they can afford to make options a way of life. I could tell you that they consider this 10,000 square foot "home" a rural cottage ("It's the garage that makes it look big"...and yes, that is a quote). I could spend an entire post telling you about the full day we spent digging a 500 foot ditch and pulling as many feet of beligerently heavy wire just so that they could turn a light on and off on the barn from the house. But I think more telling than any of this is the fact that I spent the majority of my childhood with their daughter and yet I must wonder if they even know who I am. It would be different if my appearance had changed significantly over the years (and I often wish that it had as going to Wal-Mart in this small town is a constant minefield of ancient acquaintances and family friends). It would also be excusable if ballet had not been such an intensive activity for those of us in Ms. Gobel's advanced class, but, as it was, it was a dominant feature of all of our lives. So, I labor on their shell of a house each day simply wondering if my face reminds them of something they should know and if they have any inkling of the freshly sad memories I have of their dead daughter.
It is a symptom of an overiding theme I have found in this town, but never seen so well put. In essence, it is the reality that there are people of consequence and then there are all the others that maintain those people of consequence.
I danced with a passion far outstripping my potential and calling the attention of the fiery Ms. Gobel in the best of ways. My frame was too large to ever break into the upper echelon of the dancing world, but in the microcosm of Nacogdoches, I became better than I was meant to be under the angry French woman's tutelage. Ms. Gobel began to point to me in class demonstrations as how things should be done, and I remember feeling such anticipation for the greater recognition she was preparing me for. But every recital, I would find myself once again in the unflattering background as I watched less dedicated and less talented girls dance the leads. It wasn't until my last year that I finally had acquired enough disillusionment to see the inexorable connection between the wealth of the parents and the role awarded to the girls. It was of little importance to any of them I'm sure, but the thinking probably went along the lines of: "Well, if I must sit through two hours of watching all this prancing around, then I want my daughter to be in front. Here's a donation Ms. Gobel." And every year, I was simply devastated to watch from the wings as the gangly daughters of doctors and lawyers destroyed roles that they could care less about. There was no suspense in their desires because to want, for them, was to have.
And I return nearly ten years later to find the same place that I left. My degrees and experience do nothing to open the locks that only wealth has the key for here. My smile is interpreted as fawning and my speech is seen as artifice ("Oh my, what big words!"). Certainly this is not an inviolable rule, but it is so pervasive as to warrant damnation. It is also so common as to encourage my current role of subversive in their midst. You see, while they are blinded by the status that is so easy for them to ignore, I am free to observe and record and amass my own wealth of characters and stories. It may be a distant and unlikely revenge, but oh how sweet to imagine any one of them picking up a novel and finding the unflattering portrayal of themselves within. Of course, I would be too idealistic if I allowed myself the daydream without admitting that I am sure they would be as blind to themselves in a story as they are to themselves in reality. It is not so easy for perception to change.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Riding into the sunset
I am becoming disturbingly aware of a Southern writer coming to life in my head. It took me long enough to consider myself heading towards authorship in the first place, but to consider the Southerness of it all...? How appalling to find myself looking at the backward designs of my past and seeing there a burnished array of stunning characters and beautiful backdrops.
As a child, I practiced the leaving of the South in every way. I carefully eradicated the Texan accent and vocabulary, patterning my own on a hodgepodge of indie British and American (Northern of course) films and books. Still, I was left with the supremely embarrassing "i" sound instead of "eh" in words like "pen" versus "pin" (there being no distinction in most of the South by the way), and the-A-tur instead of theatre (spelled in the British way so you may hear it with the proper British pronunciation in your head). Until college, I was blithely unaware of these important and elusive details. Two of the first friends I made at this Midwestern university introduced themselves as Jenny and Jenny. There followed a discussion in the group that was, at the time, completely befuddling. Another girl asked one of the two if she was Jenny or Jenny, to which the girl replied (as if the question was not completely absurd), "I'm Jenny." The other girl threw in what I thought must be either redundant or a joke, "Well, I'm Jenny." At this point in the conversation, I thought my then sleep-deprived mind might be causing me to hallucinate, since no one seemed to think there was anything amiss at hand. Finally, I had to risk the embarrassment of playing my usual role of gullible punchline to ask what they were all talking about. After some discussion, they finally ascertained the root of my confusion and spent the next month training this verbal Texas dangler out of my system. You will be happy to know that Jenny and Ginnie soon became distinguished as the two separately named beings that they were.
I tried to find spatial distance as soon as possible as well. At the age of eleven, I was already spending weeks at a time away from home, going to summer camp in Colorado. When I was fourteen, I went to a music camp in Pensecola, Florida (a story that I have yet to find adequate words for...if you know anything about the underground system of ultra-conservative educational systems, you may guess why) where I learned about Interlochen in Michigan. Of course, I simply had to go there and did the following year. Hands down, the summer spent in Northern Michigan with musicians and artists my age spouting such non-Southern refinement and class was by far the most formative and home-distancing experience of my life. I was certain after the intense molding of those weeks that I would never settle for Texas again.
And, with brief retreats from the North here and there, I didn't for over a decade.
Now, I certainly do not regret any of the experiences I have had away from my childhood stomping grounds (with the glaring exception of three miserable years in the bumhole of Oklahoma). I have truly loved each place I have experienced and miss each one as a home to some piece of me. As such, it is more than surprising to find myself so grateful to return here. This homecoming has found me receptive to the iconic lifestyle and characters of Deep East Texas in a way I did not believe myself capable of. The distance and time I so intentionally put between myself and this place has brought me back here with the sparkling eyes of a stranger. Where I used to see simpleminded misogyny in the cowboy caricatures so prevalent here, I have begun to see a certain charming naivety. The symbols they use (holding the door for the "ladies" for example) are generally well-meant and kind. They hold back no respect as I have worked toe-to-toe with them in the arena of manual labor. Still, at the end of the sweat-drenching, back-breaking day, that door is going to be held open for me and I am slowly learning to accept it with the same grace with which it is offered.
Likewise, I am finding the vernacular comforting and comfortable on my tongue and pleasant to listen to. It is remarkable to me that such a thing as an accent can exist in our globalized society, and it is reassuring in its distinctiveness. I love that I can feel the slow gathering of half-finished syllables as opposed to the nasal blend of the Midwest. Neither is superior, but it is a great relief to abandon my childhood dogma that said otherwise.
There may still be all the things I loved to hate about this place when I was younger, but for the first time I can see the loveliness and say without embarrassment that it is good to be home.
As a child, I practiced the leaving of the South in every way. I carefully eradicated the Texan accent and vocabulary, patterning my own on a hodgepodge of indie British and American (Northern of course) films and books. Still, I was left with the supremely embarrassing "i" sound instead of "eh" in words like "pen" versus "pin" (there being no distinction in most of the South by the way), and the-A-tur instead of theatre (spelled in the British way so you may hear it with the proper British pronunciation in your head). Until college, I was blithely unaware of these important and elusive details. Two of the first friends I made at this Midwestern university introduced themselves as Jenny and Jenny. There followed a discussion in the group that was, at the time, completely befuddling. Another girl asked one of the two if she was Jenny or Jenny, to which the girl replied (as if the question was not completely absurd), "I'm Jenny." The other girl threw in what I thought must be either redundant or a joke, "Well, I'm Jenny." At this point in the conversation, I thought my then sleep-deprived mind might be causing me to hallucinate, since no one seemed to think there was anything amiss at hand. Finally, I had to risk the embarrassment of playing my usual role of gullible punchline to ask what they were all talking about. After some discussion, they finally ascertained the root of my confusion and spent the next month training this verbal Texas dangler out of my system. You will be happy to know that Jenny and Ginnie soon became distinguished as the two separately named beings that they were.
I tried to find spatial distance as soon as possible as well. At the age of eleven, I was already spending weeks at a time away from home, going to summer camp in Colorado. When I was fourteen, I went to a music camp in Pensecola, Florida (a story that I have yet to find adequate words for...if you know anything about the underground system of ultra-conservative educational systems, you may guess why) where I learned about Interlochen in Michigan. Of course, I simply had to go there and did the following year. Hands down, the summer spent in Northern Michigan with musicians and artists my age spouting such non-Southern refinement and class was by far the most formative and home-distancing experience of my life. I was certain after the intense molding of those weeks that I would never settle for Texas again.
And, with brief retreats from the North here and there, I didn't for over a decade.
Now, I certainly do not regret any of the experiences I have had away from my childhood stomping grounds (with the glaring exception of three miserable years in the bumhole of Oklahoma). I have truly loved each place I have experienced and miss each one as a home to some piece of me. As such, it is more than surprising to find myself so grateful to return here. This homecoming has found me receptive to the iconic lifestyle and characters of Deep East Texas in a way I did not believe myself capable of. The distance and time I so intentionally put between myself and this place has brought me back here with the sparkling eyes of a stranger. Where I used to see simpleminded misogyny in the cowboy caricatures so prevalent here, I have begun to see a certain charming naivety. The symbols they use (holding the door for the "ladies" for example) are generally well-meant and kind. They hold back no respect as I have worked toe-to-toe with them in the arena of manual labor. Still, at the end of the sweat-drenching, back-breaking day, that door is going to be held open for me and I am slowly learning to accept it with the same grace with which it is offered.
Likewise, I am finding the vernacular comforting and comfortable on my tongue and pleasant to listen to. It is remarkable to me that such a thing as an accent can exist in our globalized society, and it is reassuring in its distinctiveness. I love that I can feel the slow gathering of half-finished syllables as opposed to the nasal blend of the Midwest. Neither is superior, but it is a great relief to abandon my childhood dogma that said otherwise.
There may still be all the things I loved to hate about this place when I was younger, but for the first time I can see the loveliness and say without embarrassment that it is good to be home.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Bipartisan
This house - my former and current home - is a social experiment of sorts that is rarely if ever invested in. Perhaps I am too open-minded to state my case as a liberal, but in the context I would almost certainly be considered a die hard. The context being, Glenn Beck and Rush Limbaugh devotees. Of course, they too are open-minded and rational beings that make the idea of us all being polar opposites somewhat untrue. That said, it is probably as close to true as you're going to find under one undemolished roof. Breakfast talk can literally go along lines of the reasons for impeaching Obama and instituting martial law on one end to the sanctity of eco-systems and the argument for human restraint on the other.
Here is the fantastic, unbelievable thing: the truth as each of us sees it is voiced and heard by the various parties day after day. Because we love each other unconditionally, there is suddenly an atmosphere that allows honesty and acceptance where there is only ridicule and scorn in the public debate. Since the two political parties not only do not accept each other's stances but are not re-elected if they even appear to consider each other's ideas, there is no possibility for open debate. The reigns of power are held by extremists by necessity and thoughtful conversation is replaced by fear-mongering and empty platitudes. The macroscopic venue for change is, in my opinion, hopeless.
Yet, in the microcosm of our unlikely home and family, I see a small seed. I see the respect of listening and the freedom of love to express and refine opinions with and against each other. I see apparently divergent theories and ideas melding in conversations that shouldn't be possible in today's framing. There is certainly plenty of blustering and cacophony as these ideas meet and clash, but there is a commitment to each other that allows us to weather the storm and come to some peace on the other side. Though we are molded by all our inputs of media and political guidance to be extremists, we find the secret moderates within as we let our mutual love and respect seep into the conversations handed to us bereft of anything so lofty.
Here is the fantastic, unbelievable thing: the truth as each of us sees it is voiced and heard by the various parties day after day. Because we love each other unconditionally, there is suddenly an atmosphere that allows honesty and acceptance where there is only ridicule and scorn in the public debate. Since the two political parties not only do not accept each other's stances but are not re-elected if they even appear to consider each other's ideas, there is no possibility for open debate. The reigns of power are held by extremists by necessity and thoughtful conversation is replaced by fear-mongering and empty platitudes. The macroscopic venue for change is, in my opinion, hopeless.
Yet, in the microcosm of our unlikely home and family, I see a small seed. I see the respect of listening and the freedom of love to express and refine opinions with and against each other. I see apparently divergent theories and ideas melding in conversations that shouldn't be possible in today's framing. There is certainly plenty of blustering and cacophony as these ideas meet and clash, but there is a commitment to each other that allows us to weather the storm and come to some peace on the other side. Though we are molded by all our inputs of media and political guidance to be extremists, we find the secret moderates within as we let our mutual love and respect seep into the conversations handed to us bereft of anything so lofty.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Perpetual Motion
Bills to pay. Miles to drive. Tools to move, remove, place, replace. Phone ringing. Customers customing. Sleep when you can or can't help it. Wondering about tomorrow. Too busy with today.
Interruption.
A rain storm and sheltering under a tree. Warm scent of baked and cooling pine simmering with the fog of rain on Texas pavement. A moment insisting respite. Mother and daughter resting weary backs, sharing time removed.
Interruption.
A rain storm and sheltering under a tree. Warm scent of baked and cooling pine simmering with the fog of rain on Texas pavement. A moment insisting respite. Mother and daughter resting weary backs, sharing time removed.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Sabbath
I woke up in the middle of last night in the throes of pure animal pain, the muscles in my calf tangling and choking themselves. There is nothing you can do except ride the waves of pain in a crumpled, whimpering heap. While I have spent this morning milking every bit of the limping sadness left to me still, I will never forget the morning after morning stretching to months that I would leap from my top bunk to the cold concrete floor after the nightly double cramps that would rack me every night of basic training. I can remember the electric shock of impact as I landed to muscles that told me nightly that they needed to be tended to and cared for. I learned to shuffle (instead of the required running) to the bathroom then back to my bunk to begin the morning ritual of cleaning that would never be quite good enough to spare us from the paired morning ritual of doing push-ups in our own sweat for punishment. All this with the muscles in my legs cleaving to themselves and the bone as if they had forgotten the natural assembly of relax and contract. Somehow, I would find myself on the PT field a half hour later, pushing or running or flutter-kicking, and I would discover that my legs had released me of their reasonable demands. I eventually learned to hold my consciousness somewhere just below wakefulness as the pain screamed at me every night and then let the scant dreams enfold me back on the ebb. Somehow, it became a sacrament of sorts, blessing my body and mind with the remembrance that I was human and not the mindless, heartless machine they would have me be. The weakness and terror of those moments was precious to me as the never-flinching shield of my days melted in the small whimpers of my night.
The work that brought me to this memory is wholesome and good, and I am glad for the chance of comparison that such a small but insistent part of my body can give me. And the comparison is kind. To now be surrounded by people that consider even this smallest and most habitual of pains something worth commiserating over and tending to. To find nourishment in both my labors and rest. This is what all of us are really searching for, is it not?
The work that brought me to this memory is wholesome and good, and I am glad for the chance of comparison that such a small but insistent part of my body can give me. And the comparison is kind. To now be surrounded by people that consider even this smallest and most habitual of pains something worth commiserating over and tending to. To find nourishment in both my labors and rest. This is what all of us are really searching for, is it not?
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Old story; New beginnings
It is the day for writing, but can my newly adjusting, bone-tired, sun-weary mind and body come up with anything more interesting to write about than the divinities of cleansing showers and my soft, soft bed? Forgive me if the result is negative, but I will try anyway.
I took the train from St. Louis, Tom and I having battled a storm that came with a ferocity I haven't seen since the Oklahoma plains to get to the station. The anxiety of leaving was mercifully abated slightly as I encountered the almost antiquated joys of rail travel. Whereas I was unceremoniously booted from the last flight I tried to take and given virtually no recompense, checking in at the train station took all of five minutes. When I asked whether or not I needed to check my duffel bag (a point which was critical in the flight fiasco by the way), I was met with the response that I could if I wanted, but could really do whatever I chose. The attendant was even teasing me about my trusty travel lion/pillow instead of exhibiting the absurd ennui of overwhelming stress that I had seen in the attendants at the airport. At the depot, we all, workers and travelers alike, were relaxed and serene even.
Well, all except for the young kid who was apparently approaching an ecstasy of grief as the time got nearer for he and his mother to get on the train without his dad. When the somewhat late (but at least more on schedule than is generally true in aviation these days) train arrived, we all calmly lined up to give our tickets to the conductor and watched the miniature (but fundamental) drama of the small boy saying goodbye. He latched on to his father's neck as they all finally came to the spot where non-travelers had to stop and exploded in a litanous stream of "I love you, I'll miss you, I love you...". Even the conductor was moved and muttered to me as I handed him my own ticket, "Well, that was nice now." Never mind that the child was at that peculiar stage of life that delivered him from his grief only minutes later as excitement of the coming adventure overtook him.
It was amazing to find myself with a similar experience to the young one as I found myself a little relieved so quickly from the anxieties of making the decision to work and live so far away for a time. As I situated myself in the oh, so spacious seat of the upper level in my designated car, I looked out my window at the setting sun and found the realization that we were going to be alright. Whatever was coming, whatever was past...we would find the way. One day at a time.
I took the train from St. Louis, Tom and I having battled a storm that came with a ferocity I haven't seen since the Oklahoma plains to get to the station. The anxiety of leaving was mercifully abated slightly as I encountered the almost antiquated joys of rail travel. Whereas I was unceremoniously booted from the last flight I tried to take and given virtually no recompense, checking in at the train station took all of five minutes. When I asked whether or not I needed to check my duffel bag (a point which was critical in the flight fiasco by the way), I was met with the response that I could if I wanted, but could really do whatever I chose. The attendant was even teasing me about my trusty travel lion/pillow instead of exhibiting the absurd ennui of overwhelming stress that I had seen in the attendants at the airport. At the depot, we all, workers and travelers alike, were relaxed and serene even.
Well, all except for the young kid who was apparently approaching an ecstasy of grief as the time got nearer for he and his mother to get on the train without his dad. When the somewhat late (but at least more on schedule than is generally true in aviation these days) train arrived, we all calmly lined up to give our tickets to the conductor and watched the miniature (but fundamental) drama of the small boy saying goodbye. He latched on to his father's neck as they all finally came to the spot where non-travelers had to stop and exploded in a litanous stream of "I love you, I'll miss you, I love you...". Even the conductor was moved and muttered to me as I handed him my own ticket, "Well, that was nice now." Never mind that the child was at that peculiar stage of life that delivered him from his grief only minutes later as excitement of the coming adventure overtook him.
It was amazing to find myself with a similar experience to the young one as I found myself a little relieved so quickly from the anxieties of making the decision to work and live so far away for a time. As I situated myself in the oh, so spacious seat of the upper level in my designated car, I looked out my window at the setting sun and found the realization that we were going to be alright. Whatever was coming, whatever was past...we would find the way. One day at a time.
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