Spot the Station
11 months ago
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Monday, March 9, 2009
The Ring
The ring is either white gold or platinum. The setting has a lacy design similar to my grandmother’s diamond engagement ring which makes me think platinum. Anchored into this setting is a cobalt blue stone. Lapis. On top resides the Masonic emblem in yellow gold. The ring looks very tiny, much like a child’s ring. The smoothness of the Masonic emblem contrasts with the texture of the lacy design. It speaks of safety and protection.
I was given this ring prior to a bus trip to Young Harris College, a summer orientation program. “Always wear this ring when traveling. You will be protected. A Mason will always come to your rescue.” I did wear the ring until I married. I wore it on bus trips back and forth from Tampa to Young Harris. I wore it when traveling by plane to West Virginia to visit relatives. I was never bothered. I was never afraid.
The ring was given to my mother when she went off to college in 1928. She traveled by train back and forth from Charleston to Huntington, home of what is now Marshall University.
When I was ten, my aunt took me on the train from Charleston to Huntington because, “By the time you are old enough to travel alone, the train may be extinct.” They weren’t extinct, but in the deep South, Florida, they were hard to find. As an adult, I’ve taken the train from Tallahassee to Demming, NM. I traveled around southern India by train. We traveled at night because it was cooler. No air-conditioning. Food could be purchased on the train, whenever it stopped in a large village. Food was eaten in the sleeping compartment. The sleeping compartment always had four bunks, two upper and two lower. One side was reserved for males and the other for females. An interesting arrangement.
In writing this piece, I have memories of feeling charmed in tricky situations. Was it the ring? I don’t remember if I wore it all the time. As I reflect on the spirit of the ring, I wonder why I didn’t pass this on to my own daughter when she went to college. First, she was an accomplished traveler, flying alone since she was four. All the Masons in the family had died off. The zeitgeist was that women didn’t need men to protect them. By the time she graduated from college, she had been all over Europe and into Africa, giving her the attitude of world traveler.
I was a child of flight, not train, so riding trains is a treat for me. The narrow gauge railroad from Whitehorse to Skagway, Alaska was breathtaking. This person, who avoids heights, hung by one arm and two feet, outside between cars photographing the vistas from the mountain heights. No fear.
I have a yearning to take the train from Florida, now leaves Jacksonville rather than Tallahassee, to Seattle. Will it be more expensive than flying? Yes, but far less hassle, and superb scenery. Time is no object. The food is excellent.
I was given this ring prior to a bus trip to Young Harris College, a summer orientation program. “Always wear this ring when traveling. You will be protected. A Mason will always come to your rescue.” I did wear the ring until I married. I wore it on bus trips back and forth from Tampa to Young Harris. I wore it when traveling by plane to West Virginia to visit relatives. I was never bothered. I was never afraid.
The ring was given to my mother when she went off to college in 1928. She traveled by train back and forth from Charleston to Huntington, home of what is now Marshall University.
When I was ten, my aunt took me on the train from Charleston to Huntington because, “By the time you are old enough to travel alone, the train may be extinct.” They weren’t extinct, but in the deep South, Florida, they were hard to find. As an adult, I’ve taken the train from Tallahassee to Demming, NM. I traveled around southern India by train. We traveled at night because it was cooler. No air-conditioning. Food could be purchased on the train, whenever it stopped in a large village. Food was eaten in the sleeping compartment. The sleeping compartment always had four bunks, two upper and two lower. One side was reserved for males and the other for females. An interesting arrangement.
In writing this piece, I have memories of feeling charmed in tricky situations. Was it the ring? I don’t remember if I wore it all the time. As I reflect on the spirit of the ring, I wonder why I didn’t pass this on to my own daughter when she went to college. First, she was an accomplished traveler, flying alone since she was four. All the Masons in the family had died off. The zeitgeist was that women didn’t need men to protect them. By the time she graduated from college, she had been all over Europe and into Africa, giving her the attitude of world traveler.
I was a child of flight, not train, so riding trains is a treat for me. The narrow gauge railroad from Whitehorse to Skagway, Alaska was breathtaking. This person, who avoids heights, hung by one arm and two feet, outside between cars photographing the vistas from the mountain heights. No fear.
I have a yearning to take the train from Florida, now leaves Jacksonville rather than Tallahassee, to Seattle. Will it be more expensive than flying? Yes, but far less hassle, and superb scenery. Time is no object. The food is excellent.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
2008 Presidential Election - The Day After
I am still reeling with the results of the presidential election. Excitement and hope are in the forefront of many emotions. As Oprah Winfrey’s tee shirt proclaimed, “HOPE WON.” Today is, indeed, a new day for America.
I have spend much of this day remembering the hope of John F. Kennedy and his dream of Camelot in 1960. I remember the feel of the steel, as I pulled the lever to vote for him, my first voting experience. The truth is that I couldn’t have voted for him in 1960. I was not yet 20, much less 21. I do know that my idealism and anticipation for an even greater future was real. When he was assassinated, I was devastated. We mourned his death as a nation, mostly united in the mourning process. A piece of my idealism fell away.
Then there was the assassination of his brother, Robert Kennedy. My husband and I had just turned on the 11 o’clock news to see how he was doing in the primary. What we saw was Kennedy falling to the ground and someone shouting, “He’s been shot!” Another chunk of idealism dropped off.
The murder of Martin Luther King, Jr., the senseless beatings of protestors in the civil rights movement and the Vietnam war, and finally students being killed at Kent State by the National Guard took all but a small piece of my idealism.
During this period, there were reports of people who had been “detained” in Nevada for subversive political views. The final vestige of idealism fell by the wayside with the strange circumstances around the death of Martha Mitchell, the wife of John Mitchell, attorney general under Richard Nixon. Are we living in a democracy or a police state.
From 1976 until the present, my cynicism grew like a cancer spreading to my politics and my religion. I am no longer religious, but I am spiritual, and, until last night, I had no patriotism. The very sight of the American flag turned my stomach because it had come to mean senseless killing. America went to war because of a lie. Long forgotten was John F. Kennedy’s “Let us never negotiate out of fear. But let us never fear to negotiate.”
Today, I believe that the tide has turned and that we finally have a president who is calm and who acts, not reacts. For that, I am filled with gratitude.
I have spend much of this day remembering the hope of John F. Kennedy and his dream of Camelot in 1960. I remember the feel of the steel, as I pulled the lever to vote for him, my first voting experience. The truth is that I couldn’t have voted for him in 1960. I was not yet 20, much less 21. I do know that my idealism and anticipation for an even greater future was real. When he was assassinated, I was devastated. We mourned his death as a nation, mostly united in the mourning process. A piece of my idealism fell away.
Then there was the assassination of his brother, Robert Kennedy. My husband and I had just turned on the 11 o’clock news to see how he was doing in the primary. What we saw was Kennedy falling to the ground and someone shouting, “He’s been shot!” Another chunk of idealism dropped off.
The murder of Martin Luther King, Jr., the senseless beatings of protestors in the civil rights movement and the Vietnam war, and finally students being killed at Kent State by the National Guard took all but a small piece of my idealism.
During this period, there were reports of people who had been “detained” in Nevada for subversive political views. The final vestige of idealism fell by the wayside with the strange circumstances around the death of Martha Mitchell, the wife of John Mitchell, attorney general under Richard Nixon. Are we living in a democracy or a police state.
From 1976 until the present, my cynicism grew like a cancer spreading to my politics and my religion. I am no longer religious, but I am spiritual, and, until last night, I had no patriotism. The very sight of the American flag turned my stomach because it had come to mean senseless killing. America went to war because of a lie. Long forgotten was John F. Kennedy’s “Let us never negotiate out of fear. But let us never fear to negotiate.”
Today, I believe that the tide has turned and that we finally have a president who is calm and who acts, not reacts. For that, I am filled with gratitude.
Monday, September 1, 2008
Waterlogged
Ten days ago, tropical storm Fay whipped into Tallahassee and decided to stay around a few days. Uninvited. I have been in humid, tropical climates most of my life. As Fay settled in on Friday night, I as okay without electricity. I slept well until awakened at 3 A.M. (no epiphany here) when power returned. I began to feel a little waterlogged by the time the power came back on Saturday evening after five hours without it again.
I went out to clean the cats’ box. It was damp, but not undoable. High humidity damp. Yin’s and Yang’s box is located on my roofed and screened in porch, close to their cat door.
Sunday, a break in the weather occurred. I mistakenly went out at ten for a one o’clock appointment. I discovered that Barnes and Noble doesn’t open before eleven on Sunday. Armed with umbrella, my writing paraphernalia and a jacket, I was drenched before I could return to my car. Once home, I discovered that my jacket was gone. I probably dropped it when I tried to close the umbrella without soaking myself getting into my car. My car felt like a cave that drips water from every pore, caused by the dripping umbrella. When I returned to the mall at one, I took a plastic bag for the jacket. Just in case. Plastic shopping bag and a jacket were good to go on the floor of my car.
Sunday night I went out to clean the litter box. The carpet on the porch was soaked, the new box of cat litter next to the house was wet, and water dripped off the plastic scoop and the boxed sandwich bags nearby. I, too, dripped water by the time I went inside. No rainwater fell on me. I may be about 90% water, but at that moment, I was at least 98%. It was as if a wet fog from one of Stephen King’s novels had enveloped me and I would never feel dry again.
Monday, a little sunshine arrived and I ventured out in my car to get cat food. I drove by the turn off to Lake Ella. It was flooded almost to Meridian. My porch was still embalmed in fluid air. Not until yesterday, Sunday, was I able to get outside and clean up my porch. That was after two days of constantly running the ceiling fan on high. I now have dry carpet and a porch that I can enjoy again.
I still don’t have the motivation to clean up my two decks that are filled with debris from the storm. However, I did wash and clean out my car.
I am feeling back to normal. Almost.
I went out to clean the cats’ box. It was damp, but not undoable. High humidity damp. Yin’s and Yang’s box is located on my roofed and screened in porch, close to their cat door.
Sunday, a break in the weather occurred. I mistakenly went out at ten for a one o’clock appointment. I discovered that Barnes and Noble doesn’t open before eleven on Sunday. Armed with umbrella, my writing paraphernalia and a jacket, I was drenched before I could return to my car. Once home, I discovered that my jacket was gone. I probably dropped it when I tried to close the umbrella without soaking myself getting into my car. My car felt like a cave that drips water from every pore, caused by the dripping umbrella. When I returned to the mall at one, I took a plastic bag for the jacket. Just in case. Plastic shopping bag and a jacket were good to go on the floor of my car.
Sunday night I went out to clean the litter box. The carpet on the porch was soaked, the new box of cat litter next to the house was wet, and water dripped off the plastic scoop and the boxed sandwich bags nearby. I, too, dripped water by the time I went inside. No rainwater fell on me. I may be about 90% water, but at that moment, I was at least 98%. It was as if a wet fog from one of Stephen King’s novels had enveloped me and I would never feel dry again.
Monday, a little sunshine arrived and I ventured out in my car to get cat food. I drove by the turn off to Lake Ella. It was flooded almost to Meridian. My porch was still embalmed in fluid air. Not until yesterday, Sunday, was I able to get outside and clean up my porch. That was after two days of constantly running the ceiling fan on high. I now have dry carpet and a porch that I can enjoy again.
I still don’t have the motivation to clean up my two decks that are filled with debris from the storm. However, I did wash and clean out my car.
I am feeling back to normal. Almost.
Monday, August 25, 2008
The Glass Powder Box
The glass powder box currently contains French clay used to make a mask for the face. This container is three inches in diameter with a somewhat opaque top, like frosted glass. The texture is coarser than smooth translucent glass. There is a ½ inch scallop curling around the edge of the top, opaque on top and smooth and translucent on the bottom. The box itself is made up of rises and valleys with the rises being smooth and translucent. Looking carefully at the rises, one sees a chain of swans appearing to be swimming in the opaque glass water. The swans are clear glass and smooth to the touch. At first glance, the swans look like partial question marks, no period at the bottom. The glass tastes bitter from the soap remnants on my hands when I pick up the top. It is cool to the touch and without fragrance.
The clay inside this box is a pale green which gives the box a slight tint of gray green. The clay smells like earth and dried clay. It is silky to the touch and tastes bland.
On the bottom of the box, two small cork pads remain. One is missing. The cork provides protection against scratching surfaces on which the box sits. It is the kind of box that conjures up sterling silver dresser sets, crystal perfume bottles and mahogany furniture.
The glass powder box evokes memories of my cousin and I playing with our grandmother’s face powder, also kept in a similar container. My grandmother’s powder box had a tinge of pink from her face powder stored inside. Besides her powder, my grandmother’s box held a large, to two small girls, powder puff, soft and fluffy. In my mind’s eye, I see tiny spots of powder, not yet smoothed out, on her mahogany dresser. That always happened later when we tried to cover our tracks. We weren’t allowed in the powder. We were allowed, however, to get into the other glass box that contained hairpins and bobby pins. My cousin liked to give me new hair styles. With my medium length, straight hair, that meant changing the part or pulling the top and sides back while the back remained “long” and straight. Sometimes we had rubber bands and ribbons with which to work. After our hair was beautiful, sometimes with toilet paper streamers, we got into the powder and the closet.
I would wear my grandmother’s red high heels while my cousin would snag the minks to wear around her neck. Then we were ready for our fashion show.
I miss my cousin who died at forty-five from lung cancer.
The clay inside this box is a pale green which gives the box a slight tint of gray green. The clay smells like earth and dried clay. It is silky to the touch and tastes bland.
On the bottom of the box, two small cork pads remain. One is missing. The cork provides protection against scratching surfaces on which the box sits. It is the kind of box that conjures up sterling silver dresser sets, crystal perfume bottles and mahogany furniture.
The glass powder box evokes memories of my cousin and I playing with our grandmother’s face powder, also kept in a similar container. My grandmother’s powder box had a tinge of pink from her face powder stored inside. Besides her powder, my grandmother’s box held a large, to two small girls, powder puff, soft and fluffy. In my mind’s eye, I see tiny spots of powder, not yet smoothed out, on her mahogany dresser. That always happened later when we tried to cover our tracks. We weren’t allowed in the powder. We were allowed, however, to get into the other glass box that contained hairpins and bobby pins. My cousin liked to give me new hair styles. With my medium length, straight hair, that meant changing the part or pulling the top and sides back while the back remained “long” and straight. Sometimes we had rubber bands and ribbons with which to work. After our hair was beautiful, sometimes with toilet paper streamers, we got into the powder and the closet.
I would wear my grandmother’s red high heels while my cousin would snag the minks to wear around her neck. Then we were ready for our fashion show.
I miss my cousin who died at forty-five from lung cancer.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Self-pampering
It is Saturday afternoon and I have just finished taking a relaxing soak in my new tub. What a feeling of wealth and decadence to have spent forty-five minutes breathing in the good energy of the moment. I am a firm believer in pampering myself when I have worked hard most of the day.
I did have company in my bath. Yin and Yang joined me, taking turns seeing how the water might feel to their paws. Yin was braver than Yang and walked the tightrope around the tub. She is the risk taker of the two.
I am feeling much more satisfied and settled now that I finished the downstairs cleanup following the bathroom remodeling. Things are either put or thrown away, and I can see order again. It seems to me that when my home is in disorder, my thoughts and my life are in disarray also. I certainly feel much calmer not having to fight my way around boxes and other paraphernalia.
I hadn’t realized that such a disorganized mess drained my energy as much as it did. For the first time in two weeks, I allowed myself to sleep in until I was ready to wake up. I slept until 10:45, terribly late for me.
When I finish here, I will eat a very late lunch and then prepare to attend a dolphin meditation in a group with whom I often do weekend classes. I am looking forward to this treat as I have not done one before.
How good can life get? Not much better than this for me.
I did have company in my bath. Yin and Yang joined me, taking turns seeing how the water might feel to their paws. Yin was braver than Yang and walked the tightrope around the tub. She is the risk taker of the two.
I am feeling much more satisfied and settled now that I finished the downstairs cleanup following the bathroom remodeling. Things are either put or thrown away, and I can see order again. It seems to me that when my home is in disorder, my thoughts and my life are in disarray also. I certainly feel much calmer not having to fight my way around boxes and other paraphernalia.
I hadn’t realized that such a disorganized mess drained my energy as much as it did. For the first time in two weeks, I allowed myself to sleep in until I was ready to wake up. I slept until 10:45, terribly late for me.
When I finish here, I will eat a very late lunch and then prepare to attend a dolphin meditation in a group with whom I often do weekend classes. I am looking forward to this treat as I have not done one before.
How good can life get? Not much better than this for me.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Breakfast
Breakfast at our house was a family ritual, missed only in case of death. My mother didn’t allow anyone out of the house without breakfast, regardless of how late we were running. This unspoken edict included my father. She backed up her rule with the fact that she was a dietician. She knew what was good for us.
Breakfast was not cereal, unless it was cooked cereal. Cooked cereal meant oatmeal, the one food you could live on for months if you included milk with it. Eggs, bacon, buttered toast and juice were the usual fare. The juice was always freshly squeezed, orange or grapefruit. If we had tomato juice, she had put it up in the summer. She did vary how she cooked the eggs. If they were fried, they were cooked in the grease from the bacon, or rarely sausage. (I suspect Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle was silently influencing her lack of sausage,) She used a spatula to ease the hot grease over the top to set the yolk. Poached eggs were swirled in boiling water and served on toast. Scrambled eggs were my favorite for some reason, Soft boiled eggs, with a dab of butter on top were usually reserved for sick days. I loved the toast because it was always served with homemade jelly or preserves. One day when I was nine, I ate five pieces of toast with strawberry preserves on them. Grits came later, when we moved to Florida.
At fifteen, I began pushing breakfast later every day until I reached 2 P. M., but, I ate breakfast. I suspect that was one battle my mother chose not to fight.
I married and the breakfast routine started again. I found this task particularly annoying when I had to be at work at 7 A.M. Annoyed or not, I cooked breakfast. I began to slack off while I was pregnant. I suspect now that it was my fear of morning sickness, which I never had.
In my late twenties, after our daughter was born, I went into full rebellion. I would not eat breakfast except for dinner. However, there were some notable exceptions:
Breakfast with my husband at the Alta Mira Hotel in Sausalito was memorable. We sat outside on the terrace, drinking Ramos gin fizzes while eating eggs benedict. It was the thoughtfulness of the gesture that was most memorable. Our daughter had just broken out with roseola, after a harrowing couple of days fearing meningitis.
I breakfasted, at a conference, with a man who would be my second husband. We sat in the intimate dining room overlooking a pond with ducks. I remember only drinking coffee and talking for hours. It was the most relaxing afternoon I had spent in years.
Sunday breakfast in a French cafe in St. Augustine with a lover. We had delicious French pastries and excellent coffee. The ambiance of the cafe along with delight in my lover made for a fabulous breakfast. It set the tone for a long, lingering Sunday.
While doing some family of origin work for my doctorate, I wrote about the death of my mother’s older brother. She was nine when he died. He was twelve. According to my mother, my grandmother had been up all night with him. Harold came into her bedroom announcing, “Mama, would you please fix me some breakfast. I’m as hungry as a horse!”
My grandmother apparently asked for thirty more minutes of sleep, which Harold cheerfully granted her. Within that thirty minutes, Harold died. Suddenly a piece of the puzzle clicked into place. To a nine year old, going without breakfast meant you die.
Today, when I walked around the lake, I wanted breakfast. Not an ordinary breakfast, but a breakfast with friends in an elegant restaurant. Instead, I’m writing about it.
Breakfast was not cereal, unless it was cooked cereal. Cooked cereal meant oatmeal, the one food you could live on for months if you included milk with it. Eggs, bacon, buttered toast and juice were the usual fare. The juice was always freshly squeezed, orange or grapefruit. If we had tomato juice, she had put it up in the summer. She did vary how she cooked the eggs. If they were fried, they were cooked in the grease from the bacon, or rarely sausage. (I suspect Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle was silently influencing her lack of sausage,) She used a spatula to ease the hot grease over the top to set the yolk. Poached eggs were swirled in boiling water and served on toast. Scrambled eggs were my favorite for some reason, Soft boiled eggs, with a dab of butter on top were usually reserved for sick days. I loved the toast because it was always served with homemade jelly or preserves. One day when I was nine, I ate five pieces of toast with strawberry preserves on them. Grits came later, when we moved to Florida.
At fifteen, I began pushing breakfast later every day until I reached 2 P. M., but, I ate breakfast. I suspect that was one battle my mother chose not to fight.
I married and the breakfast routine started again. I found this task particularly annoying when I had to be at work at 7 A.M. Annoyed or not, I cooked breakfast. I began to slack off while I was pregnant. I suspect now that it was my fear of morning sickness, which I never had.
In my late twenties, after our daughter was born, I went into full rebellion. I would not eat breakfast except for dinner. However, there were some notable exceptions:
Breakfast with my husband at the Alta Mira Hotel in Sausalito was memorable. We sat outside on the terrace, drinking Ramos gin fizzes while eating eggs benedict. It was the thoughtfulness of the gesture that was most memorable. Our daughter had just broken out with roseola, after a harrowing couple of days fearing meningitis.
I breakfasted, at a conference, with a man who would be my second husband. We sat in the intimate dining room overlooking a pond with ducks. I remember only drinking coffee and talking for hours. It was the most relaxing afternoon I had spent in years.
Sunday breakfast in a French cafe in St. Augustine with a lover. We had delicious French pastries and excellent coffee. The ambiance of the cafe along with delight in my lover made for a fabulous breakfast. It set the tone for a long, lingering Sunday.
While doing some family of origin work for my doctorate, I wrote about the death of my mother’s older brother. She was nine when he died. He was twelve. According to my mother, my grandmother had been up all night with him. Harold came into her bedroom announcing, “Mama, would you please fix me some breakfast. I’m as hungry as a horse!”
My grandmother apparently asked for thirty more minutes of sleep, which Harold cheerfully granted her. Within that thirty minutes, Harold died. Suddenly a piece of the puzzle clicked into place. To a nine year old, going without breakfast meant you die.
Today, when I walked around the lake, I wanted breakfast. Not an ordinary breakfast, but a breakfast with friends in an elegant restaurant. Instead, I’m writing about it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
