Margotlog: The Potted Plant, Grey Water, and Corporations
Let's admit right from the start: this is not an obvious connection. Just as it's not obvious that we, in our excessively individualistic and commercial mindset, will notice and shift in time when disaster is barreling down on us.
First the potted plant: It's an old and beautifully flowering hibiscus, repotted a few times and now about three feet tall with a "wingspan" of three to four feet. Just about as heavy as I can carry up and down three flights of stairs twice a year. In mid-spring I carry it outside. In mid-fall, I bring it back to its south-facing, third-floor window. This year, perhaps because I moved it out of direct sun into partial shade, perhaps because we had fewer lower spring temps, it's become a blooming maniac, with lacy blooms measuring four to six inches across.
I left town over the weekend and forgot to water it immediately the day I returned. This morning, when I climbed the stairs with its huge pitcher of water, it was sadly woebegon: droopy leaves with many yellow ones hanging limp.
We are all, more or less, potted plants. Let that sink in a moment.
According to "my weather guy," this September is the second driest on record, following a set of extremes, with (thankfully) lots of rain in the spring, but very very little from July until now. Let that sink in (what little there is to sink). White Bear Lake, so my friend who lives there reports, is so low that various town and community groups toss back and forth notions for raising the level. A few days ago I sat on the Minnesota side where the Mississippi widens into that lovely expanse slightly reminiscent of Switzerland called Lake Pepin. The water level was significantly lower than I've ever seen it--exposing a spit of land much further into the lake, with a long bloom of migrating white pelicans.
In my fear for the imminent demise of trees and shrubs, I've been watering almost daily at various trunks and roots. As I walk the neighborhood and see newly planted boulevard trees with leaves either already crinkly brown or dropped, I occasionally put a slip of paper in the nearby household's mailbox. "Please consider watering your boulevard tree...." these tiny missives conclude with "A concerned neighbor."
I wake up in the middle of the night thinking about "grey water." Some western states allow water from showers and washing machines to be deviated into tanks for watering lawns. I tried to have this made part of the Saint Paul DFL platform four years ago, but was told it would be too costly to retrain licensed plumbers to do this. Now I'm thinking about asking someone who's handy but not "a licensed plumber" to make the shift in our water flow.
We obviously need a much bigger fix than my single household.
Now to the corporation. When corporations achieved the status of "persons" in the Citizens United suit, and even before, they exercised immense influence on our lives in the United States, often more than government at any level. Not persons, not really, corporations are huge conglomerates of very very rich executives (note the emphasis on execute) at the top, and widening pyramid of underlings. With the hybrid status they now enjoy--wealthy conglomerates plus "persons"--corporations and their "bottom line" mentality strive for the greatest possible revenue at the least cost. This has led to such changes in U.S. trade policy as the North American Free-Trade Agreement which allows corporations to out-source jobs to much lower paid populaces (India, Mexico, etc.) than those (often unionized) in the U.S. These out-sourced jobs not only lower manufacturing costs for many US corporations, but also deprive U.S. citizens of work.
As corporations ceased needing to abide by U.S. environmental (or any other) regulation, they developed what I see as hubris (i.e.pride) of a dangerous sort. They began to market (for instance) huge cars, SUVs, and trucks, just as the message of global warming was beginning to take hold. When what we needed were much smaller cars, with higher (much higher) mileage standards, we were treated to ads linking American icons--the West, the rancher, etc--with these huge new vehicles.
Fast forward to my block this relatively quiet Sunday morning. Up and down the avenue sit huge behemoths. Yes there are a few hybrids like ours. But mostly the "family car" has gone the way of wringer washing machines. For no good reason except corporate greed. And the gullibility and determined ignorance of the American consumer.
We are potted plants in the hands of these corporations, who are after all "persons." Persons who care little for the well-being of the plant/planet as a whole. Who would just as soon wreck mountain tops, river banks (for mining and fracking), who often operate far from their corporate office where just maybe local protest might curb their excesses.
My weather guy, Paul Douglas of the Strib, notes that at a recent gathering of weather reporters to discuss global warming, a Saint Thomas University expert noted that a magnolia tree was blooming on the Saint Thomas campus this past MARCH. Paul says in essence, that environment changes predicted to be in place by 2090, are already occurring.
I am very much afraid we will not act at all, much less act "in time." Remember, we are potted plants. Luckily my potted hibiscus belongs to a real-live, singular person who now feels guilt, who promises to be more vigilant. Who will in a few moments trot upstairs to the third floor with another pitcher of water. We, who are real persons, need to take the reins away from these pseudo-persons called corporations and demand that our governments at all levels make the extreme changes necessary to allow our survival. Then we need to walk, ride our bikes, take public transportation or buy hybrids or plug ins. And no, I own no stock in Toyota or Honda.
Sunday, September 30, 2012
Sunday, September 23, 2012
Margotlog: "It is a truth universally acknowledged..."
Margotlog: "It is a truth universally acknowledged..."
So begins Jane Austen's divine novel "Pride and Prejudice." Austen's satiric pen turns like a double-edged knife toward the reader and the characters in her novel. Let's try that tactic: It's a truth universally acknowledged, in the U.S. of 2012, that all houses, forever forward and aft, sport white goddesses reposing in their basements.
Segue back to Charleston, South Carolina of the 1950s. I rush in from school, the screen door slams behind me. My mother stands at the sink. Above her rises a 14-foot ceiling, deep with shadows and cobwebs. She is washing clothes--my school uniforms, socks, night gowns, my father's heavy khaki uniforms, her own cotton house dresses, my sister's play clothes.
Standing at a deep window well I stare out to a cobblestone parking yard. We live in the Old Citadel, built a hundred years ago to house cadets in a military college. Behind me, now, my mother is ironing the uniforms which she has starched and hung in the courtyard on a metal and rope contraption that looks like an upside down umbrella. She has sprinkled the stiff trousers and shirts with water, then rolled them into balls and let them sit. Once moisture has softened the hard starched khaki, she can manage to smooth them with her iron. If steam irons have been invented, we don't have one. Even as a girl in third grade, I understood that my mother worked very hard.
There was no white goddess in our basement. We had no basement. I had not yet met that era's version of a washing machine, and dryers meant the contraption she set up outside, letting the sun and wind do the work.
I've often thought of her as a pioneer housewife. Partly because she came from North Dakota and read to us from the "Laura and Mary" books--"Little House on the Prairie," etc. But also because her strength and resilience supported a physically demanding life. She did not have to cut wood for a stove--we had a gas range. But she did almost everything else "by hand," except bake bread. Though she was only a mediocre cook, we never went hungry. She sent me and my sister to walk across Marion Square with nickles and dimes clutched in our pockets. We bought loaves of bread, and bags of tapioca for puddings at a little grocer. The Mars bars tantalized. Sometimes we bought milk in a bottle, but most of the time, these clinking sweating dames were delivered by a man driving a horse and wagon. Later he acquired a truck. We had one car. My mother didn't learn to drive until I had graduated from college.
All this goes to say that truths "universally acknowledged" fly away with the wind. Times are changing all around us. I'm often besieged by thoughts of how to lower energy use. I'm stymied by this current drought, quite aware that by watering my trees (from the boulevard ash all the way to the backyard white pine and spruce), I'm using a precious, dwindling resource. What will happen to my beloved trees when the Mississippi runs so low, water can't be pumped to supply the Cities? What, ultimately, will happen to us if we have to live with one bucket of water per person, per day? Images of North African nomads flit through my mind. The women are clothed in layers of long flowing garments. Their faces are mostly covered. Sand stings. Bodies need protection from hot winds. The truth "universally acknowledged" that Minnesota with its 10,000 lakes will never run out of water, may one day crumble to dust.
For now, I conserve this way: I use and reuse and reuse water in the sink. First to wash hands, then catching the runoff in a dish, to swipe left-over food off plates after a meal, finally to clean cat-food cans before recycling them. Several years ago, I did an internet search on "grey water" usage--the recycling of rinse water and shower water for irrigating backyard lawns, trees, gardens. Several U.S. states allow this. Minnesota not yet. I tried inserting a proposal for grey water into the DFL platform, but met resistance from plumbers' unions. Plumbers would need to be retrained. "It is a truth universally acknowledged..."
I cut down on energy use: raising the blinds high for "natural" light, using long-lasting and minimal energy-use halogen bulbs, turning off all the way every computer once it's not being used. Putting TVs on power strips and turning them off all the way. Making a deal with my husband that if he completely unplugs the myriad "chargers" for his hand-helds, I won't run the outside water when he's exercising in the basement. Sensitive ears, that man.
I cook in bulk. I keep the freezer totally filled with frozen leftovers. In deep cold, we turn the heat down to 62, early in the evening, and raise it to 68 late in the morning. No, we don't wear wool against the skin, but we wear warm night-clothes, and, my one decadent indulgence, I use an electric blanket. I figure it's cheaper to heat one bed than a whole house. Recently we received an approval rating from Xcel Energy: we used 12% less energy than our neighbors. It's because we have no air conditioning. Fans will do.
And our dryer? The second of our two white basement goddesses? I dry my "wash 'n' wear" clothes maybe 3 minutes, then hang them on the line. Anything else--towers, sheets, napkins, socks, washcloths, nightgowns--dry on a line in the basement. The husband has to have anything that will touch hi sensitive skin fluffed in the dryer. Hmmm! I wonder how he managed as a kid. No dryers then. "It is a truth universally acknowledged..."
So begins Jane Austen's divine novel "Pride and Prejudice." Austen's satiric pen turns like a double-edged knife toward the reader and the characters in her novel. Let's try that tactic: It's a truth universally acknowledged, in the U.S. of 2012, that all houses, forever forward and aft, sport white goddesses reposing in their basements.
Segue back to Charleston, South Carolina of the 1950s. I rush in from school, the screen door slams behind me. My mother stands at the sink. Above her rises a 14-foot ceiling, deep with shadows and cobwebs. She is washing clothes--my school uniforms, socks, night gowns, my father's heavy khaki uniforms, her own cotton house dresses, my sister's play clothes.
Standing at a deep window well I stare out to a cobblestone parking yard. We live in the Old Citadel, built a hundred years ago to house cadets in a military college. Behind me, now, my mother is ironing the uniforms which she has starched and hung in the courtyard on a metal and rope contraption that looks like an upside down umbrella. She has sprinkled the stiff trousers and shirts with water, then rolled them into balls and let them sit. Once moisture has softened the hard starched khaki, she can manage to smooth them with her iron. If steam irons have been invented, we don't have one. Even as a girl in third grade, I understood that my mother worked very hard.
There was no white goddess in our basement. We had no basement. I had not yet met that era's version of a washing machine, and dryers meant the contraption she set up outside, letting the sun and wind do the work.
I've often thought of her as a pioneer housewife. Partly because she came from North Dakota and read to us from the "Laura and Mary" books--"Little House on the Prairie," etc. But also because her strength and resilience supported a physically demanding life. She did not have to cut wood for a stove--we had a gas range. But she did almost everything else "by hand," except bake bread. Though she was only a mediocre cook, we never went hungry. She sent me and my sister to walk across Marion Square with nickles and dimes clutched in our pockets. We bought loaves of bread, and bags of tapioca for puddings at a little grocer. The Mars bars tantalized. Sometimes we bought milk in a bottle, but most of the time, these clinking sweating dames were delivered by a man driving a horse and wagon. Later he acquired a truck. We had one car. My mother didn't learn to drive until I had graduated from college.
All this goes to say that truths "universally acknowledged" fly away with the wind. Times are changing all around us. I'm often besieged by thoughts of how to lower energy use. I'm stymied by this current drought, quite aware that by watering my trees (from the boulevard ash all the way to the backyard white pine and spruce), I'm using a precious, dwindling resource. What will happen to my beloved trees when the Mississippi runs so low, water can't be pumped to supply the Cities? What, ultimately, will happen to us if we have to live with one bucket of water per person, per day? Images of North African nomads flit through my mind. The women are clothed in layers of long flowing garments. Their faces are mostly covered. Sand stings. Bodies need protection from hot winds. The truth "universally acknowledged" that Minnesota with its 10,000 lakes will never run out of water, may one day crumble to dust.
For now, I conserve this way: I use and reuse and reuse water in the sink. First to wash hands, then catching the runoff in a dish, to swipe left-over food off plates after a meal, finally to clean cat-food cans before recycling them. Several years ago, I did an internet search on "grey water" usage--the recycling of rinse water and shower water for irrigating backyard lawns, trees, gardens. Several U.S. states allow this. Minnesota not yet. I tried inserting a proposal for grey water into the DFL platform, but met resistance from plumbers' unions. Plumbers would need to be retrained. "It is a truth universally acknowledged..."
I cut down on energy use: raising the blinds high for "natural" light, using long-lasting and minimal energy-use halogen bulbs, turning off all the way every computer once it's not being used. Putting TVs on power strips and turning them off all the way. Making a deal with my husband that if he completely unplugs the myriad "chargers" for his hand-helds, I won't run the outside water when he's exercising in the basement. Sensitive ears, that man.
I cook in bulk. I keep the freezer totally filled with frozen leftovers. In deep cold, we turn the heat down to 62, early in the evening, and raise it to 68 late in the morning. No, we don't wear wool against the skin, but we wear warm night-clothes, and, my one decadent indulgence, I use an electric blanket. I figure it's cheaper to heat one bed than a whole house. Recently we received an approval rating from Xcel Energy: we used 12% less energy than our neighbors. It's because we have no air conditioning. Fans will do.
And our dryer? The second of our two white basement goddesses? I dry my "wash 'n' wear" clothes maybe 3 minutes, then hang them on the line. Anything else--towers, sheets, napkins, socks, washcloths, nightgowns--dry on a line in the basement. The husband has to have anything that will touch hi sensitive skin fluffed in the dryer. Hmmm! I wonder how he managed as a kid. No dryers then. "It is a truth universally acknowledged..."
Saturday, September 15, 2012
Margotlog: The SPCO's Divine Coherence
Margotlog: The SPCO's Divine Coherence
The process of creating an orchestra is like working a manuscript through a thousand drafts, each adjustment, adding and subtracting, listening and blending, heightening and subduing finally produces a glorious resonance of refinement and depth. It's simply not possible to achieve--except with rare flashes of inspiration--without hours, days, months of constructive work. The same group of musicians must practice and perform together until they can hear each other with such finesse that their intelligent, lively coherence becomes a thing in itself. Like a forest where the trees talk to each other. Not possible if a tall beech or maple occurs every 500 yards with only stumps in between.
Those who know little about slow growth but lots about "cut and run" make extremely poor managers of organic wholes. In fact their mind-set is not to foster and maintain but to take away as much as possible, leaving only a skeleton of the glorious whole.The "screen of trees along the highway" mentality, beyond which lies a cut-over horror.
Unfortunately the Saint Paul Chamber Orchestra has been put through a wrenching process by its managers, and the end is not in sight. After living through the summer with a draconian proposal hanging over their heads--reduce salaries more than 50%, cut the number of full-time musicians and the number of performances, and bring in "guns for hire"--the orchestra received what looked like a more acceptable proposal on the eve of their opening concert. Long-time players could retire with a comfortable settlement, newer players would be paid less than the current rate but not starved, and the number of performances would remain the same. Evidently a pot of money exists to support up to fifteen or so such retirements.
Though this "buy out" looked good at first blush, it has implications that could reduce the current memberships by so significant a number that the divine coherence, honed and crafted over years, may sadly dissipate.
There has to be a better way. Over the last decade, the musicians have "given back" around 2 million to the organization. Now we propose that the organization reciprocate. Take the millions set aside to pay for retirement and increase the yearly wage for all players, encouraging most to stay. It seems self-evident that retaining the divine coherence benefits the musicians as well as their eager audience. The solution will be received with such resounding gratitude that many of us who've enjoyed years of SPCO glory will dig deeper into our pockets. We will start a fund dedicated to the musicians and their continued well-being. It's the least we can do to honor the tradition of excellence fostered by players and conductors as well-known as Pinchas Zuckerman, Dennis Russell Davies, Christian Zacharias, Hugh Wolff, Edo de Waart, and many many others.
Let's step around the clear-cut proposal and keep the musical forest alive.
The process of creating an orchestra is like working a manuscript through a thousand drafts, each adjustment, adding and subtracting, listening and blending, heightening and subduing finally produces a glorious resonance of refinement and depth. It's simply not possible to achieve--except with rare flashes of inspiration--without hours, days, months of constructive work. The same group of musicians must practice and perform together until they can hear each other with such finesse that their intelligent, lively coherence becomes a thing in itself. Like a forest where the trees talk to each other. Not possible if a tall beech or maple occurs every 500 yards with only stumps in between.
Those who know little about slow growth but lots about "cut and run" make extremely poor managers of organic wholes. In fact their mind-set is not to foster and maintain but to take away as much as possible, leaving only a skeleton of the glorious whole.The "screen of trees along the highway" mentality, beyond which lies a cut-over horror.
Unfortunately the Saint Paul Chamber Orchestra has been put through a wrenching process by its managers, and the end is not in sight. After living through the summer with a draconian proposal hanging over their heads--reduce salaries more than 50%, cut the number of full-time musicians and the number of performances, and bring in "guns for hire"--the orchestra received what looked like a more acceptable proposal on the eve of their opening concert. Long-time players could retire with a comfortable settlement, newer players would be paid less than the current rate but not starved, and the number of performances would remain the same. Evidently a pot of money exists to support up to fifteen or so such retirements.
Though this "buy out" looked good at first blush, it has implications that could reduce the current memberships by so significant a number that the divine coherence, honed and crafted over years, may sadly dissipate.
There has to be a better way. Over the last decade, the musicians have "given back" around 2 million to the organization. Now we propose that the organization reciprocate. Take the millions set aside to pay for retirement and increase the yearly wage for all players, encouraging most to stay. It seems self-evident that retaining the divine coherence benefits the musicians as well as their eager audience. The solution will be received with such resounding gratitude that many of us who've enjoyed years of SPCO glory will dig deeper into our pockets. We will start a fund dedicated to the musicians and their continued well-being. It's the least we can do to honor the tradition of excellence fostered by players and conductors as well-known as Pinchas Zuckerman, Dennis Russell Davies, Christian Zacharias, Hugh Wolff, Edo de Waart, and many many others.
Let's step around the clear-cut proposal and keep the musical forest alive.
Sunday, September 9, 2012
Margotlog: For the Love of an Orchestra
Margotlog: For the Love of an Orchestra
It's difficult to love a huge aggregate. But the Saint Paul Chamber Orchestra is small by orchestra standards: thirty-some versus over a hundred (I'm guessing) for the Minnesota Orchestra. Saturday night's concert at the Ordway was for me a love fest. It came just after the board's announcement of a much more lenient package for the orchestra--instead of keeping only a small core and bringing in "players for hire"; cutting salaries as low as $25,000/year, and reducing the number of concerts, most salaries would hover around $62,000. A full complement of musicians would be retained, and there'd be a satisfactory retirement package to encourage some long-timers to exit.
The past week has been fraught with sadness and tension. Could the board truly institute its draconian intention? Many of us cried out, NO NO NO. The opening concerts were a love fest of relief between players and audience: the flayers had been sent away. Our beloved players in their jewel of a hall would gather another year to challenge and delight us.
The challenge came first in two "neoclassical" pieces by Stravinsky. As I write this, I'm listening to that Russo-American's 1920s ballet score "Pulcilnella," created for the Dyagliev Paris ballet, with sets designed by Picasso, and the music based on Pergolesi and the Commedia dell'Arte masked traveling Italian troupes. If time travel could take me back to that first performance, I'd bring the SPCO players with me. Stravinsky in "Pulcinella" is a more lyrical, story-telling composer than in the two pieces the SPCO played last night: a flute, woodwind and brass "Octet" from 1922, with some of the charming quick tempo and mood changes and "hoots" that always make me smile. But lacking the expansive charm of "Pulcinella." I liked better the other Stravinsky, a 1940s all string "Concerto in D." It had more coherence which helped with the rather dry melodic business.
After the intermission came the piece de resistance--Beethoven's "Eroica" symphony--grand, complicated expression of the heroic spirit, intended originally to honor Napoleon. Surely this work was chosen way back in the spring, before all the wrangling about continuing the orchestra took place. But it was a completely fitting shout of joy, and weeping in suffering and relief (the second "Marcia funebra" movement). I had to close my eyes to fully take in the glorious playing--Beethoven's fascinating shifts (sometimes almost like flying up stairs) from gloom to light, from plodding and slow to eager tripping, all gathered and consumed in the simplicity of a few dominating motifs.
The audience was (I'm guessing) to a person on their feet with applause. Then with my eyes open and full of tears, I looked at my beloved orchestra, the faces and figures I know almost like a family (though of course they don't know me--that odd one-way relation of performer and listener). And I saw relieved tears in some of their eyes too. They honored their vigorous, talented, steadfast maestro Edo de Waart who has stood with them in the week's public discussion. Thank you, indeed, from our hearts, with sadness for the initial, dismal way they were treated. And relief in hopes we may continue, full force and together, this exploration of excellent performing.
It's difficult to love a huge aggregate. But the Saint Paul Chamber Orchestra is small by orchestra standards: thirty-some versus over a hundred (I'm guessing) for the Minnesota Orchestra. Saturday night's concert at the Ordway was for me a love fest. It came just after the board's announcement of a much more lenient package for the orchestra--instead of keeping only a small core and bringing in "players for hire"; cutting salaries as low as $25,000/year, and reducing the number of concerts, most salaries would hover around $62,000. A full complement of musicians would be retained, and there'd be a satisfactory retirement package to encourage some long-timers to exit.
The past week has been fraught with sadness and tension. Could the board truly institute its draconian intention? Many of us cried out, NO NO NO. The opening concerts were a love fest of relief between players and audience: the flayers had been sent away. Our beloved players in their jewel of a hall would gather another year to challenge and delight us.
The challenge came first in two "neoclassical" pieces by Stravinsky. As I write this, I'm listening to that Russo-American's 1920s ballet score "Pulcilnella," created for the Dyagliev Paris ballet, with sets designed by Picasso, and the music based on Pergolesi and the Commedia dell'Arte masked traveling Italian troupes. If time travel could take me back to that first performance, I'd bring the SPCO players with me. Stravinsky in "Pulcinella" is a more lyrical, story-telling composer than in the two pieces the SPCO played last night: a flute, woodwind and brass "Octet" from 1922, with some of the charming quick tempo and mood changes and "hoots" that always make me smile. But lacking the expansive charm of "Pulcinella." I liked better the other Stravinsky, a 1940s all string "Concerto in D." It had more coherence which helped with the rather dry melodic business.
After the intermission came the piece de resistance--Beethoven's "Eroica" symphony--grand, complicated expression of the heroic spirit, intended originally to honor Napoleon. Surely this work was chosen way back in the spring, before all the wrangling about continuing the orchestra took place. But it was a completely fitting shout of joy, and weeping in suffering and relief (the second "Marcia funebra" movement). I had to close my eyes to fully take in the glorious playing--Beethoven's fascinating shifts (sometimes almost like flying up stairs) from gloom to light, from plodding and slow to eager tripping, all gathered and consumed in the simplicity of a few dominating motifs.
The audience was (I'm guessing) to a person on their feet with applause. Then with my eyes open and full of tears, I looked at my beloved orchestra, the faces and figures I know almost like a family (though of course they don't know me--that odd one-way relation of performer and listener). And I saw relieved tears in some of their eyes too. They honored their vigorous, talented, steadfast maestro Edo de Waart who has stood with them in the week's public discussion. Thank you, indeed, from our hearts, with sadness for the initial, dismal way they were treated. And relief in hopes we may continue, full force and together, this exploration of excellent performing.
Monday, September 3, 2012
Margotlog: Sleeping Above a Lake
Margotlog: Sleeping Above a Lake
Getting from Saint Paul to Kalamazoo-ooo-ooo ain't easy. But "I gotta gal in Kalamazoo," as the old song goes--my friend Chris who was my new baby coach once upon a time, until life swept us apart. Now it's bringing us together. For the second year in a row, I'm on my way to Kalamazoo and Chris.
Fly to Midway Airport, take a CTA elevated train downtown among the skyscrapers, then with four hours to spare, visit the Art Institute, with a stop for a veggie sandwich and a Starbucks cup that sloshes gently in my hand as I trundle along. It's a warm midday The streets heading directly toward or from huge Lake Michigan are in shade. Those paralleling the lake in sun. It's not far, and soon I'm mounting the steps toward the huge grey lions which I remember from childhood.
We took the train from Charleston, South Carolina, to Cincinnati, changed for Chicago, changed for Minneapolis, changed for Wapeton, and Papa Max's house in North Dakota. Then too we had a long layover in Chicago: visiting the Museum of Science and Industry and the lions at the Art Institute. Among my earliest memories of travel. Now, heading toward Chris and Kalamazoo feels like a visit into the past.
In Union Station, crowded against the glass doors, I chat with a stylish white woman who's meeting up with her husband and children in Grand Rapids. Seated below us is a lanky African American man with a cute baby eating cheerios out of a plastic bag. "Hard working doing it alone," he admits. I'm suddenly alert: this young man is raising this toddler by himself!? We board the train and this odd couple take a double seat at a diagonal and back. When I turn my head I glimpse the baby sleeping on its father's chest. When it wakes up, it's talky in that almost-making-sense way that kids have before they actually do.
So interested to psyche them them out, I have trouble reading Julia Alvarez's How the Garcia Girls Lost Their Accents. Then there's a man with two canes trying to get into his big bag sprawled on the floor. He asks me to reach in for his shaving kit. I paw around and he gruffly corrects, "Not that, not that." Oh, oh, I think: accepting help from a strange white woman is hard for this aging white man. (Heck, we're both aging, but I have no canes.)
No wonder after the first rush of arrival, I'm fagged. The next day, Chris and I drive out to big Lake Michigan, heading to a lake house that belongs to her ex. Years ago when we were both in our first marriages, we stayed there together. Then it was closer to the lake, before the water level rose so high the house had to be moved back into the trees. I had forgotten the trees. Immense oaks and beeches and maples towering above us as we amble along a path up to the road and back. These are the famous sand dunes, which I heard about on the train but was almost too distracted to take in. Nothing like the little humps of sand along my childhood southern Atlantic. These dunes rise high as Chicago's steel and glass towers.
After our walk, we settle into a gazebo, chatting, snacking, reading. Soon we stretch out on adjacent lounge chairs, after lifting up the cushions to shoo out huge crickets. The air is alive with the rustle of leaves. We're too high to hear the lake lapping, but the water stretches blue and almost waveless to a quiet horizon.
We sleep so deeply that when I open my eyes, I have no idea where I am, gazing into pale blue edged with green. It is a moment of infinity. Then I turn my head and Chris and I continue stitching all those lost years forward to the present. We are both very happy.
Getting from Saint Paul to Kalamazoo-ooo-ooo ain't easy. But "I gotta gal in Kalamazoo," as the old song goes--my friend Chris who was my new baby coach once upon a time, until life swept us apart. Now it's bringing us together. For the second year in a row, I'm on my way to Kalamazoo and Chris.
Fly to Midway Airport, take a CTA elevated train downtown among the skyscrapers, then with four hours to spare, visit the Art Institute, with a stop for a veggie sandwich and a Starbucks cup that sloshes gently in my hand as I trundle along. It's a warm midday The streets heading directly toward or from huge Lake Michigan are in shade. Those paralleling the lake in sun. It's not far, and soon I'm mounting the steps toward the huge grey lions which I remember from childhood.
We took the train from Charleston, South Carolina, to Cincinnati, changed for Chicago, changed for Minneapolis, changed for Wapeton, and Papa Max's house in North Dakota. Then too we had a long layover in Chicago: visiting the Museum of Science and Industry and the lions at the Art Institute. Among my earliest memories of travel. Now, heading toward Chris and Kalamazoo feels like a visit into the past.
In Union Station, crowded against the glass doors, I chat with a stylish white woman who's meeting up with her husband and children in Grand Rapids. Seated below us is a lanky African American man with a cute baby eating cheerios out of a plastic bag. "Hard working doing it alone," he admits. I'm suddenly alert: this young man is raising this toddler by himself!? We board the train and this odd couple take a double seat at a diagonal and back. When I turn my head I glimpse the baby sleeping on its father's chest. When it wakes up, it's talky in that almost-making-sense way that kids have before they actually do.
So interested to psyche them them out, I have trouble reading Julia Alvarez's How the Garcia Girls Lost Their Accents. Then there's a man with two canes trying to get into his big bag sprawled on the floor. He asks me to reach in for his shaving kit. I paw around and he gruffly corrects, "Not that, not that." Oh, oh, I think: accepting help from a strange white woman is hard for this aging white man. (Heck, we're both aging, but I have no canes.)
No wonder after the first rush of arrival, I'm fagged. The next day, Chris and I drive out to big Lake Michigan, heading to a lake house that belongs to her ex. Years ago when we were both in our first marriages, we stayed there together. Then it was closer to the lake, before the water level rose so high the house had to be moved back into the trees. I had forgotten the trees. Immense oaks and beeches and maples towering above us as we amble along a path up to the road and back. These are the famous sand dunes, which I heard about on the train but was almost too distracted to take in. Nothing like the little humps of sand along my childhood southern Atlantic. These dunes rise high as Chicago's steel and glass towers.
After our walk, we settle into a gazebo, chatting, snacking, reading. Soon we stretch out on adjacent lounge chairs, after lifting up the cushions to shoo out huge crickets. The air is alive with the rustle of leaves. We're too high to hear the lake lapping, but the water stretches blue and almost waveless to a quiet horizon.
We sleep so deeply that when I open my eyes, I have no idea where I am, gazing into pale blue edged with green. It is a moment of infinity. Then I turn my head and Chris and I continue stitching all those lost years forward to the present. We are both very happy.
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