54. Shi-ki-ta, Shi-ki-ta, Shi-ki-ta, Shi-ki-ta,
ShikitaShikitaShikitaShikita…. 3
Monday evening, Lounge, Union Station, Chicago.
A pleasant “First Class” lounge comes with my sleeper ticket. I am at a solitary table eating an orange as well as some crackers and cheese. And enjoying a perfect Pinot Noir (chosen to bring out the nuttiness of my Triscuits and to complement the extra sharp white cheddar. M&M’s await for dessert.
Life is good.
Before indulging in this fine repast I wandered around a bit, enjoying a spring evening in Chicago. I walked across the Chicago River to the Sears Tower (now the “Willis” tower). I was looking for the impressive Picasso sculpture I remember from when Susan and I used to visit Chicago from South Bend.I somehow thought it was at the Sears Tower. I mentioned this to brother Roger and his wife Corinna. She “googled” it and broke the news that my scrambled memory had once again misled me: the sculpture is at “Dailey Plaza”. Sigh.
As the females in our Weber universe will tell you, Weber men often feel (unreasonably) good about themselves. I am enjoying such a moment. Let me explain; telling the story will help me pass the time while I wait for my train.
California State University presidents have an annual retreat. One year we were meeting at a spectacular ocean-side hotel in Monterey Bay. The routine was meetings during the day, drinks and a nice dinner with a guest speaker in the evening. A sub-group of us had a morning meeting in a tenth- story conference room overlooking the Bay. We slowly shuffled in, coffee in hand and assumed our places around the conference table.
As it happened five or six of my female colleagues, (university presidents each), ended up on the side of the table looking out at the Bay while my male colleagues and I were facing them with our backs to the window.
[Digression: Have you ever noticed that some men (notably southern Europeans, especially Spaniards), seem to be naturally/instinctively gallant, while those of us of German ancestry are … less so? For southern Europeans a compliment to a lady comes effortlessly, while for Germans such utterances must be passed through lie detectors. Hold that thought…]
As we settled into what would surely be still another boring meeting one of my female colleagues noted that she and her “sisters” had the view. Whereupon my colleague, Emilio (President of Cal State, Chico) who was born in Spain, looked across the table at our female colleagues and said (with a perfectly straight face), “No, we do.”
Emilio’s response was as instinctive as it was instantaneous. I was so envious.
Forward ten years or so to yesterday morning. We are jiggling through New Mexico when we come to a brief stop not far east of Gallup. We have fifteen minutes to stretch our legs. [There is no smoking on the train. Evidently, every three or four hours we are required to have a “Fresh Air Stop”, (though its purpose is precisely the opposite), for those of the smoking persuasion.]
Stepping off the train one sign points à (right) to “Station”, another ß (left) to “Vendors”. I assume “vendors” means machines selling peanut butter-filled cheese crackers, but no: it means vendors, as in real people selling real stuff. I stroll over to look.
Gallup is a mecca for Navaho jewelry. Over the years Susan and I stopped here several times to buy some of their exquisite creations. Perhaps these vendors had some interesting stuff. Because our train was running late most of the vendors had left, but there was a native woman selling hand-(hers)-made jewelry, mostly small stuff, earrings, brackets, charms. A lovely copper bracelet, with a small turquoise stone mounted in silver caught my eye amidst the silver. It was not expensive. I bought it for the joy of supporting the native crafts and for the pleasure of buying something for a woman.
But what woman? I had no one to give it to — and giving it, of course, is the pleasure. As I walked back to my train it hit me: I will give this to Daisy (our “steward”) in lieu of a tip.
So, as I swung off the train here in Chicago. I said to Daisy, “Thank you for taking such good care of me. This is for you.” She looked at me with a puzzled expression, “Why?”
“Because”, I answered, “it is a pleasure to give beautiful things to lovely ladies.”
Germans are slow, but we learn.
Emilio would have been proud.
Now that we are in the “east”, the route ahead is familiar, unfolding like a synopsis of my life:
_ South Bend where I went to school. (Susan used to
take this same “Lake Shore Limited” into Chicago for a day’s shopping.)
__ Elkhart where we lived. Susan taught in the public schools
while I commuted to graduate school.
_ Toledo, not far north of Stoney Ridge where Mom
built a house for us.
__ Sandusky. Susan and I used to pass through, top down,
on our way to a day’s swimming/picnicking at Lake Erie beaches.
__ Buffalo, where Rick and Matt went to school
__ Syracuse, where Rick and his family now live.
__ Albany where I worked in the SUNY System office — ought to be
able to see it from the train.
We have been warned that because of repairs being made to the track the rest of the trip (from Albany to Boston) will be made by bus.
That bus will pass through
Lenox summer home of the Boston Pops
Worchester where I lived from about
age 2 to 6.
And then on into Boston where I was born.
A trip down memory lane; should be fun.
Tuesday morning, en route to Albany and Boston beyond.
Approaching Buffalo (the city, not the beast).
School busses are waiting at our rail crossings, lights flashing.
We left Chicago on time and continue to be on time.
I am once again at a jiggling keyboard.
This track being older, and given our chronic unwillingness to invest in
infrastructure, the ride is considerably rougher.
The country is clearly more settled. It is rare now that I look out without seeing some structure.
This is a one-story train rather than the two-story on which I have been riding up to now, which means that I did not have to wrestle my bag and backpack up a narrow winding stair. On the other hand I have a less “elevated” view.
My compartment is half the size of my former one: toilet, sink, no shower. When the bunks are deployed there is about 1.5 square feet of floor space. Either my bag can stand upright on the floor or I can — not both. But it works. The lower bunk will be two chairs when I get back from the Club Car where I (being earlier than my fellow passengers) have perfect forward facing seat at an otherwise free table.
We are scheduled to arrive in Albany about 3:00PM from whence we will be bussed (the tracks being under repair) to Boston.
I will spend the night at a favorite Boston hotel (by the harbor) and then fly home tomorrow morning.
The British philosopher, David Hume, noted how memories of a place become more vivid as you approach it. Even as far away as Buffalo, I am beginning to experience that: looking for remembered sights I would have thought were long past forgotten. I am also starting to “remember” things that need to be done when I get back home, groceries that need to be bought, etc..
I mentioned having met some interesting people. This morning is a case in point. I spoke with a heavy-set woman in plain dress. I asked to what group (not wanting to say “sect”) she belonged. She is a Mennonite. She hastens to add, however, that “now-a-days” there are so many varieties of Mennonite that the term itself does not tell you much. And, indeed, it does not; she and her family are in plain dress, but using computers and cell phones. She, her four sisters and one brother (plus their spouses) are traveling from Manitoba to New York City to visit Ellis Island where their mother first stepped on US soil, having emigrated from Russia in 1921, at the age of six. (A lot going on in Russia at that time!!!)
Later, I talk with one of her farmer brothers-in-law. We talk about the rigors of farming in Manitoba, about the short growing season.
Sartre writes about “bad faith”, our all-to-human ability to assume false identities. Case in point: as circumstances warrant, I can either present myself as a child of Boston or as a rural child of the farms of north west Ohio. Both are true; both are misleading. For this conversation I choose farm boy.
It is 5:00PM. We are now on the bus (a different sort of jiggle) driving to Boston. I assumed that we would have a fine luxury bus with internet, snack service, etc. Not so. To my surprise we are traveling not on the Mass Pike, but rather on route 20, through the Berkshires.
The scenery, lit by the late afternoon sun to our backs, is lovely. I will put aside my laptop and enjoy a bit of it.
Wednesday, Logan Air Port
A perfect blue-sky morning, light winds — just right for a flight on a small plane to Bar Harbor.
It’s been a good trip, not just for the train ride and the scenery, but for the forced solitude and time to think.
