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“The desire to reach for the sky runs deep in our human psyche.”
October 8, 2011The weather is absolutely gorgeous. I haven’t seen Gracie all morning. She’s been on the deck and roaming the back yard. The cats are in the sun. I’m the only one holed up in a dark room in the back of the house. Soon enough I’ll remedy that!
An article in the Boston Globe this morning mentioned that the Pan Am World Wing International congress is in Boston this year. It’s a reunion of women who flew as PanAm flight attendants. The article mentioned that the women think the new show PanAm gets everything right except the pilots who weren’t young but rather mostly in their 40’s and 50’s, veterans of WWII. They said girdle and weight checks were done regularly so they could fit into the tight skirts which were part of the uniform.
I flew PanAm several times including back from Africa. That was the flight which had a buffet under the stars, tables set up in the back of the plane with meats, cheeses, salads, breads and rolls. At one point the pilot asked people to sit down and take turns at the table as the tail of the plane was dragging from the weight.
I always thought of PanAm as a modern magic carpet which could take you anywhere. I flew on it when few people flew to Europe or any exotic destinations. I remember going to the back of the plane, putting up the seat arms and lying down to sleep across a row of empty seats. Back then it was the only US airline which flew to Africa. The flight started in East Africa then made its way to West Africa with stops in Lagos, Accra, Monrovia and Dakar. We could get off at each stop and stretch our legs. I remember walking around on the tarmac in both Monrovia and Dakar.
I know I’ve mentioned before that if I could go back in time I’d ride the PanAm Clipper. I’d go to Singapore and have a drink or two at Raffles Hotel. I’d fly all over the PanAm world; of course, I’d also be rich enough to do that. It is, after all, my dream!
“Souvenirs are perishable; fortunately, memories are not”
October 6, 2011The house was really chilly this morning. I was nestled under the covers, and Fern and Gracie were right beside me sharing their warmth. When I came downstairs, I decided to turn on the heat for just a while to warm up the house. The heat didn’t go on. I cursed. Nothing riles me more than stuff not working, stuff I have to call an expert to come and fix. I wish my family was more diverse. I think every family should have an electrician, a plumber and a generalist who can fix most anything else. It should be a rule. I know this will cost me big just for the guy to walk through the front door. I suppose finding out before it got really cold was a lucky break, but then people break arms and legs so that word has its downside.
Summer is making a return engagement this weekend. Each day will be in the 70’s. I’m thinking it’s a farewell present.
My house is filled with stuff which has meaning only for me. The living room is mostly Ghana. A green basket I brought back home with me forty years ago sits under a table. Gold weights are on another table. Next to them is the top of a linguist staff and an old oware board leans against the same table. Finger bells are on the hearth. You put a round piece on each thumb and a bell on one finger of each hand to play it. I bought it in the market. I have paintings from Ghana. A couple were done by the art teacher at my school, Yao Blisah (though I don’t guarantee the spelling of his name).
In here are bags made from Bolga leather, a distinctive red and black leather still used. You can see boys working with the leather in some of my recent pictures. On the wall I have an old Bolga hat made of straw with a tie of that red and black leather. It’s a funky looking hat with straw straight up all over the woven part. I have an adrinka cloth my school gave me when I left. It is my prize Ghanaian possession.
Lately I’ve been thinking about putting together an album of pictures of all of these mementos. I’ll write stories about why each piece of Ghana is dear to me. I figure maybe they’ll become dear to someone else too.
“I’m easily distracted by other things in the world around me”.
October 3, 2011We have another day which can’t quite make up its mind. For a while it’s sunny then the clouds take over then comes the sun for another turn. Right now we have sun. Today is remove the screen from the back storm door day, always a painful chore. It means I have thrown in the towel and recognized that cold nights are here and won’t be going away. I do the back door first because it’s always open so Gracie can come and go as she pleases through her dog door. During the day it’s not too chilly, but at night, I can feel the cold air making its way down the hall to me. It’s time.
After a trip, I have a sense of wanderlust which takes a while to disappear; well, actually it never disappears: it just gets bearable. Sometimes, of late, I find myself on-line looking for cheap flights anywhere. I don’t ever remember getting there. It’s as if something took hold of me, a possession of sorts needing an exorcism.
My neighbor is mowing his lawn. He’s wearing a sweatshirt, jeans and a baseball cap. I think he’s a barometer of sorts.
I remember staring out the classroom windows even though it was frowned upon as an indicator of a lack of attention. There was never much to see out those windows, but they represented a sort of freedom I no longer had. On the lower floor, I could see the street in front of the school. I’d watch for cars to drive by. If I had a room in the back, I’d only see the empty playground and ached to be there. On the top floor, it was the sky I’d see, and I’d watch the clouds drifting and swirling and sometimes forming animals as they moved. When it rained, I’d see the drops hitting the windows, and I’d follow one as it slid down and disappeared.
When it rained, the class seemed quiet, subdued, and the room was always a bit dark even with the lights on. Sometimes the rain and pencils writing on paper were the only sounds. A rainy day was my favorite school day.
“Look! Up in the sky! It’s a bird. It’s a plane. It’s Superman!”
September 30, 2011The day is lovely, and I’m glad I have a slew of errands to do to get me out and about. Last night it poured for a while and then it thundered adding a bit of drama to the evening.
I saw a picture of Superman the other day, my Superman, my faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive and able to leap tall buildings in a single bound Superman. I was reminded of the living room at 37 Washington Ave. It was there, every afternoon, I watched Superman while my mother made dinner. The house was small; it was one side of a duplex. The kitchen table was against the window. The rest of the kitchen was longer than it was wide. Not far off the back door was a fence, and a big white house used to sit way back on the other side of that fence. The driveway to the house wasn’t paved but was rather two ruts worn in the grass by use. Pear trees were there, and we used to eat those pears, and all I remember is how hard they always were. The fence had a gate near the house and on the other side of the gate was the parking lot no one ever used except us kids to roller skate, ride bikes and play wild games like crack the whip. I used to climb the gate from Green Street where the house was. It was a short cut to my own house.
I remember lying on the floor in front of the small TV while I watched the flickering black and white screen as Superman saved the day. I knew that Clark and Superman were the same, and I wondered why Lois, Jimmy and Mr. White never figured it out. The glasses weren’t a great disguise.
Lois was a favorite of mine. She wasn’t afraid to investigate all sorts of nefarious schemes and people. Maybe it was because she knew Superman would always come or maybe it was because she was gutsy and getting the scoop was more important than anything else. I wanted to be Lois, curious and brave, but I never wanted to wear one of those hats, and the first thing I’d have done was ditch the suit.
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