Posted tagged ‘bus ride’

“I’ll just tell you what I remember because memory is as close as I’ve gotten to building my own time machine.”

May 29, 2015

I looked up perfect day in the dictionary and found a picture of today. The morning is cool, the sun bright, the sky the darkest of blues and the leaves on the trees sport the look of newness which comes in spring. Both the sky and the leaves are so lovely you’d think they were painted from a palette filled with the brightest colors.

Mostly I never think about making memories. They just sort of stick and now and then something brings one out, and I am flooded with a forgotten memory. I suspect my memory drawers are overflowing because I only get snippets of that memory before it all comes back. I remember getting on the bus to high school and I remember the smell of the bus. On the route was a huge hill, and we went down it on the way to school. We took a left at the end of the hill and a bit further on was a corner store and a few houses which looked alike. On the left side of the road was a beautiful house seemingly out-of-place as all the other houses lack the stateliness of this one house, but as we rode further into Winchester beyond the downtown, all the houses were beautiful and huge. The last thing I remember of that trip I took every day was a stop where Liz got on.

We used to visit my aunt the nun once a year in Connecticut. I have several single pictures, memories, of those visits. Every time we went we’d stop on the Connecticut Turnpike at a brick rest stop. My mother would check us all to make sure we were clean, our hair was combed and our clothes were neat. I remember sitting in the visitors’ living room. We whispered because the convent seemed to engender whispering. A nun always brought us cookies and something to drink. She never made any sound. My aunt didn’t know what to do with us so a tour of her school was a part of the visit. I remember the smell of chalk.

I remember standing outside my room in Winneba, Ghana at the start of training. My room was on the second floor, and from there I could see the rusted tin on all the roofs and the greens of the trees and bushes. If I close my eyes, that scene still comes back to me.

Not all my memories are happy ones, none of us are that lucky. I think the saddest of my memories have their own drawers. Those memories come unbidden at times and bring with them the pain and the sorrow. They remind me that life is a farrago, a mix, a jumble of feelings.

“I guess God made Boston on a wet Sunday.”

January 30, 2012

Today will be a short post as I have to go to Boston. In days of yore, I used to go to Boston fairly often and never minded the trip. I’d meet friends, see a play, go out to dinner or shop. Now that I have all the time in the world, I begrudge the trip. I’d much rather sit at home and travel the Cape roads.

When I was a little kid, my mother didn’t drive. If we wanted to go to Boston, it meant walking up town and picking up the bus to Sullivan Square. Once there, we’d walk upstairs from the bus to the subway station. My mother would warn us away from the edge of the platform so we’d stand back and lean over to look down the tracks for the coming train. When it arrived, the doors always slid open with a whooshing sound, and we’d hurry inside to our seats. We always knelt on the bench like seats with our backs to the cars and our faces to the window. The city enthralled us as huge buildings, lots of cars and houses close together were unusual sights for us. The rule always was if we got separated, we were to get off at the next station and wait. We never did need to do that.

Mostly I remember going to Boston with my mother to see Santa Claus at Jordan Marsh. We were dressed in our good clothes and would wend our way to Santa through the Enchanted Village. It always held our attention, and we never once asked how much more we had to wait. Compared to today, the exhibit was primitive but for us it was almost magical. The people and the animals moved. Mostly they moved back and forth in one spot or their heads went up and down, and we thought it amazing.

That trip was always the best from start to finish. We got to ride a bus and a subway both ways. We saw Santa and the village, and my mother usually bought us a treat like a cone or a soft pretzel.

It was those trips which helped make Boston my all time favorite city. When I got older, high school age, I’d make the trip with my friends. Little had changed. We all still looked out the window and we warned each other to meet at the next stop if we got separated.

Looks like this was longer than I expected!

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