Month: September 2004

Categories
Photography Places

Driving

I made a vow to myself yesterday that I wasn’t going to drive at night again. Kicking around town is fine, and I like getting up in the pre-dawn for a trip; but long trips that end later in the night, when your windshield is covered with bugs, and your eyes are blurred with the lights of a thousand SUVs shining directly into them–no.

Especially driving into St. Louis along that miserable mess that is I-55, I-70, and I-64 from the East. All three freeways combine, and then split suddenly apart into two bridges and then combine again. I know that both routes end up in the same place, but late at night when I’m tired, I forget and when they start to split, I panic, and then screech over to the left.

Then once they combine, you have to immediately get into the one and only lane that leads to I-44, which happens to leave the freeway at a 20MPH curve, slowing traffic going 60 MPH to 5 MPH instantly. But this lane is in the middle of these other lanes, that split into differen roads. You look into the mirror and tap your break like mad, hoping that whoever is behind you sees that the lane has slowed suddenly and drastically.

I didn’t get many pictures yesterday or today. I did find some corn for Scott. Unfortunately, it was behind bars. Good corn gone bad, I suppose.

Good corn gone bad

And I found this odd tree with odd seeds and odder leaves.

Odd tree

I have the balloon race at Forest Park tomorrow, and should do better. The Glow was tonight, but I was too tired.

Dad is safely tucked away in a nursing home. Temporarily we all say, as he gets the therapy and care he needs to be able to use a walker. His roommate is a man who looks much younger than Dad– probably 60’s or 70’s. A handsome man, with hair that is darker brown with some gray at the sides. He sat, very nicely dressed, in a chair and just looked out the window the entire time we were there. Didn’t stop looking out the window. Didn’t acknowledge the activity associated with Dad. Didn’t once turn around.

Next to his small TV on his dressar is a cardboard figure of a car – an old convertible, a chevy I think. Behind it is a older photo of a young man and woman sitting in a car that looks much like the cardboard figure. Above the TV is a corkboard just filled with notes and photos, and an old Navaho blanket covers his bed.

I am burning with desire to take his photo.

Categories
Just Shelley

Night driving

I left late yesterday, with the day already ending; tired and numb from the trip. The traffic was light, scattered along the road like crumbs on a path to follow.

In my rearview mirror, I spotted them first: a line of semis approaching me fast. I’d seen this before–a series of trucks moving as one, with road cleared of trouble ahead. Normally I would pull to the left and wait for them to pass. This time, though, I waited a break and popped my little car into the queue.

Into the night, over hills, and around corners a line of nine semis broke the night and the law. Nine large trucks moved as one from lane to lane, passing this slower car and that; nine semis, and one little Ford Focus.

It was a ballet of wheels and motion as the leader would pull out into the passing lane and then the truck behind him, and the next, and the next. The truck ahead of me was metallic with orange lights at the top, and ahead of him, a large moving van, and ahead of him, dark green with black writing, I think. Behind me rode a plain white truck, no markings to see, and behind it was darkness, it was the end of the line.

We drove to the west as the sun began to set, a bright orange ball that burned the prairie around us. Past fields fill of cicada whose sound echoed behind; past other cars who quickly pulled to the left, intimidated by nine determined semis, traveling all in a line. Nine semis, and one Ford Focus.

Through the rosy glow a line of lights spaced just so. I wondered if the semis resented my intrusion, this little golden bug among great gods of steel. But they gave me my space, and waited my move in the chorus we played, as we weaved and we waved, and I think they must have thought me cute – a mascot, perhaps.

Finally the ride tired and I wanted the peace of the night and I pulled over one more time to the left. The white truck behind me hesitated, as if in encouragement, but then with a shift of gears, waiting no man or woman, it leaped into the space and pulled ahead. I watched then as nine sets of red lights, all in a row, wound itself into the night and vanished from view.

I am going to make a poem out of this, you wait and see: the ride into the night of nine big trucks; nine semis and one little Ford Focus.

Categories
Just Shelley

Nine Semis and one Ford Focus

I left late yesterday, with the day already ending; tired and numb from the trip. The traffic was light, scattered along the road like crumbs on a path to follow.

In my rearview mirror, I spotted them first: a line of semis approaching me fast. I’d seen this before–a series of trucks moving as one, with road cleared of trouble ahead. Normally I would pull to the left and wait for them to pass. This time, though, I waited for a break and popped my little car into the queue.

Into the night, over hills and around corners a line of nine semis broke the night and the law. Nine large trucks moved as one from lane to lane, passing this slower car and that.

Nine semis, and one little Ford Focus.

It was a ballet of wheels and motion as the leader would pull out into the passing lane and then the truck behind him, and the next, and the next. The truck ahead of me was metallic with orange lights at the top; ahead of him, a large moving van; ahead of him, dark green with black writing, I think. Behind me rode a plain white truck and behind it was darkness—it was the end of the line.

We drove to the west as the sun began to set, a bright orange ball that burned the prairie around us. Past fields fill of cicada whose sound echoed behind. Past other cars who quickly pulled to the left, intimidated by nine determined semis traveling all in a line. Nine semis, and one Ford Focus.

Through the rosy glow a line of lights spaced just so. I wondered if the semis resented my intrusion, this little golden bug among great gods of steel. But they gave me my space and waited my move in the chorus we played, as we weaved and we waved, and I think they must have thought me cute. A mascot, perhaps.

Finally the ride tired and I wanted the peace of the night. I moved to the left lane, leaving a gap to  my right. The white truck that had been behind me hesitated, as if in encouragement. Then, with a shift of gears, it leapt into the space and pulled ahead. I watched as nine sets of red lights, all in a row, wound itself into the night and vanished from view.

I am going to make a poem out of this, you wait and see: the ride into the night of nine big semis, and one little Ford Focus.

Categories
Just Shelley

From home to home

I’m about to head out to Bloomington. We have to move my Dad to a nursing home today as the assisted living home has said that the care he requires would cost upwards of $6000.00 a month, none of which would be covered by Medicare or Dad’s supplemental insurance. But Dad is a tough old bugger (see, he’s moved up from ‘old fart’), so he’ll weather this, or at least give it a good shot.

In the meantime, I’ve been enjoying a couple of books from the library, “The Humor of Kierkegaard” and “Thank You for not Reading”, both of which have been delights. I also watched the movie “Calendar Girls” last night, and giggled throughout. This simple, lovely little movie demonstrated that getting older is less a matter of skin and muscle and gravity, and more a matter of humor and style and strength of purpose.

I believe this movie should be a required gift for every woman over 45. And for every man over 20.

Categories
History

Historical Truth

Kierkegaard had so much to say 150 years ago that is still fresh and relevant today, especially about writing and journalism. For instance, there’s been a great deal of discussion lately about the search for ‘historical truth’ in regards to actions taken during wars in the past, and how this truth relates to the current US presidential election.

However, as we are finding, as Kierkegaard found, the search for historical truth is less a matter of finding all the facts, as it is finding just the right set of facts for any specific group at any point in time.

In “Writing Sampler”, he wrote the following, as demonstration:

Merchant Marcussen in Badstuestraede had a large dinner party yesterday. At the table there occurred, however, the misfortune that the merchant knocked a gravy boat over himself and the lady next to him. This is how it happened. Just at the very moment when the servant offered the gravy boat, the merchant stood up to make a toast. With a movement of his arm, he bumped the servant and the gravy boat. This is the historical truth. We are well aware that a rumor is circulating that tells the story overwise, namely, that with a movement of her head the lady bumped the servant. But this is only rumor without any official standing. We have received no information as to the lady’s name. Some mention Miss Lindvad; others say it was Gusta Jobbe. As soon as we learn it, we will immediately report it. The name is of enormous importance, because for the [next] week there will, of course, be talk of nothing else in all of Copenhagen and in all of Denmark.