Pardon me, boy

Dad is in the kitchen with Dinah. His fingers strum invisible air banjoes.

Where?

Dad manages to vocalize his question.  I know he's exasperated at my inability to read lips when he is in silent mode.

You are still here in Plano, Texas.

I can't make head nor tails...

Your confusion makes me cry, too.  

Railroad?

Oh, now I've got it.  You  are on the train again, Dad.  The oxygen machine puffs and huffs rhythmically.  It sounds ever so much like the Zephyr waiting for an all aboard down by the station early in the morning.

Alas and alack, clickety clack, I foresee trouble ahead, trouble behind and you know that notion just crossed my mind.

Where?

I've been working at the library.  I've got to go now, Dad.


Why?

I have things to do at my own house.  My eyes water. Dad must wonder how I'm getting off his train.  His skinny chest breathes so rapidly.  His little pufferbelly is 500 miles from his home.

If you miss the train I'm on, you will know that I am gone 
You can hear the whistle blow a hundred miles, 
A hundred miles, a hundred miles, a hundred miles, a hundred miles, 
You can hear the whistle blow a hundred miles. 

Lord I'm one, Lord I'm two, Lord I'm three, Lord I'm four, 
Lord I'm 500 miles from my home. 
500 miles, 500 miles, 500 miles, 500 miles 
Lord I'm five hundred miles from my home. 

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

"Tired of waiting for the train"

When I arrive, Dad whispers that he is "tired of waiting for the train."  I hold onto his hand, but chicken out about asking where his train will be bound.  Because he is my father, my teacher of manners and patience, I visualize for him a shady vintage depot with dust motes floating near the windows and long wooden benches for travelers, and Dad unperturbed by long delays.

Dad and I might be in our 1960s memories standing on the pedestrian bridge above the tracks at the McCook, Nebraska train station waiting for the cheap thrill of the California Zephyr rumbling and snuffing below us?  This is about as exciting as McCook ever got, unless you were really into liver and onions.  You could get anything you wanted at Larry's Cafe, at the corner of Norris Avenue and B Street.  It was a quick walk from the depot or from the "bustling downtown".  The grown-ups would order liver and onions.  Granddad would order a steak well done with butter pats melting on top, and a glass of buttermilk.  Very creepy!!  Grandmother would buy Andes Mints for all of us on the way out if we had behaved ourselves.  That shiny green foil another high point in McCook.

Until today I never imagined my father as a desperado waiting for a train.  My copies of Ron Hansen's novels, Desperados, and The Assassination of Jesse James By the Coward Robert Ford are well worn from rereading.  I've read most of Hansen's books, and noticed a review of his new A Wild Surge of Guilty Passion in the New York Times.

I can't imagine my dad as the outlaw adjusting the bandana over his nose and staring down the track at the approaching locomotive.  He could not have lived less like the old man in Guy Clark's classic song, "Desperados Waiting For a Train," but the aching sadness is the same.  Maybe Dad was more of an outlaw than I perceived, as he has sure become a noncompliant resident in the nursing home.

This train is bound for glory, but its arrival has been delayed.  When it gets here, I hope there will be no weepin' and a wailin'.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Celebrating without candycanes

The youngest music group, students ages three and four, stood up to sing their holiday songs.  The children sang (well a few sang, one rang a triangle, one pounded on a xylophone, and the rest just stared at the music teacher like deer in the headlice) a song about candycanes wrapped in cellobrain.  Or maybe they were in celebrains.

Their second song was about a Christmas train coming down the tracks loaded with sacks.  The pattern was, "Susie wants a dollie" or "Jimmy wants a drum".  Being able to come up with an idea, any idea, when your turn comes around is pretty challenging at this age.  Santa please disregard these requests for carrots, skates, and big cats.  Skates in Dallas?

Outside of the holiday music performance the children have been singing "Here We Go Round the Dining Room Table" to the mulberry bush tune.  They each get a turn to name something they will bring for a feast.  Amazing how the child who has resisted tasting any vegetable all semester suddenly contributes "sugar snap peas". 

When they handed out brains, I thought they said trains, and I missed mine. 

In kindergarten I always had to play the red rhythm sticks.  I wasn't deemed with it enough to ring the triangle, swish-swash the sandpaper blocks, clang the cymbals, or tap the tambourine.  Still not, but I know many good things to bring to the dining room table on a cold and frosty Christmas.  Ms. Nancy will bring green beans almondine, green beans almondine, green beans almondine.  Ms. Nancy still wants the sandpaper blocks...

© 2010 Nancy L. Ruder

Well, we're back in business, boys and girls, just like the old days.

Last week I went meandering in the garden store down the street for a little change of pace. A slow afternoon in the greenhouse, so an employee came over to spend time with me. Is it too late to plant this? Will that come back in the spring?

Whenever I plant a little rosemary, I told the woman, it's a goner. She disagreed, proclaiming anybody can grow that herb. I bought a little rosemary, just to be an optimist, along with a mint plant and two brussel sprout plants. Maybe I could exorcise my childhood brussel sprout trauma by growing some of my own!

"Of course," I told the garden store woman, "the white butterfly will find these brussel sprout plants before you can say, 'Butch and Sundance." She gave me a look that said she was too darn perky to poison her mental outlook by prolonging her exposure to me, and went off to water ornamental peppers.



Am I a pessimist? Or am I a realist? I'd like to think I'm just in awe of the abilities of Mother Nature's creations to find their favorite food source. Don't mark me down as a party pooper on my cosmic permanent record!



So it was no surprise when the white cabbage butterfly arrived on the patio this afternoon to do an Isadora Duncan version of egg-laying on the little brussel sprout plants. I hadn't seen her for months, but she was back in business, boys and girls.



I'm thankful to Paul Newman for his gift of precious cinematic moments that color my take on life. It helps to imagine old Butch entering a heavenly Union Pacific boxcar to chat with Woodcock, aka George Furth, who is still in the employ of Mr. E. H. Harriman.

© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder

Driving a walrus in the Rose Bowl Parade

This week the Buick got a new intake manifold gasket, starter, battery, and coolant flush, and all I got was this lousy t-shirt.

Well, not exactly. I didn't get a t-shirt. Instead I got vivid dreams of having a pedicure while riding atop a petal-decorated Tournament of Roses parade float.

Three days driving my walking buddy's giant walrus of a Ford Explorer altered my consciousness, but I'm proud to say I never fell down out of the driver's seat onto the pavement. I want my small, low vehicle back, despite its flaws!

Two weeks of sharing lizard stories with preschoolers had me in full gecko velcro toe mode. Gecko toes are inspiring scientists to create new adhesive products, but all I got were these lousy nightmares of Warren Zevon cross-pollinating with Rosie in Bye-Bye Birdie!

Well, I saw Lon Chaney waving like the parade queen, doing the walrus of London.

I saw Warren Zevon riding on the float, doing the walrus of London.

I saw a gecko drinking a pina colada at Trader Vic's, and his toenails were perfect.

I saw Rosie dancing with Dick Van Dyke on the upper level of the Trinity River Express train.

Ahhhooooo, wake me up, please! Ahhhooooo, wake me up, please!

© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder

Woodcock worked for Mr. E. H. Harriman

On some level I sensed a shift along the cosmic train track. No one was guarding the Union Pacific safe now. I'm betting that big softy Butch Cassidy sat down on the siding and wept when he learned Woodcock had gone to his final great reward. George Furth, the character actor who gave us such great moments, passed away August eleventh at the age of seventy-five. Mr. E. H. Harriman never did pay him nearly enough for the joy he gave us.

© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder

$5 Challenge Met

One down, one to go. Met the challenge I set to travel to an art show in Fort Worth for five dollars*. Felt a tad untethered and out of the driver's seat, but enjoyed the experience.



I bought my five dollar premium day pass at the Arapaho Station, and rode a DART light rail train to Union Station in downtown Dallas. Hadn't worked out the bugs to minimize wait durations at transfer points, so I had too much time to watch children feeding Cheetos to very scruffy pigeons. There were several women my age waiting to ride the Trinity Railway Express on their own field trip challenges. There were also several persons who talked loudly to themselves without cell phones, and one man doing a fearful version of Michael Jackson's "Moon Walk" dance around a fallen leaf on the Amtrak platform.

The double-decker Trinity Railway Express, or TRE, is neither a bullet train nor a scenic excursion ride. The pace is "I think I can" slow but smooth, with mostly uninspiring views out the double-decker windows. Still, it would cost far more to drive the Buick to Fort Worth.

On arrival at the Fort Worth Intermodal Transit Center downtown, I eventually figured out my #7 bus route and departure bay to ride the T to the vicinity of the Kimbell Art Museum. The ITC station was cleaner and more appealing than the Dallas Union Station due to fewer pigeons.

The T bus drivers are friendly, helpful, and glad to be ambassadors for their city. I rode three route #7 buses, and each driver gave clear explanations for walking to my destination from the bus stop, and for catching my inbound bus to the ITC. Each bus has a bike carrier on the front. It takes just a few seconds for a passenger to load or unload a bike from the carrier. (Not that I was biking, but a very cool possibility.)

The incredible Impressionist art on view at the Kimbell Museum is from the Chicago Art Institute. I wanted to savor the experience, and not try to cram more museums into my day. Instead boarded bus # 7 for a short ride to the entry of the Fort Worth Botanic Gardens. Took a long walk through the park and the Japanese Garden. It's easy to imagine Monet enjoying the Japanese Garden. The begonia greenhouse brought fond memories of my watercolor professor, Mr. Butt. His classroom was filled with as many varieties of begonia as the Botanic Garden greenhouse, but with bonus bromeliads, cigar aroma, and piano jazz.

Microsoft makes it possible for all of us to maximize and minimize the windows open on our computer screen. Aging and blogging help me apply that concept to experiences in the present and memories of the past. Open the window wide!




My eight-hour vacation included four trains and three bus rides. Riding the TRE gave me two hours to finish a good book .

*$5 PREMIUM Day Pass
Travel in both Dallas and Fort Worth metropolitan areas. Valid on all DART buses and trains, DART On-Call, TRE trains (from Union Station to T&P Station), and The T in Fort Worth.

© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder

When the down escalator is down

Missed the train after the rehearsal this evening. The escalator down from the Park & Ride level to the track was broken. Plus, the elevator was unavailable because repairmen were moving loads of escalator stairsteps down to the track level. By the time I found the stairs and went down the three or four flights, my train was pulling out of the station.


With a half hour to wait, I moseyed over to watch the action at the repair site. I did not say, "Pardon me, boys, is that the broken escalation? Woo-o-woo!" They were very polite and glad to talk about their work, but I didn't want to scare them breaking into a song and dance routine.


An escalator step looks much bigger laying on the sidewalk than it does when you are standing on it. The repair guys told me each step costs five hundred dollars, and they were going to replace fifty steps. That amounted to half the steps on the Mockingbird Station down escalator.




As subway escalators go, Mockingbird Station's is a baby. I've never been down the Wheaton Station escalator on the DC Metro. It descends 230 feet, making it the longest in the Western Hemisphere. DART's longest escalator descends ten stories at the Cityplace Station, and has 213 steps.


Dupont Circle is my favorite Metro escalator. I love riding up into the Circle. Best of all, I love the anticipation of going to the Phillips Collection nearby. An afternoon at the Phillips can't be beat.

Growing up in the Sixties, I watched shopping mommies in pointy-toed/pointy-heeled shoes ride the escalator at Miller and Paine department store standing on their tiptoes so their heels wouldn't get stuck on the steps. In those days one still had the option of telling an elevator operator, "Three please," instead of riding a "heel-catcher".

Millions of kids have probably had escalator nightmares of forgetting to jump off an escalator and being sucked into the netherlands below the floor. Isn't that how Pinocchio ended up in that place where kids were turned into donkeys? My best friend, Janice, had escalatorphobia to the point that we ALWAYS rode the elevator, not just at the downtown department stores, but also at Gateway Mall. To balance that, my Danger Baby had elevatorphobia, so we always rode the escalator or climbed stairs.

Similar shoes are in vogue now, so I asked the repair guys if the escalator broke because obese women in pointy-heel shoes got sucked under the floor to donkey land. No. It's the wheely briefcase carts that get stuck. No, obese white-collar workers don't usually get sucked under to donkey land holding onto their wheely carts. The white-collar workers yank their briefcases free at the bottom of the escalator, damaging the stairsteps. If you see those people, better warn them about the donkey ears.

© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder

Texas Railroad Commission

Tx.rr.com is the email address for users of Time Warner Cable's Roadrunner system in North Texas. Last summer Time Warner took over all the Comcast internet service systems around North Texas. Time Warner promised to make the changeover pleasant and user-friendly. Right.


Time Warner hopes to ease pain of shift
Comcast e-mail clients will feel the transition most of all, exec says
08:09 AM CDT on Tuesday, July 25, 2006 Dallas Morning News

Comcast had a very usable email format. Time Warner's is primitive by comparison, and trying to use rich text instead of plain text is SOOOOOO SLOW. The changeover has me feeling like Snidely Whiplash tied me to the railroad tracks.

As my email correspondents have been booted over to Roadrunner, I keep staring at their email addresses and wondering when they went to work for the Railroad Commission. We are all looking at other options for internet and email. None of us are pleased about being tied to Time Warner.

Soft Old Cheney

Turtle doves and freight train whistles wake me. I am home. Not the home of everyday life, but the home of my childhood. Not even the house of my childhood, but the magical, soft, comforting yet exciting sounds in my night memories; summer camp cabin or Grandma's pink bedroom with the rose patterned curtains. Wood floors squeaking under rocking chairs, the low hum of grown-up conversation, buzzing insects just outside the window screens, and distant thunder combine in a cushioning amniotic sphere.



South of Lincoln the country roads are poetry. "Going out Old Cheney"--that would be a lovely drive east in the county as Old Cheney Road goes from blacktop to gravel. Turn south on a mile road and cross Yankee Hill Road, Rokeby Road, Saltillo.

Old Cheney Road never reaches Cheney, the "populated place" too small to be a hamlet. Take 84th Street two miles south of Old Cheney Road to Yankee Hill to find the spot. If you are driving along Highway 2 you'll spot a large yellow barn slowly being dismantled by nature or intent. That's Cheney. Two churches, the Methodist founded in 1880. Say it softly. "Cheney" sounds like "shaney", "Cheyenne", or the gentle shun in "nation". It's not "check", "chuck", Dick.



Cheney. Cheney was platted in 1874. It was named in memory of a man by that name who was the first settler on the town-site. Cheney is shortened from Cheyney's Station the name by which the town was originally called.




Walk along the track. Rocks crunch under foot. Wind rustles the dry grass, and rattles loose pieces of the grain elevator. Pick up two rusty old spikes. Drop them in the back. They clink pleasantly as the car bumps down the gravel road back to the highway.




As for check chuck Cheney, it is true Dick Vader was born in a secure undisclosed location otherwise known as Lincoln, Nebraska. Read the fine print if you must, but please go back to the sounds above.




Cheney, Dick[chē'nē, chā'–]Pronunciation Key
Cheney, Dick (Richard Bruce Cheney), 1941–, vice president of the United States (2001–), b. Lincoln, Nebr. At 13 he and his family moved to Casper, Wyo. http://www.infoplease.com/ce6/people/A0907136.html

Vice president of the United States, former U.S. representative, and former secretary of defense. Born Richard Bruce Cheney, on January 30, 1941, in Lincoln, Nebraska. Cheney was raised in Casper, Wyoming by his parents, Marjorie and Richard H. Cheney; his father worked for the Department of Agriculture as a soil conservation agent. The younger Cheney won a scholarship to Yale University but dropped out during his second year because of poor scholastic performance. He worked for the next two years before returning to college at the University of Wyoming, where he earned a bachelor’s and master’s degree in political science by 1966. http://www.biography.com/search/article.do?id=9246063