I am in a mood, not a black mood but a seriously grey mood. I have always been resistant to change. Very few changes in my life have been beneficial. One happened in New Jersey, while I was floating along in my usual laissez faire world, and i changed my life forever. It was wonderful but, as usual, it had nothing to do with my actions, it just happened. I have lived here in Uxbridge for almost four years. I think that this is the home of Tuck Everlasting. Nothing ever happens here. There is no movie theatre, there is no barber shop, there is no playhouse, there are no museums here (there is an agricultural museum, be still my beating heart, that consists of a barn). One would think that this is the ideal place for me. I read, I cook, I feed the squirrel, I greet the Sun each morning, and the high point of my day is going to see if I have any mail. I walk a lot and, at times, I am tempted to just keep walking. Now I know why Gump ran. Last night I did some serious thinking, always a portent of a mistake to come. It is time for a change. I was born and raised in a city. I have lived in many cities. I have also lived in many small, rural towns, surrounded by the Great American Booboisee. I am tired of small minds soaked in Republican "Me First" attitudes and Protestant "Bad things wouldn't happen if we only worked harder" ethic. No one works harder than an African or Asian peasant and what does it get them? I miss the city. The constant throb of venality, the mix of cultures and opinions, the palette of races, and the fragrances of the world's cooking wafting across a street. It is time for a change. I will check the sky this morning. If I make a decision when there is a red sky in the morning, it will be my own fault. As usual. I am older but I will not wear purple. I will wear blue and yellow and not go gently. I will rage against destiny and I will stand on a soap box in the park and offer my own distorted view of reality. A soap box is a much more appropriate venue for such madness than a pulpit or a radio show for those who listen but do not see. "The Sun is going to shine tomorrow tomorrow Bet your bottom dollar yes it is!".
I'm glad you have the blog, so I can check to see how you're doing. I've called a couple of times, but I'm never sure of your schedule since I know you sleep in a couple of shifts.
Your post reminded me of the nostalgia I feel for working in Chinatown. And being in Boston or New York in general. NY can be a bit too much for me (there's just so many people!), but Boston was always just right. I miss it, but I love Pittsburgh too, and things are somewhat easier here financially speaking. Anyway, I love you & hope to talk to you soon!
Boston's Chinatown seems unique to the Boston state of mind. It revels in bustle and variety but is still a mixture of cultures and views. Barbequed pork hanging in the windows, a Chinese bank topped by a pagoda, Vietnamese soups gently simmering near a restaurant with fifteen draft beers, a panoply of fresh vegetables displayed in racks on the street, a Mongolian restaurant, and, tucked in the middle, the best German restaurant in the country. I have worked in most of the country. The best Chinese food I ever had was in Omaha, Nebraska. A small restaurant with the traditional small room-like booths and Chinese spoons with their delicate blue figures baked into the pure white of the clay. There seems to be a traditional Chinese community anywhere the Northern Pacific railroad touches. Ericka, you brought back memories of New York City. Thank you. I lived in the Hotel Albert and could see the arch in Washington Park from the window. I worked on 125th Street and the street signs were in Spanish. It was such a pleasure to go back to the hotel, clean up, and wander outside all the while pondering "What shall I have for supper, Chinese, or French, or Hungarian, or Greek, or Puerto Rican, or Portuguese, or Indian food? I remember being in a tavern in the Bowery where the had Muscatel on tap. I remember being in Mc Sorley's the last day that they were open. There was sawdust on the floor and snacks consisted if Saltines and sliced raw onion. The front door consisted of the type of doors you see in a western. There were cherry bombs bouncing into the place from outside, exploding in the sawdust, because Mc Sorley's was the last bar in New York to deny women service. They refused to change and were therefore closing. I went there, not because of their gender exclusion, but because Edgar Alan Poe had written a poem about being there on New Year's Eve. They had a tradition on New Year's Eve of locking the doors from the outside and not letting anyone out until the bar was dry. Poe's description of watching the walls begin to melt and slowly ooze to the floor drew me there. I also remember the Guggenheim Museum. I went there because it is a Wright. I went alone as most of my friends were not interested in any architecture that did not involve stools. I remember wandering up the ramp, wondering why everyone else was coming down. They must have gotten there earlier. When I got to the top, my legs were not as thrilled about the place as my eyes were. I walked back down, finding that it was easier to enjoy the art going down. When I got to the bottom I learned that there was an elevator to the top. Everyone else had read the signs but not the Svenska-Boyo. Like everything else in my life, I took the path not taken, and that has made all of the difference. I took the Staten Island Ferry to see the Statue of Liberty. I did see it but only in passing and found that some of the best hot dogs I ever had were on the Staten Island Ferry. It was in New York that I came to love Deli and the people of New York. I used to go to a Deli near where I lived. The Greek owner would personally wait on each customer from behind the counter piled high with pastrami and brisket and herring and knackwurst and topped with the usual baklava. I would almost always have pastrami or brisket. One month a financial disaster wiped out my resources and the only thing I would order was tuna fish. After several days, the owner said to me "I don't think you want tuna fish but I think it is the only thing you have money for.". For the rest of the month he would serve me pastrami or brisket whenever I asked for tuna fish and charge me for tuna fish. I even ate the baklava he would slide onto each plate. That was when I began to love the people of New York City. You have to tackle them on the street to find out what time it is but, once you get them to slow down, you feel a giant heart beating in their breast! I realize now how many of my memories are related to food. No wonder that so much of my heart is full of Thanksgivings past. Sour notes: There is no decent Chinese food or Deli South of the Mason Dixon Line. If you are in Louisiana it doesn't matter because there is barbeque and fried catfish for sale in roadside stands. The danger of being in Louisiana is that someday you will put on a blue cap with white polka dots and try the coffee. Four gallons of milk to one cup of coffee might lighten it up a bit but not much. Eat the beignet and leave the coffee alone. Save room for the shrimp that will be at supper. What a glorious country we live in and it is all thanks to immigration. Without immigration we would all be eating pemmican and Indian pudding. There would be no holiday called Thanksgiving. The holiday would be called "Oh God, not again!". There would be no pastrami, no pizza, no tacos, no blintzes, no char siu din, and no French onion soup. On the bright side, there would be no lutefisk.
"Give me your tired, your weak, and your poor, yearning to be free, and HMMM, what is that you have in the picnic basket? Come over here and sit by me.". The only people in this country that have the right to be against immigration are the Native American nations. Anyone else, shame on you! Our ancestors must have left their visas in Scrooby or Leyden. The Wampanoags must have been thrilled to see a wine ship full of convicts and exiles show up in their neighborhood with firearms and bibles. It is somehow appropriate that signs of Western civilization may someday consist of piles of signs saying Do Not _______ Do Not ________ Do Not ________. I would prefer that we be remembered for Donut Donut Donut
I had a great big long dream this week set in Boston, and spent the day sort of weepy for the constant interaction of a busy neighborhood, where you are insignificant enough to run to the tiny grocer in your pajamas, but part of life enough to clean up for the club. I miss Plymouth, bustling city it is not, but I miss the constant bustling of the downtown neighborhood, the harbor vendors, the crush of waitresses at the Irish bar after all the fancy restaurants closed down. Yeah, the throb, the life. Having a place to walk to. Having something to freaking DO. Sorry if my last comment was longwinded or sad, everything is ok, just Cal didn't get into the program I had hoped he would, an 8 hour preschool, and instead I can put him in voluntary pre-k for 3 hours a day, so school is delayed for awhile. Probably a whole year, unless we can work something out, but Shaun's teenager situation gets worse by the second, and there is no way his house would be a safe place for them to stay while I went to school(also he mentioned that PLENTY of people DON'T go to college and live perfectly happy lives).But everything is fine, thank you so much for the boys' presents,it really made their birthdays special. By the way, I have turned "The Sun'll Come Out Tomorrow" into, "It's Time To Put On Pajamas, little boys should listen to their mamas, and put them on, pajamas, pajamas, I love you, pajamas, and I'll always put you away...". Which is equally inspiring around 8 pm. Love you.
4 comments:
I am in a mood, not a black mood but a seriously grey mood. I have always been resistant to change. Very few changes in my life have been beneficial. One happened in New Jersey, while I was floating along in my usual laissez faire world, and i changed my life forever. It was wonderful but, as usual, it had nothing to do with my actions, it just happened.
I have lived here in Uxbridge for almost four years. I think that this is the home of Tuck Everlasting. Nothing ever happens here. There is no movie theatre, there is no barber shop, there is no playhouse, there are no museums here (there is an agricultural museum, be still my beating heart, that consists of a barn).
One would think that this is the ideal place for me. I read, I cook, I feed the squirrel, I greet the Sun each morning, and the high point of my day is going to see if I have any mail. I walk a lot and, at times, I am tempted to just keep walking. Now I know why Gump ran.
Last night I did some serious thinking, always a portent of a mistake to come. It is time for a change.
I was born and raised in a city. I have lived in many cities. I have also lived in many small, rural towns, surrounded by the Great American Booboisee. I am tired of small minds soaked in Republican "Me First" attitudes and Protestant "Bad things wouldn't happen if we only worked harder" ethic. No one works harder than an African or Asian peasant and what does it get them?
I miss the city. The constant throb of venality, the mix of cultures and opinions, the palette of races, and the fragrances of the world's cooking wafting across a street.
It is time for a change. I will check the sky this morning. If I make a decision when there is a red sky in the morning, it will be my own fault. As usual.
I am older but I will not wear purple. I will wear blue and yellow and not go gently. I will rage against destiny and I will stand on a soap box in the park and offer my own distorted view of reality. A soap box is a much more appropriate venue for such madness than a pulpit or a radio show for those who listen but do not see.
"The Sun is going to shine tomorrow
tomorrow
Bet your bottom dollar yes it is!".
Hi Dad,
I'm glad you have the blog, so I can check to see how you're doing. I've called a couple of times, but I'm never sure of your schedule since I know you sleep in a couple of shifts.
Your post reminded me of the nostalgia I feel for working in Chinatown. And being in Boston or New York in general. NY can be a bit too much for me (there's just so many people!), but Boston was always just right. I miss it, but I love Pittsburgh too, and things are somewhat easier here financially speaking. Anyway, I love you & hope to talk to you soon!
Boston's Chinatown seems unique to the Boston state of mind. It revels in bustle and variety but is still a mixture of cultures and views. Barbequed pork hanging in the windows, a Chinese bank topped by a pagoda, Vietnamese soups gently simmering near a restaurant with fifteen draft beers, a panoply of fresh vegetables displayed in racks on the street, a Mongolian restaurant, and, tucked in the middle, the best German restaurant in the country.
I have worked in most of the country. The best Chinese food I ever had was in Omaha, Nebraska. A small restaurant with the traditional small room-like booths and Chinese spoons with their delicate blue figures baked into the pure white of the clay. There seems to be a traditional Chinese community anywhere the Northern Pacific railroad touches.
Ericka, you brought back memories of New York City. Thank you. I lived in the Hotel Albert and could see the arch in Washington Park from the window. I worked on 125th Street and the street signs were in Spanish. It was such a pleasure to go back to the hotel, clean up, and wander outside all the while pondering "What shall I have for supper, Chinese, or French, or Hungarian, or Greek, or Puerto Rican, or Portuguese, or Indian food?
I remember being in a tavern in the Bowery where the had Muscatel on tap. I remember being in Mc Sorley's the last day that they were open. There was sawdust on the floor and snacks consisted if Saltines and sliced raw onion. The front door consisted of the type of doors you see in a western. There were cherry bombs bouncing into the place from outside, exploding in the sawdust, because Mc Sorley's was the last bar in New York to deny women service. They refused to change and were therefore closing. I went there, not because of their gender exclusion, but because Edgar Alan Poe had written a poem about being there on New Year's Eve. They had a tradition on New Year's Eve of locking the doors from the outside and not letting anyone out until the bar was dry. Poe's description of watching the walls begin to melt and slowly ooze to the floor drew me there.
I also remember the Guggenheim Museum. I went there because it is a Wright. I went alone as most of my friends were not interested in any architecture that did not involve stools. I remember wandering up the ramp, wondering why everyone else was coming down. They must have gotten there earlier. When I got to the top, my legs were not as thrilled about the place as my eyes were. I walked back down, finding that it was easier to enjoy the art going down. When I got to the bottom I learned that there was an elevator to the top. Everyone else had read the signs but not the Svenska-Boyo. Like everything else in my life, I took the path not taken, and that has made all of the difference. I took the Staten Island Ferry to see the Statue of Liberty. I did see it but only in passing and found that some of the best hot dogs I ever had were on the Staten Island Ferry.
It was in New York that I came to love Deli and the people of New York. I used to go to a Deli near where I lived. The Greek owner would personally wait on each customer from behind the counter piled high with pastrami and brisket and herring and knackwurst and topped with the usual baklava. I would almost always have pastrami or brisket. One month a financial disaster wiped out my resources and the only thing I would order was tuna fish. After several days, the owner said to me "I don't think you want tuna fish but I think it is the only thing you have money for.". For the rest of the month he would serve me pastrami or brisket whenever I asked for tuna fish and charge me for tuna fish. I even ate the baklava he would slide onto each plate. That was when I began to love the people of New York City. You have to tackle them on the street to find out what time it is but, once you get them to slow down, you feel a giant heart beating in their breast!
I realize now how many of my memories are related to food. No wonder that so much of my heart is full of Thanksgivings past.
Sour notes: There is no decent Chinese food or Deli South of the Mason Dixon Line. If you are in Louisiana it doesn't matter because there is barbeque and fried catfish for sale in roadside stands. The danger of being in Louisiana is that someday you will put on a blue cap with white polka dots and try the coffee. Four gallons of milk to one cup of coffee might lighten it up a bit but not much. Eat the beignet and leave the coffee alone. Save room for the shrimp that will be at supper.
What a glorious country we live in and it is all thanks to immigration. Without immigration we would all be eating pemmican and Indian pudding. There would be no holiday called Thanksgiving. The holiday would be called "Oh God, not again!". There would be no pastrami, no pizza, no tacos, no blintzes, no char siu din, and no French onion soup. On the bright side, there would be no lutefisk.
"Give me your tired, your weak, and your poor, yearning to be free, and HMMM, what is that you have in the picnic basket? Come over here and sit by me.". The only people in this country that have the right to be against immigration are the Native American nations. Anyone else, shame on you! Our ancestors must have left their visas in Scrooby or Leyden. The Wampanoags must have been thrilled to see a wine ship full of convicts and exiles show up in their neighborhood with firearms and bibles. It is somehow appropriate that signs of Western civilization may someday consist of piles of signs saying
Do Not _______
Do Not ________
Do Not ________.
I would prefer that we be remembered for
Donut
Donut
Donut
I had a great big long dream this week set in Boston, and spent the day sort of weepy for the constant interaction of a busy neighborhood, where you are insignificant enough to run to the tiny grocer in your pajamas, but part of life enough to clean up for the club. I miss Plymouth, bustling city it is not, but I miss the constant bustling of the downtown neighborhood, the harbor vendors, the crush of waitresses at the Irish bar after all the fancy restaurants closed down. Yeah, the throb, the life. Having a place to walk to. Having something to freaking DO. Sorry if my last comment was longwinded or sad, everything is ok, just Cal didn't get into the program I had hoped he would, an 8 hour preschool, and instead I can put him in voluntary pre-k for 3 hours a day, so school is delayed for awhile. Probably a whole year, unless we can work something out, but Shaun's teenager situation gets worse by the second, and there is no way his house would be a safe place for them to stay while I went to school(also he mentioned that PLENTY of people DON'T go to college and live perfectly happy lives).But everything is fine, thank you so much for the boys' presents,it really made their birthdays special. By the way, I have turned "The Sun'll Come Out Tomorrow" into, "It's Time To Put On Pajamas, little boys should listen to their mamas, and put them on, pajamas, pajamas, I love you, pajamas, and I'll always put you away...". Which is equally inspiring around 8 pm. Love you.
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