Scenes From My Life

There was no broad stretch of highway crowded with cars full of eager beachgoers, just a two-lane road cutting through a canopy of trees.  There were no souvenir stands, just one small general store.  There were only a handful of restaurants, and, in fact, only one bar on the entire island, and it was a 10-minute drive away.  Getting to the beach was a matter of stepping out of the apartment and walking a few hundred feet, to the edge of the Gulf. But, those walks led me to some of my fondest memories.  For the two weeks I spent on this island every summer, I would make that walk almost everyday.  However, my favorite walks happened before the sun rose.  I would drag myself out of bed; throw on a bathing suit and sandals and, with my father and often at least one of my siblings, head out the door. We would make our way along sandy pathways, the last hints of nighttime starting to fade away.  As we neared the Gulf, the sand beneath our feet became increasingly gr

          It has been almost 25 years . . .and I still remember it crystal clearly.  It was a Wednesday morning in September and I was on my way to school.  I was in the front passenger seat of my parents’ minivan while my father drove.  We lived exactly one mile from the school, so it was not a long trip.  Typically, we would use the brief drive to talk about what was happening at school that day, but not on this day.  On this particular morning, we sat in silence, listening to the radio and waiting... waiting for something to happen half a world away.           At that very moment, in Japan, a ballroom full of people was waiting, as well.  They watched as the man stepped up to the podium and began to speak.  As we arrived at the school came the moment that will live in infamy . . .in my hometown, at least.  My father stopped the car at the edge of the school’s parking lot and turned up the radio just in time to hear the man at the podium say: “The International Olympic Committee ha

It was New Year’s Eve and the clock was nearing midnight.  Around me, excited party goers were engrossed in the festivities.  A large group was excitedly playing a board game, laughing louder and louder with each move.  In one corner of the room, a quartet of people was deep in conversation, largely oblivious to the others around them.  In another corner, a duo sat, animatedly engaged in their own discussion.  I, it seemed, was the only one who noticed the approaching New Year. When midnight rolled around, I looked at my watch and then at the group around me.  Nothing had changed.  The group continued with their game.  The quartet seemed even more intent in their discussion .  The duo in the corner did not so much as pause their conversation.  Because a new year had indeed begun . . .on the east coast.  But, the old year still had 3 more hours, at this party on the west coast.

             It is impossible to win on these machines, I thought.  Playing an airport slot machine is basically throwing away money, I was certain.  But, I had a long layover between flights and was looking for a way to pass the time.  I could see the neon glow of the Las Vegas Strip through the windows, but I did not have enough time to make that trip.  Despite my doubts, then, I sat down at a quarter machine near my gate and dropped in one dollar.  That was all that I would spend, I assured myself.  If nothing else, I would not be out much money.               I sat at the machine and, every few seconds, pressed the blinking button that sent the rolls spinning.  I would win. . . then lose. . . then win the small sum that I was playing.  When I looked and saw that I actually was ahead, I decided to quit.  I pressed the Cash Out button and took the receipt.  As I left, I had an odd sense of satisfaction.  I had done it.  I had won. . . $1.

            On his television show, Portlandia , Fred Armisen described Portland as the city where young people go to retire.  While not actually true, it does describe the city pretty well.  Having lived for most of my life in Atlanta, I had grown accustomed to a certain pace.  Like Portland, Atlanta appears to be a popular locale for young adults.  Life in Atlanta and, I have found, many other east coast cities, is brisk.  People often seem to be moving at a more determined pace.  Racing from place to place and task to task.  Impatiently waiting.  In short, exhibiting the opposite of the leisurely life often associated with retirement.               Portland, by contrast, gives off a much more casual vibe.  People move at a more relaxed pace. The racing and running so frequently seen on the east coast all but disappears.  In its place is a more seemingly patient mindset.  Though Portland certainly has its share of sizable thriving businesses, the corporate metropolis image does n

    It was a slow afternoon at the tiny Seattle coffee shop.  As I opened the door, a group of three school-aged boys ran in front of me.  Each of the boys was lugging an overloaded backpack with them.  They obviously had just left the private school a couple of blocks down the street.  As I perused the menu, the three boys placed their orders, all the while joking with one another.  The first two each requested a pastry and a glass of water.  The third boy studied the menu a bit longer before deciding.        “Umm. . . I’d like a tall espresso, double shot, please.”          The cashier giggled a bit, thinking that her young customer was just repeating something he had heard adults order. After a few seconds, she jokingly said to him, “Alright. . . whatever.”        Noticing that the boy seemed serious, she looked puzzled.  Then, she responded with an incredulous, “Wait.  Are you sure?”        The boy could not believe he was being questioned.        “Yeah . . . definitely,” h