Scenes From My Life

The smoke from the fireworks began to subside and the crowd slowly dispersed.  Before long, only a small number of the tens of thousands gathered there earlier remained.   Midnight had come and gone and a new year – a new millennium – had officially begun.  Yet, here I was, still standing along the reflecting pool on the National Mall, waiting for the program to resume. The concert had aired live on stations across the country, ending in an extravagant fireworks display along the Mall.  As far as those watching on television – and many of those gathered on the Mall – were concerned, that was it.  The plans for a post-fireworks encore were never actually confirmed, simply rumored.  Those of us who stayed did so purely on faith, or maybe it was curiosity. For a while, nothing happened.  The stage remained empty and revelers continued to stream away from the Mall.  Then, more than thirty minutes later, just as my friends and I had resigned ourselves to leaving, a single spotlight focu

“We will be back in an hour . . .90 minutes at the most.” This was the promise my friend and I made to my cousin as we left her in the hotel’s coffee shop.  It was the second week of the 1996 Olympics, and this downtown Atlanta hotel was bustling with activity.  The coffee shop, hidden on one of the hotel’s lower floors, was surprisingly quiet. We were starting a day of activities with a visit to the reception rooms for the cities vying for the 2004 Olympics. It was a day that my cousin did not want to miss.  To get into these rooms, Olympic staff credentials were required.  Both my friend and I had credentials.  My cousin did not.  She agreed to wait while we made – what we thought would be – quick visits to the rooms.  We walked out of the coffee shop, leaving my cousin sitting at a table by the window. As it turned out, the visits took longer than any of us had expected.  As we left the last room, we glanced at our watches and realized just how long we had been gone.  We picked

The flag-bearers marched into Atlanta’s brand new Olympic Stadium.  Parading in a continuous line around the Stadium’s track, each person carried the flag of a different country and a small sign identifying that country.  There was one for each of the 197 nations participating in the 1996 Summer Olympic Games.  In the stands, watching this colorful display, were the thousands of volunteers who were helping to host the Games.  To thank these volunteers, Olympic organizers had invited them to the dress rehearsal of the Opening Ceremonies. As each new flag became visible, the crowd cheered for the flag-bearers as if they were medal-winning athletes. One by one, they began their walk around the track.  Finland marched in ahead of France, which led the way for Gabon.  Shortly after the flag of Gambia was carried into the stadium, the crowd's enthusiasm reached its highest level yet.  Stepping onto the track was the flag of Georgia.  The Russian Republic of Georgia.

“Well,” my grandmother asked,  “are you excited?” I had no idea what she meant by this statement.  Nothing particularly exciting had happened in my life recently.  It was just the usual routine of a high school sophomore.  I could not think of any other answer but, “About what,” I asked, hoping for some small clue about what she meant. “About Disney!  We’re going to Disney,” my grandmother responded, with notable excitement in her voice. To say that my grandparents loved Disney World is an understatement.  Over the years, they had made several trips to the Florida theme parks.  At the time of our conversation, they probably had been at least a half dozen times.  I just figured this was my grandmother’s roundabout way of announcing their next trip. “Oh…fun…” I said, still a bit confused. “Well, aren’t you excited about it?”  Her voice was a mix of anticipation and slight impatience. This cryptic back and forth could go on for a long time, so I responded

       Life is short, but there is always time enough for courtesy.                                                   ~   Ralph Waldo Emerson Emerson wrote these words in the nineteenth century, more than 130 years ago.  It was well before the time of e-mail and texts and instant messages.  At that time, even the telephone was still something of a curiosity.  Yet, when I came across this quote recently, I was struck by how it is as relevant today as it was during Emerson’s lifetime. Thanks to technology, people all over the world can communicate with one another.  All it takes is a few seconds.  Technology has totally revolutionized the way business is done and the way our lives are lived.  But, all of this convenience has also made it easier to be ignored. What is it about our day-to-day lives that seems to have made courtesy a disappearing art?  Yes, most people lead full, often hectic lives.  But, that is nothing new.  Nor is it an excuse to ignore others.  Whether it is as

Ten years.  The thought crossed my mind earlier today.  It has almost been ten years since I was last there.  When the thought occurred to me, I had to stop and double check my own math.  It does not seem like it has been that long.  After all, that place is still as clear in my mind as if it had only been ten days .  But, sure enough, it has been that long. I remember the last time I was there.  On the day I left, there was the chance that I might not be back.  Circumstances were changing… making that a real possibility.  Still, I do not think I really seriously considered it.  As far as I was concerned, I would probably be back.  There was no need to mark that moment or take “one last look.”  I simply walked out the door and went on my way. Maybe that is why I remember it as I do.  There is no sense of leaving or finality to my memories.  There is just … the place.

For more than two decades, I have had the same view.  When I was in elementary school, my parents bought a house.  From my bedroom window, I could see the end of the street.  Just beyond that, I could see train tracks … where freight trains passed, chugging down the tracks at all hours of the day and night.  No matter how loud the whistles were, they rarely bothered me.  The sound of train whistles became as common as car horns on neighboring streets. When I moved to an intown apartment, my bedroom had a large window.  From that window, I could see the end of the street.  Again, just beyond that, I could see train tracks, where other freight trains passed at all hours. I have just moved to another apartment.  This apartment also has a large window that looks out … onto a courtyard.  There are no train tracks.  No whistles can be heard.  For the first time in almost thirty years, I will not live near train tracks.

When people ask me what I do in my spare time, one of my answers is almost always “reading.”  Now, I know that does not sound like the most exciting answer.  It may not seem thrilling or especially active.  To me, though, reading is just as exciting as almost any other hobby.  For me, reading is a source of memories, a reminder of a part of my life. I vividly recall, on sunny days, sitting on a blanket in my front yard, a book in my hands.  The sun at my back, I practically inhaled the stories.  On summer road trips, I whiled away the trip by reading.  It was not unusual for me to finish a book over the course of a trip. When I had read all of the books I had, we would go to the library to find new options.  Some of my most constant childhood memories involve trips to the library.  During the summer, especially, my mother would take my brothers and me to the library.  We would walk through the doors and split up, my brothers and I heading in one direction, toward

I was in New York for a long weekend - my first time in Manhattan in more than one decade.  A friend met me in the City that weekend and we were determined to see a show.  We bought last minute seats to a popular revival and made our way to the theater.  We crossed the cavernous lobby and handed our tickets to the usher, who showed us to our seats.  As the curtain rose, we found ourselves a mere twelve rows from the classic musical unfolding onstage.  For the next two hours, I sat, trying to take in the scene, the music, the crowd, the experience.  This, after all, was my first Broadway show.

Last year, my parents sold their home of thirty years.  They moved from a two story, four bedroom house into a two bedroom townhouse.  In the span of a few weeks, they unloaded decades of furniture, photos...and countless boxes from the house.  Of course, all of these things could not fit in the townhouse.  But, they had to go somewhere. They took the basics to the townhouse... Beds, office furniture, a few kitchen items.  Just the necessities.  Most of the outside things...tools, plants, the lawn mower ... were stored at a neighbor's house.  A few relatives ... in neighboring states ... took some of the other items.  Most of the things, though ... childhood games, large furniture, holiday decorations ... went into storage.  Not just one storage unit, but three separate spaces, each one bigger than the last. From one two-story house to six places over 200 miles.  That's downsizing.

The noise sounded like people whispering.  But, there should not have been anyone else there.  My mother, father, and I had just gone to dinner and returned to what we thought would be an empty house.  But, the sound of whispers coming from the living room was, to my parents, oddly unsettling, and my father began to walk towards the noise. I was not surprised at all by the whispers.  I knew exactly what they were...and I wanted to see my father’s face when he discovered it, too.  As he walked towards the front of the living room, I rushed through the foyer and into the back of the living room.  I stepped into the room just as my father turned and saw, sitting in two armchairs, my brother and sister-in-law. My father said nothing for a moment, just stared wide-eyed at the two people sitting in the living room.  After a few seconds, he asked my mother to come into the room.  My mother had barely set foot in the room before joyfully screaming and hugging the two. It was my pa

I was not supposed to be there.  This place, with its canopied beds and winding staircases, seemed very grown up.  But, I was only nine years old.  I was supposed to be at least ten before I stayed there.  Then, why was I there, at the most unusual hotel I had ever seen - until then?  The answer, actually, was simple.  I was there because of Marguerite. Marguerite was my great aunt, my grandfather’s sister.  She lived in Natchez, Mississippi, and worked as a hostess at Monmouth Plantation.  Monmouth was a beautiful antebellum home situated on a hill.  Once owned by an American general, the house had many lives.  More than one century after it was built, Monmouth became a bed and breakfast and Marguerite became its greatest ambassador. Marguerite was one of those people who seemed to never meet a stranger.  Even in a large group, she could make you feel like the most important person in the room.  Marguerite also was a great storyteller.  On any given afternoon, she could be fo

I ran across the dusty, gravel-covered yard towards the house, my long strides hastening the approach.  I grabbed the old, wooden banister and hopped up onto the first of three narrow steps.  The boards creaked, weary from the countless feet that have trod over them before me.  I bounded across the weather-worn porch, hesitating only briefly to peer through the screened door, at the activity inside the house.  Crossing the porch, I dropped with a sigh onto the wooden swing.  Suspended from the roof by two rusting metal chains, the swing swayed from side to side as I relaxed against it.  Almost without thinking, I began to push my feet ahead along the porch, then skip them back, righting the swing’s drift.  After a few minutes, I lifted my feet onto the swing as the motion continued.  I gazed aimlessly before me.  This is happiness.  This is summer.

As a volunteer for the 1996 Olympics in Atlanta, I was able to visit some sites not open to other event attendees.  One of these sites was the reception rooms for the cities vying for the 2004 Games.  One afternoon, I went with a friend who was also working during the Games, to check out the rooms.  At each stop, we were given souvenirs from each city.  Usually these tchotchkes were tee shirts or bumper stickers emblazoned with the city’s logo.  One city just handed out press releases.  But, a few locales got a bit more creative with their giveaways. San Juan, Puerto Rico was undoubtedly the most interesting.  After listening to a lengthy presentation on the city’s highlights, my friend and I each received a small canvas bag.  San Juan was our last stop that day so we had accrued a number of items already.  But, we were unprepared for what we would find in this nondescript tote.  There was another t-shirt, postcards, and a small sample of Puerto Rican coffee.  But, buried in the b

The Cathedral’s sanctuary is completely silent.  Sunlight streaks through windows high above, illuminating the otherwise dim chamber.  A few small groups of visitors quietly wander along the aisles, looking at the small shrines that lined the walls.  I slowly make my way along the path, my eyes scanning the scene, attempting to take everything in, to remember it.  Behind me, I hear a squeaking sound followed by fast-paced footsteps.  Another squeaking sound is followed by footsteps that sound as if they have grown closer.  I turn around to see a child, 12 maybe 13 years old, walking hurriedly towards me, his tennis shoes squeaking with every few steps against the tile floor.  No one tells him to slow down or to watch out for the other people.  They just step out of his way.  I quickly step to the side, eager to avoid a collision.  Then, just as he passes me, he lifts one of his feet and, from the sole of his shoe comes two small wheels.  He repeats the same steps with his other foot a

“A picture postcard A folded stub A program of the play File away your photographs Of your holiday” Those words are from Billy Joel’s song, Souvenir.   I heard that song for the first time in a long time yesterday.   When I listened to it, my mind went immediately to my own travels and the souvenirs I gained from them.   It made me think about some of my favorite mementos. New York, New York:   Manhattan is littered with souvenir shops and streetside vendors hawking all sorts of t-shirts and trinkets.   It is a translucent cube with the Statue of Liberty and the words “New York” etched onto it.   From the base, a series of pastel-colored lights illuminate the cube, the colors changing every few seconds.   It is odd, gaudy and practically screams “tourist.”   But, I think that is why I love it. Greenlake, Seattle:   Taking a sunset walk one summer evening, the typically bustling lakefront park was oddly quiet.   The sky was a graying pink.   The last glints of sunlight

It’s never too late.  Do what you love.  Live a life that makes you proud.  These sayings may seem trite.  But, there is some truth to them. It’s never too late.  Just because conventional wisdom says it is so, may not make it right.  For instance, some people find their calling at an early age.  They know almost from childhood what they want to do with their life…and they do it.  Others do not discover their purpose until well into adulthood.  They try a variety of fields until they find that one thing.  Their passion.  What they love.  The thing that makes them proud. These feelings were best summed up by F. Scott Fitzgerald, when he wrote: “For what it’s worth: it’s never too late or, in my case, too early to be whoever you want to be. There’s no time limit, stop whenever you want. You can change or stay the same, there are no rules to this thing. We can make the best or the worst of it. I hope you make the best of it. And I hope you see things that startle you.

As the train sped through the darkened tunnel, slight glimmers of light became visible from the station ahead.  The other people on the train strained to look out of the windows.  Some people determinedly grabbed their belongings and prepared to exit at the station.  Other people just seemed overwhelmed, their eyes darting between the approaching platform and the multi-colored lines of the route map.  Looking through the car’s windows, I could see that the platform was crowded.  While some people followed the approaching train intently, others just seemed lost in their own thoughts, almost oblivious to anything - and anyone - else around them. To my side, I could see through the plate glass partition leading to the next car.  The scene there was much as it was now in my car.  A crowd of people standing at the car’s doors, like runners on their marks, ready to make an immediate exit.  The train came to a stop and, after a brief pause, the doors parted and I was ru

      I have experienced my share of luggage issues over the years.  My baggage has been torn.  It has been left off of the plane.  Once, after a delay, it was even delivered to the wrong address.  Still, last year, I experienced a first:  my luggage got stuck on the plane.      It was a few days before Christmas.  My parents and I flew into Seattle to spend the holidays with the rest of my family.  The plane we had flown in on was a massive 767 that was, as most flights are these days, filled to capacity.  The plane arrived at the gate and my parents and I made our way to baggage claim.  Typically, Seattle’s airport, though it does not do the same level of business as my home airport, Atlanta, is relatively quick to get luggage to the carousels.       After about fifteen minutes, we had made it to the carousel, which was empty.  Slowly, more and more people that I recognized from our flight arrived.  After ten minutes, we all were still standing there waiting, with no sign of our