Scenes From My Life

Twenty years ago this week, I - along with my family - was sitting in my house watching the Opening Ceremonies of the Summer Olympics.  I have always loved watching the Olympics, but this time was different.  This time, the Games were not on some far-away continent.  These Games were in my own hometown!  In fact, just the night before, I had been in Olympic Stadium - now Turner Field - watching the dress rehearsal for what I was watching on tv.  Now, twenty years later, some of my most vivid memories remain: The seemingly always-crowded highways of Atlanta were practically desolate, providing a seldom-seen sight. Meeting the Frenchman who wondered if I had ever heard of the book about the Civil War written by an Atlanta woman named Margaret Mitchell. The dress rehearsal crowd cheering wildly during the parade of nations for the entry of the flag from (the nation of) Georgia. Attending the women's gymnastics podium trials, watching the Magnificent 7 prepa...

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 benea...

          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 sch...

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 q...

            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....

    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, sh...

The Plan:             10 days in the Pacific Northwest             A good fare on a new airline             Checking two suitcases . . . both of which make it to Seattle             A quick stop in Denver to drop off passengers             An hour-long layover in Salt Lake City             Arriving in Seattle in time for dinner with family The Reality:             10 days in the Pacific Northwest             A good fare on a new airline             Leaving Atlanta 52 minutes late             An unplanned change of planes in Denver             Leaving Denver 70 minutes late      ...

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 o...

“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 jus...

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....

“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...

       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....

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 trac...

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, m...

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 screamin...

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 ...