Today, Powell Barnett Park reopened to quite a bit of fanfare. What a tribute to the legacy of the man for whom it is named!
The park is on Martin Luther King, between Jefferson and Alder. You can get there on the 8, but unfortunately, the 8 does not run down MLK in the evening or on weekends. Here’s hoping that changes soon.
I’m already home from the party, and the last bus hasn’t even left my brother’s street yet. Shoot, the second-to-last bus hasn’t even left. The party was fun, even though I was the only woman there for the first two hours. One of Jeremy’s friends (who also happens to be a bartender at Flying Fish) made a big tub of hurricane punch. I only had one cup, but that was enough to make me grateful for the designated driver (one of the may perks of the bus-chick lifestyle).
At my transfer point on the way home, I met a guy named Archie. He was waiting for the 128 and wanted to know if I had seen it pass. I hadn’t. Archie took the opportunity to strike up a conversation, and, as is the custom of many people I meet at bus stops, he started with one of those questions. Despite this, and despite fact that he had a hard time keeping his eyes on mine, Archie’s cool people. He’s 25. He lives in White Center. He works construction. He likes music and really liked the Goapele song I downloaded yesterday and have been listening to on my Schmipod (aka affordable MP3 player that actually has a radio tuner) nonstop since.
When his bus finally came, Archie gave me a hug goodbye and suggested I write something about him. “Write about how I break it down,” he said.
And so, I am honoring that request, even though, to be quite honest, I am not sure exactly how Archie breaks it down. I do know this: He certainly knows how to make the time pass at a bus stop.
Today is my little (actually younger–he’s not so little) brother Jeremy’s birthday. To celebrate the 26th anniversary of two equally cataclysmic events (his arrival on the planet and Mount St. Helens’ eruption), he’s having a house party, and he was kind enough to invite his old, almost-married-lady sister. What screams old lady louder than even the most sensible pair of bus chick shoes? Leaving a party before midnight. Unfortunately, the last bus leaves his street at 11:57, so that’s just what I’ll be doing.
Perhaps if I found a cute pair of glass slippers…
In my new tradition of adding up the bus numbers I ride each day, today would be a zero. Why ride when the sun is out and your destinations are close enough to walk to? (And yes, to the many friends I have talked into walking somewhere with me, I realize that “close” is a subjective word.)
As much as I love beautiful days like this, they always make me think of people who can’t enjoy them–specifically, people in prisons and hospitals. Maybe it’s because of the war, or what my mother has been going through lately.
Maybe it’s because of that sunny day almost exactly two years ago, when I sat across from an adorable three-year old boy on the ride up James from 3rd Avenue. He was standing on the seat next to his mother, pointing out trees, birds, and everything else he could identify. When we passed the jail, he started jumping up and down and waving frantically out the window. Then, at the top of his lungs, he hollered:
“Hi Daddy!”
I’m still recovering.
Yesterday, Ron Sims announced that King County will join the Chicago Climate Exchange, making it the first county (and making Metro the first bus transit agency) to participate.
“The contract obligates King County to reduce emissions by six percent from a baseline of its year 2000 emissions. Sims said the county is expected to meet or beat this target.”
Now, if each of us would do the same, we could make a huge difference in the quality of our air and water. As an incentive, maybe we could institute a carbon market for individuals. :)
This time, mine.
In honor of Mother’s Day, my March 29th Real Change column:
Back on the 8
Every time I hear Stevie Wonder’s “Isn’t She Lovely,” I am transported to the house where I grew up and to the joy of dancing in the living room with my father on a Saturday afternoon. “The Men All Pause” by Klymaxx reminds me of my older sister, Carey, gorgeous and powerful and singing along with the record player in our childhood bedroom. Anything by Black Sheep takes me back to my college days, when my girlfriend, Monique, and I would beg our dorm-mates for a ride to the current “it” club and dance ourselves dizzy to “This or That.”
Buses, too, have associations for me. The 2 was the route I took to my elementary school. On one ride, a schoolmate got “beat up” (read: slapped and pushed a few times until the bus driver intervened) by some older girls. To this day, I cannot ride a 2 without remembering that incident. I was on the 545 the first time I saw my fiancé, and I will always associate it with the thrill of our first few months together, when the endless, inch-by-inch crawl across the lake seemed far too short. The 194, the “airport bus,” reminds me of all of my best adventures, including (and especially) my trip to Paris last May.
Then there’s the 8, which takes me from my house in the Central District to 15th Ave. on Capitol Hill. I love 15th — August Wilson vibes at Victrola, Frida Kahlo coasters at Casita, scrambles and coffee cake at Coastal Kitchen — and have long associated the 8 with this marvelous street.
In January of 2004, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer for the second time in as many years, and my reasons for traveling to 15th Ave. changed. I rode the 8 to Group Health for surgeries, chemo appointments, CT scans, and emergency-room visits. My once-favored route came to symbolize sickness, sadness, and fear. After the cancer went into remission last October, I avoided that bus, along with everything else that reminded me of my mother’s illness.
Last week, I received devastating news: my mother’s cancer has returned. This time, it is not curable. Friday morning, I rode the 8 to meet her for the first of what will undoubtedly be many terrifying and unpleasant hospital visits. But the memories that came to me during that ride were not of toxic drugs, or blood clots, or chances of survival. They were of the Vogue magazines and heated blankets in the infusion center, the chalky “banana” barium shakes in radiology, and the beautiful view from the fifth floor of the main building. They were of endless waits in urgent care — one of which was rewarded by a visit from the cutest emergency-room doctor ever to walk the halls of a hospital — and of diva outfits temporarily replaced by hospital gowns.
The 8 reminds me of laughter. It reminds me of my mother.
Today we took the Water Taxi over to my parents’ side of Elliott Bay, and the whole darn family (me, Adam, both brothers, one brother’s girlfriend, Mom, and Dad)–minus my sister, who lives in California–had brunch at Salty’s.
It’s been a weekend of boats, mothers, and celebrations.
Today Adam and I went to a party (OK, it was a baby shower) on Bainbridge Island. Of course it was a piece of cake (pun intended) getting to Colman Dock (took the 27 to 3rd & Columbia, then walked west on Marion all the way to the passenger terminal), but the rest of the trip was a bit more of a challenge.
The party was held at the home of the mother-to-be’s sister, which was about three miles from the ferry dock. The shower started at 1:00, and the Kitsap Transit route we needed to take didn’t start running until 3:40. (It was one of those commuter routes that runs outbound only in the morning and inbound only in the afternoon.) We could have taken a taxi, but since it was Saturday and we weren’t pressed for time, we decided to walk.
The first mile was lovely. It was a beautiful day, and Winslow’s downtown area has lots of shops, restaurants, and people. We passed an outdoor farmer’s market and several tree-lined neighborhoods. Then, the sidewalks ran out. The roads turned into the curvy, stoplight-free, suburban/country highway variety. We walked another mile on the shoulder of a fairly busy road, alternating between a narrow bike path and the tall grass that was growing alongside the ditch, hoping that everyone who drove past us was both sober and competent. I’m not sure that this was true, but no one hit us (though one car did run into the bike lane and come very close).
Near the end of mile two, the father-to-be passed us and turned around to pick us up–thankfully, right before the bike lane ran out.
The good news: There was red wine at the shower, and I won one of the games. I guess all these years riding buses with pregnant women has made me pretty good at estimating their girth.
“Sidewalks are becoming nostalgic artifacts of a time before three- or four-car families. To me, their absence represents disturbing changes in the way we connect to one another–and the habits, values and capacities we bequeath to our children.”
– “Sidewalks Can Make a Town a Neighborhood,” Newsweek, April 24, 2006
