Birthdays

Today is my birthday. I will not reveal which one. Suffice it to say that I am a "woman of a certain age," who remembers the days before television, computers, cell phones, airplanes, and Face Book. But life just gets better and better, and I look forward to a decade even better than the last one!

Since I was born on St. Patrick's day, I am an honorary Irish person. (Actually, I am a Scot and a Cherokee.) Green, obviously, has played an important role in most of my celebrations. I particularly remember the year I turned seven. That morning I woke up deathly ill with the measles. High fever. Itchy rash. The upside was that I could stay home from school. The downside was that I was too sick to enjoy my day of freedom. I couldn't even read my book! (A real tragedy in my scheme of things.) My grandmother had made me a "dutch doll" quilt for my special day, and I lay warmed by the bright colors but feeling very put upon that my birthday was ruined. That afternoon, my mother came into the room, smiling and obviously very pleased with herself. In her hands she carried her masterpiece of a St. Patrick's day birthday cake. It was a brilliant shade of green with seven candles. I took one look at that green cake and promptly threw up on my beautiful quilt. To this day, I cannot abide green icing on anything!

Much later in my life, my sons (of which I have four) gave me a huge birthday party complete with a limousine, private room at a fine restaurant, surprise arrivals from those who lived far away, and the cruise of my choice as a gift. A memorable birthday, indeed, but no green birthday cake!

Each birthday brings gifts of insight, awareness, and growth. When I was seven I learned that no birthday can ever be ruined when someone loves you enough to bake you a cake, even one that makes you sick. My fancy, expensive birthday taught me that being surounded by family and friends is the real gift of life.

What lessons will I learn from this birthday? Perhaps that the blessings in my life go on and on and on, and it's about time I said thank you to all my family and my friends who help me celebrate my life 365 days a year.

Books

A friend just sent me the BBC list of 100 books. Seems the BBC thinks that most people will have read only 6 of the books on the list. I have read 78. I suppose that makes me a "book nerd" or "word nerd" or something similar. Ironically, I got this message on book club day. (Today we are discussing The Blind Assassin by Margaret Atwood. Not on the BBC list, but a great book)

I am definitely addicted to books. I had read my way through the childrens room at the Little Rock public library before I was in the 4th grade. Then I graduated to the "big library" and the meticulous censorship of the librarians. They were vigilant in keeping the "wrong" books out of the hands of young readers. However, I managed to sneak Forever Amber past their watchful eyes when I was in the 6th grade. I was mystified by the contents. We were not so sophisticated about sex in those days.

Since I have a Ph.D in literature, it is not remarkable that I have read 78 of the 100 books on the BBC list. But I have to ask myself how many of those books I really enjoyed. How many captured my imagination? Which do I remember fondly like old friends and reread often to recapture the magic? Why do I have this love affair with books?

I read books to learn. I have taught myself many skills through reading . . . knitting, weaving, computer skills, languages . . . I could go on forever.  Learning is important, but, for me, books are like trains . . . they take me to places I could never visit in person. They involve me in exotic adventures and introduce me to strange and wonderful characters that may or may not appear in my real life. Stories have given me the strength to persevere through hard times. Escapism? yes. But also life saving. Stories have inspired me, saved me from boredom, and helped me accomplish the impossible.

It is, in the last analysis, not books, but stories that rescue us. And we can find those stories in a multitude of forms. Comic books, good television, the spoken words of story tellers. Stories record the fabric of our lives and the emotions that hold that fabric together.

It's about time we cherished those stories, the writers who tell them, and the books that record them for history.

Trains

A few days ago, a friend sent me a link to a video clip of Arlo Guthrie and Pete Seeger in concert at Wolftrap (in Virginia). The year was 1997, and the song was"The City of New Orleans." I remember that concert. We were sitting on the lawn even though, by then, we could afford real seats. The blanket on the grass, the remnants of the picnic, and the empty wine bottles were the only real way to experience Arlo and Pete. But it is the song that always reaches out to me because trains run like a leitmotif throughout my life.

I was born into a railroad family. My grandfather, my father, and my uncle were all railroad engineers. So we rode the trains for free! We went everywhere on the train . . . thirty miles to my grandmother's or 300 miles to Dallas. Going anywhere by automobile was a luxury. The country was at war, factories were making weapons, not automobiles, and gasoline was rationed. Commercial air travel was virtually non existent. The train was the way to go. . . the only way.

During the war (WWII, by the way), I often took the train from Little Rock to Benton to visit my grandmother. The starting point was Union station, a crowded, bustling center of strange sights, interesting people, and magical possibilities. The high vaulted ceiling and the wooden pew-like benches made me think of church and evoked a kind of awe. But the real attraction was the newstand that held center stage. It was a wonderland of newspapers, books, magazines, candy bars, soft drinks . . . all the essentials for a long train ride. Union Station in Little Rock is now a mini-mall with small shops, restaurants, and bars.

I always sat next to the conductor (a family friend). The time passed quickly. I was very, very busy looking at my new comic books, drinking icy water from the triangle paper cups at the water fountain, and exploring the rest room. Soon I was waving to my grandmother waiting patiently for me on the platform. 

I rode the train to Memphis to visit my cousins; I rode the train to Dallas when I went away to college. In 1960, I finally went on my first airplane adventure. I was not impressed, but planes replaced trains, and my love affair with the rails gave way to the need for speed.

However, I've experienced a few remarkable train trips since then. In the late 80s, before the Berlin wall came down, I was in Czechoslovakia and took a train from Pilsan to Prague, a unique and memorable journey through an eastern bloc country that gave me insights I still value. During the 90s, I took the train from Amersterdam to Paris. Just a few years ago, I took the night train from San Franciso to Portland. When I woke up high in the Cascades, above the snow line, I fel in love all over again.

It's about time we brought back the magic of trains.