Monday 6 July 2015.
The first time I ever flew back east, I was thirteen years and nine months old. Traveled with a troop of boy scouts from San Diego. My grandmother was a little worried, but politely asked me to look for her home town in Kansas while we flew over. “Oh, Nonnie, I am sorry,” I said to her, “but the flight is at night. We will not be able to see anything outside.”
“Well,” she said, “maybe you could see the street lights. We had electric lights back there, even before I left, in…” and then she paused. Never liked to talk about how old she was. My mom is the same way now.
When I stop and think about it, as I sit here writing this, my grandma Nonnie wasn’t much older than I am today. She used to type, too. So did my mom. So do I. Thirteen, forty-three, seventy-five. That’s how old we were, fifty something years ago. My mother was the baby. I am the oldest. We run about thirty years between generations in my family. Both of them.
That was the only time I ever went to New York City. As of yet. Even ten years later, when I ran away from California to go live in the nation’s capital, I never went any farther up the road than Baltimore. Two years and three months writing poetry in the democratic heart of the imperial American republic, and I let slip every chance I had to go see Gotham.
I may be an intense day-dreamer, but my feet get very easily stuck in the mud. Among other things. Yes. No. Maybe so. Or not. You decide.